#how to face her mother how to accept herself

[s-brant]

Downburst

Trapped in King’s Landing with the Greens as they plot the usurpation after Viserys’s death, Y/N must navigate the fragile line between her loyalty to her husband and her contempt for his family. (or judas part six).

13k (18+)

Warnings: sexual content, strong language, fluff, angst, and death.

Y/N has been trapped in her and Aemond's bedchamber for hours.

No one has come to see her except for Nyla, her favorite handmaiden. Despite her pleas to the guard stationed outside her door, she is met with outright refusal to see her weeks-old daughter. There isn't much for her to do except pace around the room and nervously ramble to Nyla about what may be happening. In the past six hours, she has bathed, dressed, styled her hair, finished the blanket she was making for the babe before her labors began, and read a few pages of the book Aemond left on the table.

The braids secured to her head in complicated patterns keep her hair half-up, half-down and out of the way as she leans down to pick up a box of old letters from her parents. In this time of uncertainty, she seeks comfort in the love of those who brought her into the world. The letters date as far back as the first day she spent without them in King's Landing as a wife. The first one is from Rhaenyra, ever the attentive mother no matter how old her first and only daughter becomes.

She rifles through them until she finds the most recent one from Daemon. It is dated a fortnight before she gave birth and, as always, written in the family's native tongue to keep it from being read if it ended up in the wrong hands.

"Ñuha dōna riña,

Aōha muña vestās bona kesā rhaenagon sikagon aderī. Lo jaelā īlva naejot sagon paktot ao syt bisa, ao jorrāelagon mērī epagon. Aōha valzȳrys sȳrkta jurnegon tolī ao. Lo ziry gaomas daor, jikagon udir naejot Zaldrīzesdōron se kesan sōvegon bē Caraxes gō se vēzos ropagon ezīmagon se embar. Ao gīmigon iksan daor hae sacchārine hae Rhaenyra, yn gaoman bōsa naejot ūndegon ao arlī. Nyke krenyikhé umbagon syt se māzigon hen ñuha ēlī—"

"My sweet girl,

Your mother told me that you will begin your labors soon. If you want us to be beside you for this, you need only ask. Your husband best look after you. If he does not, send word to Dragonstone, and I will fly upon Caraxes before the sun falls into the sea. You know I am not as sentimental as Rhaenyra, but I do long to see you again. I gladly await the arrival of my first—"

The doors to their chambers are flung open, but the person who walks in is not the one she had hoped to see all day.

Seeing Alicent stride into their chambers, with the doors closing quickly behind her to prevent escape, makes her heart sink into her abdomen. Still, she refuses to accept this as defeat. She rises from her chair, holds her shoulders back with her chin high, and clenches her hands into fists at her sides. As far as she is concerned, this is an act of war. To imprison her in her own home...it is unthinkable.

Before the Queen can get a word in, Y/N asks in a sharp tone, "Where is my daughter?"

The sigh that Alicent lets out threatens to boil her blood.

"Please, you know that I of all people would never allow anything to happen to one of my grandchildren. So, if you fear she's been mistreated in any way—"

"She has been mistreated," the younger royal counters, taking a couple of steps forward to confront her face-to-face. "She is a weeks-old babe being kept from her mother against her will. Every pleading request I screamed through this door for her to be brought to me was met with silence and inaction. So, I beg of you, abandon the pretense. You are usurping my mother's throne and keeping my daughter as leverage for your cause."

This makes Alicent to stop for a moment.

The red-haired beauty takes this as an opportunity to steel herself for the arduous conversation ahead. Her palm flattens against the side of her green dress to soak up some sweat before she brings her hands together in front of herself, picking at her cuticles in a repetitive, compulsive manner.

"I know you will likely not believe what I have to say, but I have love for you. You are your mother's daughter. In a way, you are now my daughter too, I suppose. As you know, Rhaenyra and I were once the closest of friends. I myself said she'd make a fine queen the night my husband betrothed you to Aemond..." She trails off, looking down at the floor for a second before looking back up. "But I spoke with Viserys last night before he died in his sleep, and he spoke Aegon's name. He wanted him to be king, and I see no other choice but to honor his dying wish."

Y/N's face twists into an expression of bewilderment.

"You cannot believe that," she says. "My grandsire dragged himself, wheezing and weak on his deathbed, to his throne to declare for my mother as heir."

The two women stand across from one another, bisected by the window on the wall opposite the entrance that overlooks the courtyard, and neither wavers. Despite the turbulent emotions that dwell within them, they manage to stand strong against the tide of change cresting over them. With her pale hair styled as it is, the younger Targaryen princess reminds Alicent of her dear friend from many years ago. Time has changed both her and Rhaenyra, physically and spiritually, so she accepted that she would never have her closest companion back. Not in the way she had her as a girl. But when she looks at Rhaenyra's daughter, she almost sees her again. Almost.

It is for this reason alone that her demeanor softens as she walks forward to take Y/N's hand and speak to her once more.

"You may believe what you wish. I cannot take that from you, but whether you think it is right or not, Aegon will be crowned." There is a hesitant pause. "And you should consider yourself lucky I will not let my father get to him first. He'll advise Aegon to commit horrific acts of violence to protect his claim to the throne...Once he is found and brought to me, however, I will urge him to be merciful toward your mother, father, and brothers. They will be offered generous terms and need only bend the knee."

For a moment, she thinks she may have gotten through to Y/N. There is no discernible expression on her face other than shock, and she does not smack Alicent's hand where it squeezes hers.

Then, her features sour. Although she does not drop the hand entwined in hers, she does not hold it either. Her fingers turn lifeless and limp in Alicent's grasp.

"My father will never bend the knee to Aegon, and I do not know if Jacaerys will either. There is no such thing as mercy when dragons battle dragons. It is proven in Valyrian history, yet it seems that will become inevitable."

Unable to deny what she has said, too far gone in a mess of her father's making, Alicent lets loose a soft, tired sigh and gently releases her hands.

"Perhaps your father could be persuaded if he were under the assumption that you declare for Aegon as the true king at his coronation for the sake of keeping the peace. It will be witnessed by hundreds of the smallfolk on the morrow."

"And if I refuse? I would wager that I am worth more to you as a prisoner than I am hanged for so-called treason."

"You are my son's wife, a princess; you will not be a prisoner—"

Y/N cuts her off, her voice raising to a shout, "Then let me out!"

The moment of quiet that follows is charged with an energy too powerful for either of them to ignore. As Y/N's purple irises flare with a temper reminiscent of Rhaenyra's unyielding passion and Daemon's cold, seething rage, Alicent stands still before her. It is now that both women realize that nothing they say will change the other's mind. Despite the fondness they have genuinely formed through the marriage to Aemond, they now find themselves on opposite sides of the coming battle.

Picking at her nails again, Alicent speaks, and a sense of finality can be heard in her tone.

"My father would have me keep your babe from you until you agree to bend the knee. I, however, being a mother, find that too harsh. She will be brought to you within the hour, but you are not free to leave yet."

She turns on her heels and strides for the ornately carved doors, knocking to get the attention of the guard on the other side.

At the last moment, she cranes her neck to meet Y/N's eyes once more and says, "You will be at Aegon's coronation, standing beside your husband without protest."

A second later, the doors close behind her and lock the princess inside.

The babe has yet to stop crying.

All that can be heard in the bedchamber are the shrill wails of the infant girl brought to her hours ago by Nyla. It is bound to drive her insane. It does not matter what she does—feeding her, changing her, rocking or shushing her—nothing will suffice. Her head throbs from the mixture of stress and irritation. With one arm, she bounces Daenaera. With the other, she rubs the side of her head with her fingertips to keep the ache at bay. It doesn't work, however, and she is left with a pounding sensation in her skull that refuses to relent.

"Please, my love," she whispers in a soothing tone, "Muña iksis kesīr." Mother is here. "I may be frightened, but nothing will harm you under my watch."

The moment the last word escapes her lips, they are both surprised by the sound of the doors opening for a second time today.

Y/N, having just sworn to protect her daughter, quickly stands from the couch she had been sitting on uncomfortably to prepare herself. But there is no need. A glance at his face is all it takes for her to start walking across the room with tears flooding her eyes and the babe cradled against her chest.

"Aemond!" she calls out to him.

His eye hesitates for a second to raise and meet her gaze, but it does. Regardless of the emotions running rampant through him, the sight of her in tears is one he cannot ignore. Swiftly, they meet one another across the middle of the room, and he takes her into his arms without uttering a word. When she settles into his embrace, he can feel her trembling. All of that bravado his mother spoke of when she pulled him aside to inform him of their conversation is nowhere to be found. It only took one glance at him for her to let herself break apart.

And now, gently pressed between her parents, Daenaera's cries start to dwindle into a soft sniffling. For the first time in hours, both of his girls have found a moment of peace in his arms.

"I woke up, and you were gone!" Y/N exclaims between sobs. "They locked me in here and refused to let me see her."

"My mother said—"

"Your mother has gotten what she has always wanted, it seems." The words are harsh, but when she pulls away to look up at his face, her teary-eyed stare does not match them. "Even so, if it wasn't for her, Otto would have ensured that I be kept prisoner from our daughter until I bent the knee to Aegon and sent a raven urging my family to do the same."

His body turns stiff and still at this, and his face, as softened with emotion as he is capable of expressing, displays an unhinged ferocity that could frighten even the bravest of men.

"She did not tell me that."

Every word is said carefully, as if he fears speaking his mind too freely in front of her after all that has transpired since they last saw each other. It is clear that his grandsire has committed a grave error in holding their daughter against her will to sway Y/N's mind, but that is all she can gather, and it unsettles her. It took a long time, but he has become accustomed to sharing his thoughts and feelings with her. Since she found out she was with child, their relationship has blossomed into something neither of them could have seen coming. Something beautiful and rare in a realm where most noble women are content to be sold off by their fathers for the sake of survival.

Pushing this aside for now, she speaks in a quiet, eerily calm tone he recognizes well.

"If she is ever taken from me again, I will kill them all. I swear this to you." The look in her eye is crazed and wild, the reaction of a mother lashing out to protect her child. Not once does she let him escape her stare. "I'll leave with her on dragonback if I must."

"You will not leave with her."

It is an order, not a request. In any other moment, she would protest the notion that he has any authority over her, but she is too perplexed to speak right now. Thankfully, she does not need to. Instead, she watches him closely and tries to read him as he mulls it over in his head. After a moment, he shakes his head and tightens the grip of the hand resting on her waist.

"There will be no reason to...Leave Otto to me."

He is already pulling back to leave and confront his grandsire for what he has done, but the feeling of her hand around his wrist halts him before any distance can be made. With his back to her, he intends to yank himself out of her grasp, but then she yells at him. Somehow, her words manage to melt through his cold exterior and bring him back from the precipice of madness.

"No, don't leave us! She needs you!"

After a moment, the sound of Daenaera's slowed cries finally outmatches the ringing in his ears. Another couple of seconds pass, and he takes a heavy breath to steady himself before turning to face them. What he sees causes him to let loose a heavy breath. Tears shine in his dear wife's eyes as she holds their babe flush against her body with trembling hands. Her arms are so sore from bouncing and rocking the child all day that she can hardly stand it any longer.

Knowing this, Aemond reaches out and takes their daughter from her arms without hesitation. She squirms and coos at first, startled by the sudden movement, but calms down the second she realizes who is holding her. Still, he mutters sweet nothings against her head in Valyrian, inhaling the distinct, clean scent that somehow only infants have.

When his eye finds hers again, the first tear has fallen off her chin.

"And so do I," she says.

The hand hanging at his side raises to cup her face and wipe away the tracks of tears sliding down her rosy cheeks with his thumb. His touch is ever so slight, like a feather brushing against her skin. It is contrary to how he typically handles her with confidence and bold familiarity but welcome nonetheless.

"You have me," he responds, and he says it so softly, so gently, that she starts to believe it. In the face of everything that has happened and now will happen, she remains blinded by her devotion to him. "Kesā va moriot emagon nyke." You will always have me.

Y/N smiles through her tears, and Aemond is once again stunned by the fact that there is nothing that can make her appear less than perfect for him. She is pretty even when she cries. Yet, the tender moment is soon interrupted by her need for answers.

"Where did you go today? If you didn't know what was going on here, you must have been elsewhere."

In lieu of answering her question, he first decides to find a place to sit before starting this conversation. It would be awkward, he thinks, to stand here holding the babe while he debriefs her on the mission his mother sent him on this morning. He decides that the couch will do just fine, turning and walking toward it with one arm holding Daenaera and the other hand guiding Y/N.

After settling down on the couch, Aemond's hand finds its way to her waist. He pulls her close until she is pressed up to his side. The touch of his rough hand against her body is both comforting and familiar, his grasp on her almost desperate...as if he cannot bear to let her go. In one arm, he holds his wife. In the other, he holds his daughter.

There's a tense moment of silence, then he speaks. His voice is low, tinged with a hint of frustration.

"Mother sent me on an errand," he explains. "I left you to train with Cole as I do every day, but she had the guards intercept me on my walk to the yard. Father died, and, of course, Aegon was nowhere to be found. If anything can be counted upon, it is his appetite for fucking disease-ridden whores in Fleabottom rather than remaining with his wife and children for any longer than he's required."

She swallows thickly as he speaks, her hand braced against her chest. What she is bracing for, she does not know, but with all that has transpired today, she refuses to lower her guard. As much as she wants to have hope, to look on the bright side of things, she knows she must prepare herself for the cold bite of reality.

Aemond can feel her tension secondhand—a coiled rope ready to snap at the slightest pull of the thread that holds it together. He is painfully aware of how much he mislikes seeing her in distress. To see her bright, lively eyes dimmed by worry does little to mollify the anger that still roils within him from the thought of their babe being kept from her all day. To imagine the sound of Daenaera crying, her shrill wails piercing the ears of the handmaidens when all she wanted was to be with her mother...

"Go on," she says.

The expression on her face is unable to be read despite his best efforts. Yet, even as she forces a neutral expression, her body language tells a different story. Her shoulders are taut, her back straight, and her hands tightly clenched in her lap.

"I was sent to find Aegon," he says, his voice soft yet somehow firm. "Mother feared that Otto might find him first and urge him to put Rhaenyra and all of her heirs to the sword without offering a chance to bend the knee." As he emphasizes the word "all," he looks into her eyes, and for the first time in years, she sees fear when she meets his gaze. "I know it was not easy for you to stay here, alone, but if I did not find him first..."

One of the hands clenched into a fist on her lap reaches out to touch him, offering a sense of comfort as she rubs his back in a repetitive, soothing motion.

"Your grandsire would have me killed?" she finishes for him. "So he can hold our daughter hostage her entire life and indoctrinate her into supporting Aegon's claim?"

His eye is overflowing with a storm of emotions, a tumultuous mix of fear and madness. But when her hand finds its way to his back, his muscles involuntarily start to relax, the tension unknotting under her healing touch.

He nods carefully, and the act of doing so makes the words all the more real. "Yes," he says. "Now that my mother has gotten to Aegon first, it seems he intends to use our girl to ensure your compliance rather than strike you down outright."

"That much I gathered myself," she says sharply, then shakes her head in disbelief. A second later, she continues to prod him for answers. "So you found Aegon, then?"

"Yes," he replies. His hand clutches at the soft fabric of the couch as he speaks, his knuckles turning white with the force of his grip. He found his brother, but what good is that when the fate of his wife and daughter hangs in the balance? "I did. Otto sent Erryk and Arryk to find him. Find him, they did. Before they could bring him back, we saw Aegon running from the Sept. It took little effort to catch him while Cole kept the guards busy."

There's nothing she can do to soothe herself but take Daenaera from his arms and hold on tightly. Her tiny head is supported in the bend of her arm, and the little girl does not protest. Her father is still close enough for her to remain calm and satisfied.

He opens his eye and looks at her, his gaze intense beneath his brow.

"We brought him back to Alicent. She's having him locked in his chambers till morning," he explains, his eye boring into hers. "It will happen, ābrazȳrys." Wife. "Any chance of stopping it is gone...Aegon will be king. The best you can do is comply."

The words make her sick to her stomach.

Everything she has always feared is coming to fruition, and here she is, powerless in every conceivable way. Every word, every breath, every move she makes will be watched as long as she remains in the Keep. There will be no freedom, she realizes. Soon, this room will be her prison for the rest of her life. Never again will she soar the skies on dragonback and savor the cold wind against her face. Never again will she return to Dragonstone to kiss her mother and embrace her father. Her heart breaks at the thought of not being able to see her brothers again. If she had known what would happen, she would have spent far more time with them when they visited.

Her eyes glaze over at this point, her gaze far away and hazy. She is looking right through him.

His gaze softens when he catches sight of the discomfort on her pretty face. He reaches out and takes her hand in his, his fingers wrapping around hers with a tenderness that is so unlike him when it comes to anyone but her. He lifts her hand to his mouth and brushes a kiss over each of her knuckles. Then, he brings her hand against him, her palm over his chest, to feel the heavy beat of his heart in the hope that it may snap her out of her thoughts.

"It will be alright," he says even though he does not know if it's true.

Aemond brings his other hand up to cup her face, his thumb tracing over her cheek. If he could, he would take her away from all of this. To a world where it is just the three of them—him, her, and the babe. But he can't. For now, all he can do is offer her the comfort of her husband's presence. At least she knows that no harm will befall her as long as she remains by his side.

"Listen to me," he whispers, his voice stern in a way that instinctively compels her to hear him out. "You will attend the coronation at my side. You will do so not out of loyalty to Aegon but out of loyalty to me."

Tears well up in her eyes at the mere thought of betraying her mother, even if the support she will be showing is feigned, and she starts to shake her head as she cries.

"No." She tries to scoot away from him with the babe still cradled in her arm. "My love, I cannot. I cannot! Please, I want to go home! To Dragonstone! I want my mother—"

"Enough!"

His voice is sharper than the swift crack of a whip. The forcefulness of it makes her freeze, her body running cold as her instincts tell her to obey. He has commanded her with that same tone a few other times throughout their marriage, but never has it felt so chilling. If she didn't know any better, she would mistake that feeling in the pit of her abdomen for fear. Not of the unimaginable situation at hand but of him.

For all she talks, she crumbles beneath the pressure behind closed doors and calls for her mother like a frightened little girl.

"You will not leave my side," he all but growls the words.

His hand still grasps her face, his fingers digging deep into her skin. Of course, he never wants to hurt her, not if he can help it, but he refuses to let her withdraw.

"Cry if you must," he tells her. "I will not leave you here alone. Mourn tonight. On the morrow, you must pretend. You cannot let anyone other than myself see you this way. Do you understand?"

"No! I most certainly do not understand, Aemond! How can you ask this of me? How can you ask me to stand there and do nothing as they place my mother's crown—my birthright—upon his head?"

She continues to try and pull away from him, her body caving in on itself with sobs, but he holds her tighter the more she resists.

"Calm yourself," he warns her.

He has never seen her like this—broken and weeping and weak. It is jarring to see her so far removed from the willful woman he married. The woman who held a knife to his throat with a promise to kill the last time he laid a hand on her younger brother. He has never seen her this way and prays he never will again, not only for her sake but for his. To see her suffer is utter agony. It's not something he thinks he can endure more than this one time.

He threads his fingers through the overgrown strands of her silver hair, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. He lowers his voice, speaking as softly as he can to her now that he has taken a moment to compose himself.

"You have to think about Daenaera," he says, his mouth against her hair. "You are her mother. She comes before all else. She is your duty."

The sudden reminder of their daughter has the effect he intended. Her body goes still, the sobs that were tearing through her beginning to quiet. His fingers run through her hair repeatedly in an attempt to soothe her, and it seems to work. At least for the time being.

She goes silent for a long time, her breath ragged and uneven against his chest. When she finally speaks, her voice breaks from the endless sobs that have plagued her since she woke this morning.

"I don't know if I can..."

Aemond simply says, "You must."

For the duration of the jolting carriage ride to the Dragonpit, Y/N sits in silence with Aemond on her right side and Helaena to her left.

The only indicator of her emotions that he can pick up on is how she nervously twists her wedding band around her left ring finger, toying with it incessantly to give herself something to do in a moment where she is powerless. If not for her unwavering faith in Nyla, he would not have been able to convince her to leave their daughter behind for the sake of attending the coronation.

Not even his best attempts at placating her worked. It was only when the plain-featured, frail servant girl walked up to her, took her hands in hers, and promised her the babe would never leave her arms that she allowed the others to help her dress. And that was another battle entirely—the dress.

As he looks her up and down out of the corner of his eye, he must clench his jaw in frustration.

The only gown she would wear is, unsurprisingly, black. The neckline is embroidered with threads of red and gold hues, and the bodice covered in pieces of fabric fashioned to appear as dragon scales. The same unflinching tenacity that allowed him to fall for her now smacks him across the face, and he cannot be mad at her for it. In some twisted fashion, it endears her to him further. To see that she is not so easily conquered, not willing to go down without a fight, makes his stomach flutter like it had the night of their wedding. Even when it is he and his family that she opposes, he cannot help but admire her refusal to surrender.

Out of the blue, as though she has read his mind, Helaena speaks in her typical soft and whimsical tone.

"I quite like your dress. Dragon scales..." A small smile crosses her face, then she says a bit more resolutely than before, "Beware the beast beneath the boards."

Unsure of how to respond, especially seeing that most of the family ignores the strange things Helaena says from time to time, Y/N simply nods and reaches to entwine their hands.

"Thank you, sister," she whispers. "And I shall."

Before Aemond can warn her not to do so, to tell Y/N that she does not like to be touched and often flinches from physical contact, Helaena's smile widens a little as she allows her hand to be held. If he hadn't found his wife's existence confounding already, this would do the trick. He may never come to understand how, but she has a way with people and things that he does not. Mayhaps it is a blessing from the Gods. As if her beauty, wit, and strong heart were not blessings enough.

Before he knows it, the carriage comes to a gentle halt, and he is brought back from his thoughts by the sound of the smallfolk chattering within and beyond the walls of the Dragonpit.

As Helaena is aided in stepping out of the carriage, Y/N turns to him and says quietly, "I will comply. Not because I believe Aegon to be the true heir. Not because I want to. Not because I am not angry with your mother for supplanting mine own as heir. But because I love you."

This vulnerable admission makes him falter for a second, his frustration melting and his harsh features softening. It's the first time she has said it like that. She has called him "my love" many times, but this is the first time she has said those three words.

"I know..." he whispers, not quite ready to say it back.

All she can manage is a nod in his direction before she is ushered from the safety of the carriage by members of the Kingsguard.

Aemond follows closely behind her, his hand hovering over the pommel of his sword like a hound ready to attack as they are escorted into the Dragonpit. While they make their way through the room, following behind the rest of his family, he notes how the smallfolk stare at his wife with expressions of shock and awe. Their gazes linger, and whispers fill the air as they watch her walk through the parted crowd, the sun shining against her from behind to set her silver hair aflame.

The second he stares back at them, their eyes avert to the floor in what most would assume is a display of respect for the Gods that walk among men. A sign that years of propaganda intended to keep those with the blood of the dragon on a pedestal above the rest has worked. In truth, Aemond in particular falls victim to the illusion of Targaryen exceptionalism more so than his wife, but it does not blind him to the fact that these people in particular are not avoiding his gaze out of respect. They do it out of fear, and he cannot deny the sick sense of pleasure it gives him to witness that.

Quicker than she anticipated, they reach the platform where Otto, Alicent, Cole, and Helaena await their arrival, and Aemond silently offers his hand to her once they reach the small set of stairs leading up. She takes his hand gratefully and prays it may steady her for the nauseating turn of events that have come to pass. At the last step, his grip on her hand loosens like he intends to let go, but she does not let him. Her fingers, adorned with rings in a fashion reminiscent of her mother, close tightly around his as their hands fall back to their sides.

Even after they fall into place, standing in a line alongside his family, she does not let go of his hand.

Aemond's eye flits down to their joined hands, fighting the urge to raise his brows in surprise at the display she is giving everyone. Yet he does not pull his hand away. Instead, he gives hers a comforting squeeze.

As his gaze moves from their hands to her face, he notices the tightness in her clenched jaw and the tension in her stiff posture. He knows she is struggling to maintain her composure, to keep herself in one piece in the face of what might as well be the end of the world as she knows it. But he also knows that she is strong, fiercely so, and not so easily defeated.

Otto begins a speech to the people once they've all settled, his voice echoing in the wide-open walls of the room.

"Today is the saddest of days!" he shouts. "Our beloved king, Viserys the Peaceful, is dead!"

The sounds of shock and sorrow that reverberate through the room in the second after it is announced are surprisingly filled with emotion—as if these people knew him personally.

"But it is also the most joyous of days. For as his spirit left us, he whispered his final wish that his firstborn son, Aegon, should succeed him."

Otto's last few words act as a cue for the fanfare to begin and the guards to raise their swords together as they part the crowd, clearing a path for the soon-to-be king. Across the wide-open interior of the Dragonpit, sudden movement catches her eye from where she stands atop the platform. True to her word, she does not balk at the sight of Aegon appearing at the entrance to the room. Passing beneath the raised swords, he looks ahead with a blank expression in his eyes.

"It is your great good fortune and privilege to be here to witness this. A new day for our city. A new day for our realm. A new king to lead us."

Her hand does not grip Aemond's tighter, nor does it let go as they watch her eldest uncle make his way through the crowd acting like he is walking to his death. One would think he's to meet the hangman's noose atop this platform. It takes everything in her not to scoff at his attitude. Grandsire and mother dearest have placed him upon the Iron Throne, and he can't even pretend to care. Beside her, she knows that her husband is tense with anticipation of her doing or saying something, but she minds herself. She tries her best to be an obedient little wife, a puppet dancing on strings held tightly in the grasp of Ser Otto Hightower, and it is difficult.

Finally, Aegon has ascended the stairs to join them.

He comes to a natural stop before his mother, and she gently takes his face in her soft hands, guiding his head down until she places a kiss on the top of it. Once they have parted, all it takes is a firm look from Otto for him to sink to his knees with his back facing the crowd.

Septon Eunace is, of course, waiting for this moment. A moment that will surely go down in history, not as one of joy or triumph but of defeat. It signifies the end of a peaceful time. The reigns of both Jaehaerys and Viserys were without war and widespread destruction. The same cannot be said for what is to come.

Under her breath, she whispers, "Kostagon ñuha muña gūrogon arlī skoros iksis zȳhon lēda Perzys Ānogār." May my mother take back what is hers with fire and blood.

Aemond's posture stiffens at the sound of her quiet voice.

No one around them, save for Helaena, shall know what she just uttered except for him. Everyone else standing around them could not speak or understand the native language of their ancestors, and the crowd before them would not hear her even if she spoke in the common tongue. Few may have witnessed her moving lips, but only he hears her. Is it a threat or prayer? He does not know.

"May the Warrior give him courage," the Septon speaks aloud as he anoints Aegon with oil. "May the Smith lend strength to his sword and shield. May the Father defend him in his need. May the Crone lift her shining lamp and light his way to wisdom."

He then hands the bowl off to another in exchange for the crown. Not the crown of the conciliator. The crown of the Conqueror. Valyrian steel, fitted with a ruby at the center, gleams beneath the light as Septon Eunace takes the crown into his hands and turns to give it to Ser Criston Cole.

No doubt smug with the sweet taste of victory over her mother, Criston thrusts it into the air and declares, "The crown of the Conqueror, passed down through generations."

At the last moment, Y/N allows her hand to slip from her husband's clutches.

"Let the Seven bear witness," Criston proclaims as he lowers it onto Aegon's head. "Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne."

With that, the young king, born anew beneath the weight of the steel sitting upon his brow, rises.

"All hail his Grace, Aegon, Second of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!"

The bells toll so loudly it threatens to rattle their teeth.

"Aegon the King!"

At first, there is silence, and everyone is unsure what to make of it. But then, most of the spectators packed too tightly into the room begin to applaud him. When he draws Blackfyre from its sheath, there is nothing Y/N can do but look ahead at those who cheer with tears shining in her eyes. To her left, she sees Alicent looking at her from the corner of her eye with a face of disappointment. Her stifled cries must have drawn her proud gaze away from her eldest son, now anointed before his subjects and crowned king.

"Worry not, child, he will spare your mother," Alicent whispers under her breath.

Before she can turn to watch her son raise his sword in triumph, Y/N says softly, but not weakly, "It is you who ought worry."

A look of horror flashes across Alicent's face.

The sound of the crowd roaring, chanting, and clapping for her son does little to distract her from the conviction with which those words were spoken. But she doesn't have the chance to respond. No, because the floor beneath the crowd explodes with a cloud of debris that hangs in the air and causes Y/N to stumble back in surprise.

She almost trips over her own feet, but a pair of strong hands quickly snatch up her waist to keep her upright. Her back hits his chest, a solid wall behind her that does not flinch at what she now realizes is a dragon bursting through the floor of the pit.

Aemond stands stock-still, his grip on her waist tight as the dust and debris settle. For a moment, his heart is in his throat, his mind fighting to process what just happened. And then, as the dust clears, he sees it—a dragon with crimson scales and copper horns. The beast shakes off the dirt and rubble, gazing around with a glare that promises violence should anyone dare to approach.

Before the rest of them can catch a glimpse of the woman perched in the saddle atop the she-dragon's back, his wife says with a wavering tone of shock, "Rhaenys..."

"Seize her!" Otto commands, pointing at Y/N.

Not willing to risk it, he has Ser Criston Cole haul her from her husband's arms and drag her up before Meleys—a shield to protect Alicent and King Aegon's fear-stricken forms from the threat of dragonflame. It is a stroke of genius that infuriates her equally as much as it impresses her. The only people left to keep Aemond from rushing after her are Septon Eunace and Otto himself, who manages well enough on his own to block him by ordering him to protect Queen Helaena.

Meleys advances until she is far too close and unleashes a furious roar that blows Y/N's hair off her shoulders. Still, she doesn't look away. She knows Rhaenys well enough to know that she will not slaughter them outright, especially not with her standing front and center.

The Queen Who Never Was remains silent when their gazes meet. She does not have to utter a word. Even with the smallfolk fleeing in terror for the doors to the Dragonpit and Otto screaming for them to be let out, everything is understood. Everything left unspoken can be felt like a current of energy buzzing between them, and the tears streaming down Y/N's cheeks are more powerful than words could ever be.

Then, as quickly as she burst through the floor, Meleys retreats, claws digging into the ground beneath her to help her turn around and take flight.

All they can hear over the sound of the injured and dying scattered across the broken floor is the sound of wings flapping in the sky.

Y/N picks at her lip as she sits outside the small council chamber six days after Aegon's coronation. It's easy to hear the muffled sound of voices within, but hearing what exactly they're saying proves to be a great deal more difficult.

The aftermath of what happened in the Dragonpit was chaotic. As soon as Meleys flew off, Aemond rushed from Helaena's side to where his wife stood before them all. Seeing that there were still people watching, he couldn't grab her face in his hands and pull her to him. Public displays of affection have never been his forte. At most, they hold hands or he keeps his hand on the small of her back as they walk. Ignoring the eyes that followed him with every step he took, he held both of her hands in his and looked her over to see if she was alright.

Knowing him too well, she said before he had the chance to ask, "I am unharmed." Her hands squeezed his. "Lykiri, ñuha zaldrīzes." Calm, my dragon.

The entire carriage ride back to the Keep, he did not let go of her. Sweet reassurances were whispered in her ear—in Valyrian, of course, to prevent Aegon from overhearing and taunting him for it later—and she managed to stop crying after a few moments.

Once they arrived, Aemond made sure to help Y/N down, keeping her close to him, not wanting to let go for fear of what may happen if he did. He saw his brother lingering nearby, and they shared a knowing look. Aegon nodded toward him in a silent expression of concern.

"Come," Aemond said, his grip on her tightening as they trailed after Alicent and Otto.

The very second they crossed the threshold into the Keep, he pulled Ser Criston aside to entrust him with the task of escorting her to their chambers.

"No," she retorted and pulled on her husband's arm, "I want to go with you."

"I do not want you to hear what I have to say to my grandsire, ñuha dōna ābrazȳrys." My sweet wife.

A look toward Criston showed he shared the prince's opinion as he nodded and said, "Such words are not fit for the ears of a highborn lady with delicate sensibilities."

It took all the strength she had not to roll her eyes at the implication of his words, and she simply ignored the knight in favor of looking up at her husband.

Aemond said, "I simply wish to settle this matter myself."

And she obliged.

Even now, as she sits and awaits the end of the meeting when her husband will finally be free to leave with her, she does not know what happened after Criston escorted her to Maegor's Holdfast. Whatever he said, it must have been enough to put Otto in his place regarding his treatment of her since Viserys died. The older man made it clear in his expression that it isn't something he goes along with happily, but Alicent is now the one who oversees his wife when Aemond is not present.

The freedom she was once afforded has been ripped away in the blink of an eye. Being the daughter of the enemy, she is under constant supervision. Alicent's orders appointed Criston Cole as her "sworn protector"—prison guard, more like—and he stands beside her now.

With a glance at him out of her peripheral vision, she gathers that he cannot hear what is being said in the small council room either, and it leaves him visibly irritated.

"Do you think Otto has reached Dragonstone yet?" she asks suddenly. "He left three days ago. Surely he must be there by now..."

There's a moment of hesitation, but he eventually responds.

"You know as much as I do, Princess. We can only pray for his safe return. There's no telling what Daemon may do."

To this, she cannot help but chuckle in amusement, and it becomes apparent now more than ever that she is, in fact, the daughter of the rogue prince.

"Mind your tongue, Ser Criston," she says with a haughty air of authority much like her father. "Prince Daemon."

The knight can do none else but swallow his pride. She is, after all, his superior, and she is right. Only in the privacy of his conversations with Aemond and Alicent can he speak freely.

"Apologies, my lady, for my lack of...formality."

The doors are flung open.

Aemond steps out of the small council room, his face set in a cold expression. His hands are clasped behind his back, but they are clenched tightly. The meeting had gone just as he knew it would.

He turns his gaze to Y/N, and a slight relaxation settles within him. Seeing her waiting for him is like taking a breath of fresh air or feeling the wind against his face when he rides the skies atop Vhagar, and it doesn't come a moment too soon.

"You are dismissed, Cole," he says as he walks past.

The act itself is a silent command for her to follow, and she does. His presence is a vast step up from that of her sworn sword. At least her husband is smart enough not to taunt her at a stressful time like this by speaking ill of her father.

They remain quiet on the walk to their chambers. It has become routine for them to make this walk in silence after he leaves meetings with the small council, to wait until nobody can overhear to speak about what may happen next as they wait for word from Otto and his men. It's a sense of structure she cannot help but cling to amidst the constant uncertainty. And, at the very least, she is thankful that Aemond trusts her enough to confide in her still. Even though everyone else regards her as a spy behind enemy lines, he doesn't. Not yet.

When the doors to their chambers close behind them, his emotionless facade disappears. With only her to witness it, the anger and frustration he feels come to the surface.

"What happened in there?"

Just as he opens his mouth to speak Nyla makes her presence known before she can be found out by the prince and accused of trying to eavesdrop.

"I am sorry, your Grace," she announces her presence with a dip of her head and moves away from where she'd been warming bathwater by the fire. "I will leave at once."

Aemond considers this, then decides against it.

"No. Finish your duties, girl." A sharp look from his wife, a reminder to treat her more kindly, makes him pause for a moment before finishing a touch softer. "You may leave once the bath is filled for my wife."

"Thank you," Y/N adds.

Aemond takes his time to undo his leather doublet, the tension in his shoulders visible under the fabric before he unceremoniously yanks it from his body. He rolls his shoulders a couple of times to relieve some of the stiffness, craning his neck until he hears a slight cracking sound that is swiftly followed by a sigh of relief. His annoyance is plain to see when he tosses the doublet on the couch.

Her eyes track his every movement, and the sound of Nyla's humming in the background filling the gaps of silence during which they don't speak.

He tells her, "Iksan issare jittan naejot jelmāzma mōris naejot mazverdagon iā dīnilūks rȳ Daeron se mēre hen Barāthēon riñi." I am being sent to Storm's End to arrange a marriage between Daeron and one of the Baratheon girls.

"Sīr skoro syt issi ao ribazmoqitta?" So why are you frustrated?

The only part she leaves out is a taunting reminder that Borros Baratheon's father swore fealty when her mother was named heir all those years ago. Hopefully a marriage pact with a third son is not incentive enough for oaths to be broken. But, still, in another language or not, she'd rather not argue in front of Nyla.

"Kesrio syt issa doru-borto, se ziry gaomas daor gūrogon ziry." Because he is stupid, and he does not deserve it.

"Nūmāzma jēda ao ūndegon va." About time you caught on. She says the next sentence in the common tongue, not caring since Nyla has no context for it, "You speak of something we already know."

Y/N comes up behind him and slides her hands up his back, feeling the warmth of his skin through his clothing. The sensation of her touch makes his eye flutter shut in appreciation, and his mouth tilts up at each end in a slight smile. Slowly, her hands descend until they reach the hem of the plain shirt that sits at his hips. It would be inappropriate to undress him in front of a servant, so she opts for slipping her fingers underneath his shirt to massage his back. It's easy to tell just from an exploratory touch that his muscles are tense from the stress of the week since Viserys died.

"Naenie kessa sagon mundagon skori pōja kepa morghūljagon." Many would be sad when their father dies. A pause. "Nyke āryon daorun." I feel nothing.

It is no secret that King Viserys favored his firstborn daughter over the rest of his children. She always knew this. She saw it in how he cared for her mother—or, perhaps, the glimpses of Aemma he saw in her mother—but to see the impact it had on the rest of his children firsthand colors all of those fond memories of him in a bad light. Flaws and all, if her father were to die today, she would weep and mourn him as most would someone so close to them. But her husband does not mourn his father. Not in any way she recognizes as being normal.

Her thumbs dig into the muscles on either side of his spine at the southernmost point of his back.

"Tis understandable," she says softly. "Ziry gōntan daor ivestragī ao gīmigon zirȳla sȳrī." He did not let you know him well.

For a while, they remain this way, standing in silence as she massages his back for him and he lets out little sighs of relief to show his gratitude. They are so focused on this, trapped in their own world, that they don't notice Nyla preparing to leave until she is standing at the door with one hand on the handle and the other holding the empty bucket brought to warm the bathwater.

It is Y/N who sees her. All she needs to do is nod once to dismiss the girl, and she is gone before Aemond can open his eye. The only thing that alerts him to this is the sound of the door closing in her wake.

The hands massaging him stop in their tracks.

"Come with me," she instructs. "Let's clean up before you leave."

Their footfalls are quiet as she leads him from the couch to the large, copper tub filled with hot water. A familiar aromatic scent invades her nostrils, bringing a smile to her face because Nyla remembered her favorite bathing oil and mixed it into the water before she left. Soon, their clothes are left in a messy pile on the floor that another servant will have to collect after dinner, his eyepatch discarded next to them, and they sink into the steaming water together.

Aemond settles with his back against the tub, one hand still holding hers as she steps in and sits in front of him. Her hair falls down her back with the ends soaking in the water. There's no sign of her typical braided hairstyle today, so he wastes little time in grabbing the small pitcher set aside for them and using it to pour water over her head. One hand guides her head into a tilted-back position until her hair is fully saturated and ready to wash with her precious lemon and lavender soap from Lys.

One time, as a small girl, Daemon gifted her a bar of it after he visited with Laena from Essos. She may not have known for certain that he was her father at that age, but she cherished the gift regardless. For the years since, the soap has been delivered to her by ship every moon.

"You were right," she says.

His hands work the soap through her hair and rub her scalp the same way she did to his back.

"About?"

"About Aegon. He is unfit for the role that has been thrust upon him."

There's an obvious tone of resentment to what she says, and it's a sentiment he shares, although the cause of it is different. For him, he resents Aegon for being born first. For having everything he has ever wanted handed to him and turning his nose up at it. For her, she resents Aegon for the actions of his scheming grandsire and his mother who happily played along. For letting them use him to steal his sister's birthright. For Aegon, all he ever wanted was someone to love him, and if that love couldn't be found within his family, he would seek it elsewhere.

"You should see him in the council meetings," Aemond says. "He hasn't a clue what to do. Just sits there like a confused child while the rest of us talk."

She hesitates for a second before pointing out, "Perhaps that isn't such a bad thing..."

His silence is a signal for her to elaborate.

"If he is as unfit to rule as we think, it may be a good thing to let him sit aside while those better suited for the job do the heavy lifting. That is if you consider any of the traitorous fools on that council to be fit for the job."

He goes still.

"We have been through this, ābrazȳrys. I had no hand in what my mother and grandsire did..." Wife.

"But you do not care. If anything, you curse the Gods for not making you the firstborn son so you could have been the one they crowned in her stead."

In response to this, he just sighs and reaches for the pitcher to get the soap out of her hair. It takes a couple of rinses for it to sit in the form of bubbles at the surface of the water, but it eventually washes out.

"Wash my hair?" he asks, not wanting to acknowledge what she said if it means quarreling with her before he leaves. "Do not worry, I wouldn't dream of stealing your special soap. You may use the other one on me."

Wordlessly, she reaches to take her favorite soap from his hand and moves to crawl onto his lap.

The water sloshes with her movements, and when she straddles his hips, she can feel his cock half-hard against her. With the changes that have wreaked havoc on her body in the aftermath of pregnancy and childbirth, she questioned whether or not he would find her as attractive as he once did. Needless to say, it pleases her to know that he still cannot resist the sight of her bare body before him.

Those strong, callused hands find purchase on her plush hips to keep her in place and prevent her from leaving now that she has gotten so close to him. He closes his eye, breathing in deep, and allows himself to relax against the hard wall of the bathtub. He listens as his wife washes his hair, the small splashes and the soft scent filling the air. Her hands are gentle as she works. Her touch is tender and reverent. In truth, Aemond finds her touch to be soothing. Any anger that sparked from what she said is softened by the feeling of her body pressed against his.

"Ao jurnegon sīr gevie hae bisa," Y/N whispers. You look so beautiful like this. "Lēda daorun naejot ruaragon aōha laehurlion hen nyke." With nothing to hide your face from me.

She dunks the pitcher into the bath to collect enough water to rinse the soap out. Her fingers run through his hair with every pitcher she carefully pours over his head. It isn't until she puts it to the side and wipes the water from his face that he opens his eye to look at her. When he does, she is staring at him longingly—as if he is not a cold, disfigured man who most women turn away from. It is not lost on him that he isn't the easiest person to love. If anything, he has always been painfully aware.

"Se ra jaelan naejot gaomagon naejot ao..." he trails off. The things I want to do to you right now...

Their faces inch closer and closer with each passing second, and before they meet in the middle, she murmurs, "Tōma tolī tubissa." Five more days.

His lips are soft against hers. The instant they touch, she can feel the hands on her hips squeeze to absentmindedly pull her closer. She presses a palm to his chest and feels the hard pounding of his heart as they deepen the desperate kiss. He follows her lead, chasing her whenever she pulls away with a hunger that sets his blood aflame.

"So sensitive," she croons and grinds against him.

The feeling of his cock sliding against her wet folds elicits a soft moan from the back of his throat. It takes a few seconds, but he manages to control himself and uses the hands on her hips to keep her from moving again.

"No. We have waited this long."

"Five days might as well be an eternity, Aemond, I want you now..."

If he were standing, he's certain what she just said would make him weak in the knees, but it won't make him throw caution to the wind and fuck her when her body is not ready for it. He shakes his head and lifts one of his hands to grab her chin, forcing her to pull away enough to let him see her face.

Gods, he looks handsome right now, she thinks. With his hair wet and unbound, it falls around his face in a way she only sees in the privacy of their bedchamber. Then, there's that sapphire gleaming in his scarred eye socket. There's something about his beauty that is so haunting, so unusual, so statuesque. The very image of ethereal Valyrian beauty.

He looks into her eyes as he says, "It will pass quicker than you expect. The very moment those days are up, I will do everything I've dreamt of doing these past five weeks."

She wraps her arms around his shoulders and warns him with an exaggerated pout, "Do not tease me."

His response is immediate.

"Not a tease, a promise."

As he says this, the door to their room creaks open, and a nursemaid stands in the entryway. The babe's cries are enough to capture the attention of both parents, who abruptly cease their playful banter to look at the servant standing with her eyes averted from their naked bodies. Her face is flushed a deep shade of scarlet. As soon as she realized what they were doing, she turned her face away.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Your Graces, but she keeps crying and we are running out of ways to soothe her. I was told to ask if you would like to try."

Sighing, she scoots off of his lap.

"Bring her, then. I shall take her."

The girl nods, trying to summon the nerve to intrude on their private affair, then walks from the door to the bath. Y/N reaches out to take the babe into her arms, shushing her as she cries and cradling her little body to her chest. The servant does not dare to look at Aemond One-Eye. No, her gaze remains fixed on the floor where his eyepatch sits. What might he do if she looks at him in this state? She does not wish to stay and push her luck.

"May I please be dismissed, Princess?"

"You may."

The speed with which she scurries off has Y/N fighting the urge to laugh, but she maintains enough self-control to wait until the door shuts before erupting into an uncontrollable bout of giggles.

"Stop it," Aemond says, his mouth twitching as he stifles his laughter. "Quit laughing at me, woman."

"Skoros gōntan gaomā naejot mazverdagon zirȳla sīr zūgagon hen ao?" What did you do to make her so scared of you?

Seeing her like this—laughing with her hair wet and their babe nestled into her chest, little hands grasping at her skin—is how he imagines the smallfolk feel witnessing the otherworldly presence and power of the dragons when they fly over the city.

"Mayhaps it is because of this"—a gesture to his face—"Most ladies, noble and common alike, are frightened of me," he muses, stating it like it is an unavoidable fact of life because it is. Ever since that day at Driftmark, people have treated him differently. He adds the next part with a soft smile, a rare sight for most who know him, "Excluding you."

"Those ladies are fools. What happened with your eye makes you no different than any other man, not where it matters," she states. "You are a Targaryen prince, Vhagar's rider no less, and what are they?" A scoff escapes her. "Frightened hens, that's what they all are."

The mere sound of their voices going back and forth lulls Daenaera into a calm, sleepy state. Her mouth hangs open, and drool coats the shoulder her face is smushed against. His girls truly are a sight to behold. He leans back against the bathtub, his eye still fixed on them with a look of disbelief.

How did this happen? How did the arranged marriage that he dreaded blossom into the overwhelming feeling tugging at his heart right now? It's such a foreign feeling. He only ever felt it as a child, when his mother fought for justice on his behalf after his eye was so brutally taken, yet even that was different. The type of love he felt for his mother that day does not hold a candle to what he feels for his wife every waking moment.

The prince cannot help but smile, watching in awe as she rocks their little girl in her arms, careful to keep her above the surface of the hot water.

He reaches out to gently stroke the soft wisps of silver hair growing from Daenaera's head. Slowly, the hand touching the babe's head moves up the length of Y/N's arm and keeps moving until he cups her cheek. Seeing that he cannot make himself say it any other way, he says it in Valyrian. The words that have remained on the tip of his tongue since he first saw her holding their child finally break free.

"Avy jorrāelan."

The words have an instant effect. She falters and almost loses her breath, her gaze fixed on him as her heart hammers in her chest.

"Say it again," she whispers, each breath coming in quick succession.

The distance between them wanes little by little until all that stands between them is their newborn daughter, and she can feel the heat of his exhales clouding against her face.

Softly, he tells her, "I love you."

She cannot tell if it's the heat from the water in the tub, the warmth of his body, or the passion in his words that makes her press her thighs together to satisfy the ache between them.

"Again," is her one-word plea, whispered against his lips only a second before they converge in a kiss.

It's nothing too passionate. Of course, they know that she is holding their babe between them, so it is a sweet, slow kiss. One that does not rouse the child from her half-asleep haze but still contains all of the affection and feeling a more heated kiss would have. After the better half of a moment, she pulls away to hear him say it again.

He is reluctant to part from the kiss, but when he does, he moves to whisper in her ear.

"Avy jorrāelan," he repeats. In the heat of the moment, he lets his lips graze her earlobe before drifting down her neck, planting a trail of chaste kisses against her skin. But before he can advance any further, he stops at the feeling of the babe's head brushing the side of his face. He then tilts his face down to plant a sweet kiss on her as well. "Se Avy jorrāelan, zaldrītsos." And I love you, little dragon.

Y/N lets out a breathless chuckle, her chest still heaving from the rush of adrenaline his confession and the subsequent kiss brought her.

"I never would have taken you for a man that swoons over an infant."

Aemond chuckles softly at her questioning his affection for their daughter. He runs the bar of soap over his chest, lathering his skin with it and scrubbing until he feels sufficiently clean. The sweet scent of it hangs in the air. It reminds him of all the times he has smelled it on her in intimate moments much like this, and it warms his heart to think that this will be another fond memory for him to look back on the next time he smells it on her.

He hums in response to her question, rubbing the soap down his arm.

"What do you expect me to do? Hate her?"

As she passes the child, squirming at the sudden disturbance of being moved from one parent's arms to the other's, she rolls her eyes at him.

"No, of course not. I always knew you would make a fine father one day. At least, better than Viserys was." As she coats her skin with the soap, he follows the movement of her hands cupping her breasts and caressing down her soft stomach. "I just...I did not expect you to fall in love or care for us the way you do. Tis a rare thing for people of our station."

He is quiet for a second or two before answering her.

"I did not expect it either."

Once they are both rinsed off and clean from any stubborn suds that wish to cling to them, she gets out first to lay the babe down on their bed. Knowing her parents are near and fed with a tummy full of milk, Daenaera does not cry as she had with the nursemaids. She finds enough comfort in the soft feather mattress to drift off into a light sleep while her mother dries herself. The linen cloths were left folded beside the bathtub for her, courtesy of Nyla, and after they are done, she hangs them out by the open window to dry in the sun.

With her help, he dresses in his typical leather ensemble in preparation for the journey to Storm's End.

Fortunately for the both of them, flying is far quicker than traveling by land or sea, so it should not be long before he returns to her. He fastens the buckles that hold his doublet together as she wraps the belt around his slim waist, checking to ensure it is secured before attaching his sheathed sword. This is a practiced routine they have gone over countless times. Day after day, she helps lace his boots and buckle his belt. Not because she is his wife and it is expected of her to serve him, but because she wants to. It's a small act of service, but it shows him how much she truly cares.

Next, he sits on the couch and lets her help him with his hair.

They told the servants not to bother them until dinner, but she could manage his simple half-up style herself. On days when she feels particularly lethargic, she forgoes her intricate braids for something quite similar that only takes a few minutes. But, she decides without asking him, she will braid the hair pulled back from his face rather than tie it off. It's nothing compared to the magic Nyla works when weaving her hair into complex patterns each morning, but the simple braid holds more securely than it would be tied back. Seeing that he will be flying for hours, she thinks it best to prevent it from becoming a mess.

When he leaves, she is there to walk him to the stairs—with Ser Criston following her every step like a shadow.

"Sagon ȳgha, ñuha jorrāelagon," Y/N says softly, touching her forehead to his for a moment. Be safe, my love. "Kesi sagon umbagon syt ao." We will be waiting for you.

In her dreams, Y/N floats in a churning swell, abandoned and left to the mercy of the open sea with a storm overhead. Saltwater burns in her throat with every dip she takes beneath the surface. When the waves crash, she is sent tumbling beneath the surface with nothing but dark water surrounding her. It isn't until the current calms, only for a second, that she may kick her way back up. Strands of hair stick to her face as she tilts it toward the sky and sucks down breath after frantic breath of air. No matter how hard she heaves, it isn't enough to get her through the next wave that pulls her under.

Beneath the surface of the water, she cannot help but try to breathe once the pressure from holding her breath becomes too great, which causes her to inhale a mouthful of water into her lungs. Her legs and arms flail in a desperate bid to save what will be inevitably lost.

But, as she struggles, she sees something crashing into the water not far from where she is.

At first, the bubbles in the water obscure her vision and keep her from squinting to see with the salt of the sea burning her eyes, but it isn't long before she can make out the shape of a body. A man—no—a boy. Now that she sees him, she no longer wants to make it to the open air. Her lust for survival is dimmed by the confounding sight of a young boy with no visible injuries sinking into the depths. Those flailing limbs now move her in his direction, desperate to save him before he disappears into the dark that lingers below like the ever-present shadow of death.

It feels as though her chest may burst as she swims for him, and she knows she is running out of time, but she cannot bring herself to abandon him. He looks no older than her brother. It's a thought that propels her through the water faster. She can't stop thinking...I must reach him. I must save the boy and give him the very last bit of air in my lungs. The harder she tries, the further he drifts away, and there isn't anything she can do but scream into the yawning void of the open ocean.

She wakes from the nightmare with a gasping inhale. Her hands claw at her throat and chest like they had beneath the surface of the water, but when she opens her eyes, she is sitting upright in her bed. The hand clutching her throat instinctively reaches for the other side of the bed, for Aemond, yet no one is there. It takes another few seconds of panicked searching before she remembers when and where she is. Before she remembers that her husband left to fly to Storm's End.

She glances at the position of the moon visible through the opened window and deduces that it is the hour of the wolf. Morning is coming soon, but the moon is still high, and it will be another few hours before Nyla comes to wake her.

Every breath she takes is labored and heaving, but she slowly begins to feel better. Being grounded to reality by the scent of the dying flames in the hearth, the pressure in her chest and throat eases. In another moment, she will forget the suffocating sensation of drowning that startled her so deeply, and knowing this helps calm her even more. It is strange to navigate these frightening feelings without Aemond, though. It used to be her mother whose arms she crawled into after a nightmare, but then she became a wife. He would always be there to wrap his arms around her and shush her as she cried. Now, she is a mother with a child of her own, and there is no one around to soothe her but herself.

To her left, Daenaera rests in her cradle.

Ever since the incident after Viserys died, Y/N has refused to allow her to sleep anywhere other than beside their bed. Her sleep is interrupted as a result, but there's no amount of sleep worth more than knowing her daughter is near.

The sound of Y/N's footfalls on the floor is near-silent. It is precisely what she needs to check on the babe without waking her. Daenaera is swaddled in a blanket made for her by her mother, and she appears to be in a deep slumber. A cauldron sits on the floor beneath the cradle. Although plain and unassuming, it holds the dragon egg Rhaenyra sent when news broke of her only daughter's pregnancy. One of Syrax's clutches, she assumes. It has yet to hatch, which has worried her husband sick. After what he endured as a child, he is quite fearful of what her life may be like as a Targaryen without a dragon. But having been born without hatching a dragon of her own, having to risk her life in claiming hers, she does not worry. There is no way a child of hers and Aemond's blood, even if she is unlucky in hatching her egg, does not claim a dragon one day.

For some strange reason, she feels drawn to the egg tonight. So, she kneels down as quietly as possible and reaches for the handle of the heated cauldron. Just as she sets the lid down, the sound of someone knocking—banging, actually—on the doors to their chambers draws her attention away.

"Hello?" she calls into the darkness. "Whoever you are, quit making such a racket. You'll wake my daughter."

The door creaks open only enough to allow the same nursemaid who interrupted her and Aemond in the bath to peek her head in. Freckles smatter her pale face like splotches of brown paint, and her red hair is pulled back from her face, hidden beneath a head covering all of the servant girls wear as part of their uniform.

"What is it, Edyth?" Y/N asks with an exaggerated sigh.

"I apologize for disturbing you, Your Grace, but it is a matter of great urgency. Ser Criston Cole is here with me. I feared your modesty may not be protected at this time of night, so he has permitted me to speak for him."

This piques her interest enough to make her stand from where she knelt beside the cradle. Her stomach churns with anxiety as her mind runs through every possible reason she could be summoned at such a late hour. If Daenaera weren't here with her, she would assume something happened to her, but that clearly is not the case. That only leaves...

"Aemond," she thinks out loud, looking to the servant girl to confirm her suspicions. "Something has happened with my husband, hasn't there?"

All Edyth can offer in response is a frantic nod, and it takes less than a minute for Y/N to throw her robe on to meet her at the door.

"Stay and watch after Daenaera until I return. Do not take her from this room. Do you understand?" The nursemaid nods once more in response. "Good."

With that, the princess is gone.

Ser Criston walks alongside her, his armor abandoned in favor of the comfortable clothing he sleeps in at night. It seems that he too was roused from sleep to respond to what she can only assume is a terrible emergency involving her husband. She soon realizes, though, that she does not know where they are going and turns to Cole for guidance with a look of confusion. Part of her still feels as though she's trapped in the nightmare with the storm, sea, and the drowning boy. Trapped in the place between being asleep and awake, her body sways with exhaustion with every stumbling step forward.

After they have traversed enough halls for her to recognize where they're going, she realizes they are heading to the small council chamber...in the dead of night.

As he opens the door, her view of the room is blocked by him walking in front of her with one hand on the pommel of his sword. Her heart nearly bursts from her chest from the anticipation that has built within her since Edyth first poked her head into her room, mind racing with every outlandish possibility regarding why she has been called here.

Yet, there Aemond is.

There everyone is—Alicent, Aegon, and the rest of the council excluding the Hand. Since he is delivering terms to her mother at Dragonstone, it would be impossible for him to return in time to deal with whatever issue has arisen. Her husband stands next to his brother's seat at the table with his head down and his hands behind his back. The closer she gets, the more unnerved she becomes at the sight of him. His hair is wild—obviously, he flew through a storm, and it dried in the wind as he made the journey home—and his utter refusal to look at her...

She hurries across the room to him, with each pair of eyes around them following her there.

"You aren't hurt?" Y/N asks as she cups his face between her hands and lifts his head so she may look at him.

There's a drawn-out beat of silence that follows her question, and it feels like everyone in the room watches the pair with bated breath.

It is Alicent who speaks first.

"No, sweet girl," she says, though it sounds as though she may weep. "He is not hurt."

"Then what is the matter? Edyth made it sound like..."

Taking a look around the room for reassurance only makes her stomach sink even more than it already has.

Aegon sits at the head of the table with a vacant expression, likely exhausted and heavily drunk given the time of night. Alicent stares at her with such guilt present in her wide, doe eyes. Grand Maester Orwyle and the others, who were no doubt woken from a night of good rest like the royal family, all look varying degrees of horrified. It seems that she is the only one who does not know what has happened, and she can't stand it.

She turns to her husband, her hands sliding from his face to hold onto him by his shoulders.

"Aemond?"

Aemond tenses up at the touch of her hands, and the tension in the room has become palpable and thick. So much so that she doesn't look away from him until he tells her what is wrong.

"What is it? Tell me, please."

He slowly looks up to meet her eyes.

"Your brother..." he starts, then stops for a second to take in a deep breath.

No matter how difficult this may be, he doesn't avert his gaze from hers. He holds it, hoping that she may be able to see the shame he has locked away inside of himself to avoid being seen as weak in front of the others, and keeps talking even though he knows the truth will damn him to a fate worse than death. A fate wherein he is the object of her hatred from this point forward.

"Lucerys is dead."

Her eyes well up with tears at the thought, her head shaking erratically as if doing so will make the news any less true. Suddenly, images from the nightmare flash inside her head, and she realizes that she was being warned of this as she slept. By who or what, she does not know, but the image of the sea dragging him under was not one she conjured. The faceless boy now has the familiar face of her little brother. In a way, he felt like a child of her own with how she always doted on him and let him sleep in her bed when he had his own nightmare.

Just when she opens her mouth with the intent of asking how it happened, as well as how they all discovered this before her, Aemond confesses.

"I killed him."

omg omg it’s so fun to be back with this story it’s getting so dramatic! please let me know your thoughts on this chapter and show it some love if you enjoyed it!

Tag List: @m-indkiller, @tinykryptonitewerewolf, @hopebaker, @bcon24, @eleganttravelercloud, @the-blue-banshee, @saramayu, @merakiaes, @its-sam-allgood, @grungegrrrl, @singitoutgirl26, @scarlettmoon98, @itisjustwhatitis, @cl-0-vr, @d34d-4c1d, @hargrovehoe, @leahjean, @captainweirdo42, @magnificantmermaid, @dark-night-sky-99, @ladybug0095, @bellaisasleep, @blackravenart, @reneki, @heylosers06, @izzicle, @bucky-thorin-winchester, @hangmanscoming, @harrypotteranna23-blog, @fan-goddess, @glame, @barnes70stark, @lv7867, @kckt88, @callsignwidow, @aspookiepookie, @palomavz, @minttea07, and @shintax-error.

[sevikas-biceps]

Isha gets no burial.

There's no time.

Isha was dead, that was certain; but Vi isn't. Her sister got knocked off her feet, pulled down with her as the explosion took off. Bleeding and disoriented, but alive. Vi still lingered with her, as she always had; the chip on her shoulder that refused to be reshaped even past the stinging cuts and jagged skin. That's why she leaves her in the cell, that's why she throws away the keys. Beyond the last consideration she might give her, it was also the last petty thing she could do. Some clawing irony, some desperate chuckle.

It's the curse of being the elder sister, she thinks, shepherds of the greatest failures.

Isha doesn't get tended to.

The girl gets left there, imprinted onto dead soil; and Jinx doesn't get the mercy of knowing whether the flesh was disintegrated into dust or merely trampled beneath the uncaring feet of loyal soldiers. If the kid got the kindness of a quick flare of blinding light, burning her dry; or the cruelty of a snapped neck beneath a bigger beast's weight. She couldn't even tell if there was a corpse at all.

Not even the hideout suffices as a shrine. There's a dent in the earth there, a tiny bit where the blade of the fan digs in just right. But it's not enough. It's too fucking small for someone who possessed that big of a heart. Too dark, too damp, and too damn caged-in for the wild little rabbit that the child had been. It's not enough. It's not fucking enough. None of it is. Not even as she torches the bar and all what's left of goodness inside it.

There isn't really anyone to remember the kid. Maybe Vi, maybe Sevika, maybe Ekko, maybe even Caitlyn. A sister, a mother, a lover, and an enemy. Four people in the present for the four people she'd killed that night at the warehouse. Mylo, Claggor, Vander, Powder.

Powder. Heh. Fuckin' Powder.

That's the last laugh she gets; thinking about it while she watches the entire thing burn down into ashes. Into grey fog. Into powder. Back to the start. Back to where everything began. To rain and river water. To dust and fire.

She stares at the bomb.

Listless. Unfeeling.

Tired.

(Bunnies love to bleed in the wild, don't they? There are no happy endings for these kinds of creatures. Dirty, rabid, and uncared-for. That's just the way it is. That's the way it's always been. That's the way it'll be, even long after everything ends.)

Isha gets no burial.

Why should Jinx give herself the kindness of one?

She calls out to the void for one last time. Trying to see if there might yet be anything down there that could still give her a piece of something to live for. A glimpse of a face in the black drop. A giggle from the past. A flash of blue or orange or pink. Nothing. Of course it doesn't come. She knows it, accepted it, made peace with it. But still. Something. Anything. No. Nothing. Just nothing. Only silence. Only her failure. Only the faint whisper of a wind that shouldn’t be there and the heavy coating of dust on the rocks.

The quiet is almost ritualistic, a part of her yet resisting: wondering that perhaps, if she stared into the nothingness hard enough, the nothingness will stare back. She'd done it before. She'd carved demons into the stone. Why should this be any different? It's almost charming, really, how even now she tries to pull at a heart that's already stopped bleeding. She’s a fucking trickster. She can pull off the joke again. Only…well. Only this time, it doesn’t come. Oh, her laughter is there—it spills out, again and again and again. But it lacks that mocking edge to it; the inward sneer of Jinx that so often accompanied each of her own self-insults.

Everything falls flat.

There's nothing anymore. It's just fucking nothing.

Plain, cutting silence.

Her finger traces the pin.

There's no burial. There was no time. Not enough of it. But she'd known it then, though, way before they even hopped down to the slums: the whole thing had been a last rite for her. An ode to the creature that named itself Powder. A slowed ignition with just enough sputters and pauses to make the ending burn brighter. She repeats it to herself: there was no time. Oh, trust, there had been a lot of it. She'd just turned to the other side so as not to face the reality that she’d merely borrowed some and intentionally forgot to pay her dues.

The sickest part of her thinks that maybe the girl understood. It was better like this. It should have been better like this. No body, no memory. No voice, no burden. Merely a quiet thanks.

The crystal warms the steel beneath her skin.

She lets out a breath.

Isha gets no burial.

(Jinx won't even pretend to deserve one.)

[sunnylune]

I was watching a little bit of the “Papa” episode today and something that Doctor Brenner said had gotten me curious…

He said, “One doesn’t just kill, he consumes. All their memories, everything that they are and everything that they will be.” His fears of Eleven going in unprepared because he’s terrified of the potential that One has.

But going off of that what kind of strengths did Vecna/Henry/One take from his victims? Chrissy, Fred and Patrick? We saw how he targeted them and I’m curious to what kind of strengths did they have that would empower Henry?

Was it just a power dynamic that he had? Like stomping on bugs cause you’re bigger than they are?

I really liked how before El called him Henry and Brenner calls him One. That little detail of her humanizing him because she doesn’t see him as a big threat that she can’t face but more like a danger that only she can handle because she knows him

[this-should-do]

venting dont mind me xp ✌

[fardf150]

fuck

[ectoplasmer]

in the middle of reading the new wind excerpt and god. oh my god. someone sedate me

[cl-0v3r]

Mel is alive, but at what cost

Mel was nearly killed TWICE, her mother began being a struggle, she'd been thrown aside and trying her best to stop her, her boyfriend is not doing well, neither is anyone else (can't blame them) and the fact that she hadn't cried or spoke much about this situation to anyone a single time?? She IS upset about every single thing, yet she stays strong and enduring every bit of torture. The most she did was tell Jayce that Ambessa put her palm on the table, and let him know that she is going to push for hextech. That's it, nothing remotely related to her feelings.

The fact that she was constantly looking at Caitlyn, being able to understand her grief and knew she was in pain?? Mel knows this feeling. She'd went through it.

And in the end SHE has to pay the price of her mothers incompetence.

The intro is very much foreshadowing, we know the hands represent black rose/LeBlanc.

This is what happens in act one, she gets kidnapped by them. The lyrics do correspond to the characters as well (not just Mel, everyone.)

"Tell you you're the greatest" plays as a petal of the black rose floats down the screen, I think it adds significance to the power this organization holds, possibly the Medardas greatest foe.

"But once you turn, they hate us" both Ambessa and Mel were present in this line, I think its foreshadowing for when Ambessa switches up for whatever reason and goes against both Piltover AND Zaun. And Mel WILL go through change as well, a change that could hurt her relationship with others, and receive interest from others too.

"They hate us" could be read individually too, I feel like its a sort of "realization" ?? Perhaps Ambessa WASN'T the one that switched up, maybe Piltover switched up on them, and maybe Mel JUST got out of wherever she's taken to, and saw the mess Ambessa had done to her city??

I think this represents ACT TWO.

The hands pull away and it sort of looks like Mel is fighting back, a "get away from me" type of scream. you know what this reminds me of??

Don't mind me just pushing my Jinx/powder-Mel parallel agenda

Here is when i think Mel truly learns about LeBlanc/BR, she curiously and slowly goes to grab the rose, she learns about the history between her Mother and them, Kinos death, and most of all, learns about HERSELF. The lyrics speak otherwise.

"Pray away, I swear

I'll never be a saint, no way"

This feels like a parallel to caitlyn of sorts if that makes sense. Caitlyn had done everything to try and stop the council from attacking the Undercity, she kept her mouth shut when Jayce asked about Jinxs grenade, she was willing to protect Vi and the undercity, but how many times has she been tossed around? She'd been burned, exploded, kidnapped (god knows what happened during that time) and hit in the face by the same person, her MOTHER died because of the same person. She has every right to go insane. And she is hunting ONE person, which is Jinx. Although she is harming the people around her along the way.

What if Mel goes through a similar situation? Her mother pushed for war in her city, she dragged the enemy along with her even if she didn't mean to, she manipulated everyone around her INCLUDING Jayce, she LITERALLY got Mel hurt from the chembarons attack and killed so many people during a MEMORIAL to get her hextech weapons, Elora is most likely DEAD, not to mention whatever happened in the past between them. And the thing is, this will NEVER end throughout the entire season.

And what if she learns what she is? That she's 'blessed' by Kindred? The fact that the wolf is quite literally in her blood?

I feel like the "ill never be a saint, no way" also sort of indicates Mel will realize she'll never be able to push for peace and mercy like she always hoped for no matter what, and she comes to accept that as much as it hurts. But not like how ambessa accepted the wolf, but she sort of realizes she needs to push a little violence, towards nobody but the one and only, Ambessa "fine, if you want me to be like you, I guess I'll be like you towards YOU." Type of acceptance.

I think its also related to Mels new outfit too, she's dressed like her mother, in red and all of that. I will still stand by the idea that she has plans to decieve, but she will do something she doesn't want to do.

Mel was left with no choice, that lyric sounds like realization, acceptance, but also like a plea at the same time, an "I'll never be who I wanted to be" because in the end, she's still a Medarda, she's still her mothers daughter, she still has violence in her veins, she will never not suffer from the weight her name holds, and she will never escape it either, its like a shadow.

The Characters won't be themselves at their core this season. And those vital parts of their characters that represent them are no longer there in the intro, they all have given up what makes them, THEM design wise. (e.g.) Vi without her tattoo, Viktor hiding his identity with the mask. And the thing is, they did that to themselves because they do self-harm, they're changing themselves because THEY want to, they're forcing themselves to do that, they think they're undeserving and they're erasing their past selves.

But Mel? Mel doesn't have her gold accessories, Jewelry, or her Armor, she'd been stripped bare and hidden away because of the brutality of her name. She pays the price her mother brought to HER city. She's forced to change herself against her will, because nobody is giving her a chance to push for her ideals.

This entire theory never ends, and with all of this? I kinda do see Mel actually committing Matricide, it lifts the "Ambessa will die" theory further.

[melmedardaapologist]

with arcane’s focus on visual elements, something that’s been nagging on me lately is mel medarda’s final design and why it compounds the tragedy of her story:

firstly, when we see mel in her flashback, she’s already wearing her significant white/gold, but tempered with blue—noticeably missing her mother’s greys and reds, even then, showing her idealogical differences

then in piltover, we see mel as her own self-actualization—all white and gold and black, colors connected to power, and with an elegant cut that still places her slightly apart from piltover fashion. it shows her place as a non-combatant (long skirt) and someone privileged (the pure white) and wealthy (the gold. so much gold.). this is mel medarda at the pinnacle she’s worked so hard to achieve—it’s elegant because she is elegant

which of course becomes subverted when we do see the gold accessories taken away and the white dirtied when she’s kidnapped by the black rose—this is the first and only time we see mel in actual disarray, and it shows how vulnerable she is when she’s outside the political sphere

and after her transformation, we have this costume change, where aside from the increased gold (now representing magical ability instead of just wealth), we have mel in a a skin-tight catsuit style getup, allowing for greater movement, and her hair done in micro-braids in a style that won’t affect her center of gravity. at first, when i was watching, i was confused (especially about the hair), but then i realized—

this isn’t mel dressing herself to reflect a change, this is leblanc’s vision of mel, where power is swiftness and she is markedly different than others in a way that is now impossible to ignore

and she tries to return to her previous sense of self with the white hood, going back to a trademark of her style, but notably this is an outfit worn to conceal, not reveal and show off like her previous iconic dress, and her change is visibly with even just the hood off

and when mel accepts black rose’s help and betrays them and her mother dies, the white hood disappears—try as she might, she cannot go back to who she was, and she stands before noxians as a mage and mother-killer and a wolf, something dangerous

and then, when we see mel leaving piltover, she’s wearing nothing of her original self, but a combination of black rose’s getup and her mother’s colors. there is almost nothing of “mel” in this outfit, as if she’s been subsumed by these two identities—noxian and mage

even her makeup has shifted, with the red line under her eyes and the gold in her lower lip directly copying her mother

this isn’t a mel who’s realized herself in a new identity. this is a mel who, when faced with the enormous loss of her brother, mother, lover and former identity, has fallen into the definitions and roles that were presented to her, and who is now primed to continue the cycles started by her predecessors

and moving on from arcane, i think it would be fascinating to see mel in one of the newer shows to see how she grapples with this and if she either falls back into tradition and dooms herself, or if she’s able to break free and reforge her identity on her own terms

[ot3]

top 10 pokemon that are girls

'gender'.... much like 'animals' this is a concept from our world that has made itself present in the pokemon franchise. all pokemon began having genders (except for the ones that don't) in the second generation of games, in order to facilitate the pokemon breeding mechanic which has become a staple of the main series

you may think this means the issue of which pokemon are girls and which ones aren't is already settled. but do we really trust game freak to be the deciding voices on this one? i certainly don't. so here's a nonexhaustive look at some pokemon that are doing their best to be role models for young women everywhere who have been picking up and enjoying these games for decades.

#10 - NIDORAN♀

Not only is Nidoran♀ canonically a girl, she is the first pokemon to be canonically a girl as the gender distinction between Nidoran types predates the introduction of gen 2's breeding system that gendered all pokemon. she broke the glass ceiling, and for this we salute her.

#9 - KANGASKHAN

Both culturally and in media single mothers are subject to a lot of scrutiny and scorn, but kangaskhan breaks the mold. powerful, responsible, yet loving and joy-filled. the look on her baby's face tells us all we need to know; she holds on tight to the pouch, clinging to the safety she knows her mother can give her, but gazes awestruck and wide-eyed at the world around her, knowing its wonders will be there waiting for her as soon as she feels ready for it.

#8 - CELESTEELA

Technically, celesteela's gender is 'unknown', but it's obvious that celesteela represents what life can look like for a woman who truly has it all. As one of the largest and heaviest pokemon ever discovered, she's not afraid to take up space. she doesn't feel the need to soften herself to be more accepted by the world around her, but she's also comfortable enough with her feminine side to let it shine through where and when she wants. nobody tells her how to live her life but her and also she has big lazers

#7 - MISMAGIUS

Well she's not called MISTER magius now, is she?

#6 - LYCANROC

Perfect embodiment of the wolfgirl you knew (or, perhaps were?) in middleschool. There are many doglike/canine pokemon in the dex, but something about lycanroc's exaggerated unkempt mane and lanky, awkward posture evokes the physicality of a teenager who exists as a beast beyond the boundaries of her own body.

#5 - CHIKORITA

This saultry little binch...

#4 - RAYQUAZA

It's an uncomfortable truth in life that many women find themselves in the position of needing to play the mediator in order to stop the people around them from acting in destructive or harmful ways. But just because mediating conflict can be a difficult and unfair position to be put into, that doesn't mean it's a bad thing. Rayquaza just goes to show us all everywhere how a real woman can still thrive under these circumstances, doing her best to build a more peaceful world while not letting that push her into the shadows or make her take a back seat in her own life. she is a community leader and an innovator.

#3 - SALAZZLE

She's the archetypal femme fatale. A dominatrix. A baddie. Does she make me uncomfortable? Yes, absolutely. But I'm not a furry so I'm not really the target audience of what's happening here.

#2 - SLAKING

I know so many butches who look exactly like her. you love to see it.

#1 - MEWTWO

as one feminist philosopher has said: "I see now that the circumstances of one's birth is irrelevant, it is what you do with the gift of life that determines who you are."

I think any woman living in a patriarchal society can sympathize with mewtwo's story. enraged at being treated like the property of the people who created her rather than her own fully realized person, she goes on a rampage where it quickly becomes obvious that she is even more powerful than that what she was originally created in the image of. Although this takes her down a dark path, she eventually learns to self-actualize by working on herself rather than pointlessly lashing out at people who had nothing to do with hurting her. it's empowering stuff. doubly empowering because she killed all those clowns who DID hurt her

now, of course, there are plenty more pokemon that are girls than just what i've listed here today. but i hope youve learned a little something from this.

[earl-of-221b]

I can’t explain what blue eye samurai makes me feel…….its a typical revenge story, a man sets out on his hero’s journey to kill the four men who have wronged him. A lone ronin, wide brimmed hat and sword in hand, roaming Edo Japan on his vendetta. But he’s not a man. He’s a woman. And how has he been wronged? What’s she getting revenge on?

On the fact that she exists. She wants revenge on the four white men that could possibly have conceived her. Who got her Japanese mother pregnant with a blue-eyed child. And not just any blue-eyed child, but a girl child. How is she possibly supposed to live in the world like that? For the wrong of being conceived, for the wrong of being born, for the wrong of being birthed into a world that will never love or accept her, she will kill her father.

I don’t know what level of convoluted self hate that is. Is she a child of rape? Or a child of a whore? Halfway through I realise what she told herself at the start couldn’t possibly be true - it’s not really for her mother. Her mother wasn’t the root of her vendetta, she wasn’t really doing it for her. When she leaves that farm and leaves the chance to live a simple, legitimate life as a woman, she goes right back to hunting down the men. Those men personally wronged her.

And then there’s so much to be discussed surrounding the way she grew up, because as a boy child and a man she can afford so much more than life has dealt her. Her swordfather who took her in out of the love and care in his heart had no shame in teaching a mixed man his art. The face of a ‘demon’ is fine. But not the identity of a woman. Shh. Don’t say it. Don’t confess. He knows and doesn’t want to hear it.

And because she’s lived that way her entire life for safety and security, she’s so completely alienated from being a woman, perhaps she really is he. But not really by choice. Or is it? The thing she does best is the art of killing, the art of men. Gender is a prison and gender is a performance and she has to choose which to perform. The times cannot reconcile hatred and violence with a woman. So she lives as a man.

So she can get revenge on her father, for revenge on herself.

[cassiebones]

The expression on Alice's face is everything to me.

Because she had a mother who loved her and tried to protect her with every little bit of magic she had.

And now she's witnessing a mother who hated her own child since the moment said child was born.

I feel in part that this is Alice realizing that she's not the only one with Mommy Issues™ and that there's a lot more to Agatha Harkness than she was led to believe.

While the argument can be made that Alice was neglected by her mother, as well as abused (forcing a 13yo to get a tattoo???), at least she's become aware just how much her mother cared about her, was scared for her, and tried to protect her.

Evanora Harkness, on the other hand, actively tried to kill her own child. She got together a group of women to kill her daughter. And said "evil" daughter then granted mercy to these killers' children, to her own detriment.

It has to be such a shocking dichotomy for Alice. Especially since, despite being raised by somebody who hated her for the first couple decades of her long life, Agatha still seems to crave her mother's love and approval, which Alice can probably very much relate to.

And then to think of the fact that Agatha was a mother herself. She probably loved Nicholas from the second she found out that she was pregnant. I kind of guess she wanted a girl (another young witch to raise and do it better than the mother who hated her), but was no less thrilled to have her son.

The grief she feels still, after losing him decades - if not well over a century - ago is palpable. She probably told him every single day just how much he meant to her. She probably held him in her arms, marveling at every little detail of his little face, his fingers and toes, his eyes, his smile...and she probably raised him with the love of her life at her side.

And then he was taken from her. Partly by whatever killed him and partly by the love of her life. And it left her broken, grief-stricken, and angry.

Not angry just because Rio took him away (because it was her job), but also because she remembered how own mother trying to kill her and she probably wondered what she had done wrong to evoke such anger in her own mother as she would never try to harm even a single hair on her son's little head.

It was clear in that episode that, as stated above, Agatha still crave's her mother acceptance and affection, even after all she did to her. It's not something you get over very quickly - the burn of your mother's rejection and ire. And, as tough and unflappable as Agatha likes to play it, she is definitely still feeling the pain.

And it's heart-breaking.

[goldsbitch]

That one night stranded

There is good sex...and then there is good sex. And when you know and love someone, it's very easy to tell when they fall into an anxiety trap and try to fuck it out.

Lando is determined to have good sex only for the rest of his life.

Or - Lando and Y/N get stranded in between flights. accidental 7k epilogue p.2 to That one Christmas flight, but can be read as a stand-alone

warning: angst, shit family, smut, p in v, oral, minors DNI, typos, couple therapists - please leave, i'm not ready for your judgement

//

There were two very different text message chains happening in the hotel lobby, where the young couple stood, waiting for the receptionist who was coding they key card.

Lando's phone was bursting up with family photos, taken the day before. Lots of smiley faces, tables overflowing with food and pictures blurred up, because the person taking the photo was most likely laughing too hard to stay still. And even better - most of the messages were words of praise his family had for his no-so-new girlfriend. He knew well enough his family was proud of him nevertheless. Somehow, bringing home someone who fit in right easily, laughed at the same jokes and earned a sincere approval, filled up a hole he had no idea was present in his heart.

This one night they'd "earned" by the delayed flight felt like a reward. They'd done great together. Alone time was a rare luxury, especially when it was unexpected and not planned out for weeks. He glanced over to her, glued to her phone in a similar way that he was. Only difference being the furrowed brows.

The other text chain was Y/N and her mother. Right when the reality sank in - the fact that no plane would be able to fly to Japan with these weather conditions - her heart did too. She'd somehow hoped it would be different. That her mother would save the snarky comments. Yet she found a way to make this all seem like Y/N's fault.

You should have taken an earlier flight.

She knew it was irrational. But yes, if they had opted for the earlier flight, they'd be in the air by now. Funny, how only parents know the exact formula to make one’s brain switch off the rational part. It was the hidden undertone in the text messages. Her mom would usually save those for phone calls. The last thing Y/N wanted to do at the moment. You're too reckless. Not organized enough. Being late is your fault. Bad planning. Do you even care about seeing me? I took a day off from work to spend time with you. Are you sure about bringing the racer boy over here?

Guilt filled up her stomach and her eyes were glued to the phone, hoping for more letters to appear. Something along the lines like "have a safe flight". Or "I'm looking forward to finally meeting Lando". Words she knew would never appear. She felt her boyfriend's arm embrace her as he exchanged few final words with the receptionist. The specific info got lost on her, but the tone spoke on it's own. Even a stranger could pick up on his unmasked joy and comfort. He didn't mind they were stranded for few hours. She wished for that kind of peace of mind. His family had been incredibly lovely to her. Accepted her the way she was and gave her enough space to express herself. She was ready for "double checking" or some sort of acceptance tests. Expected to have to prove herself to them more. None of that came. Part of her was secretly infuriated by that. There was no way in hell Lando would get the same treatment. Y/N wished she could provide that comfort for him too. It resembled the same feeling she had when he came to her apartment for the first time and she forgot to put away all the mugs overflowing the nightstand. Like something that was her responsibility to fix, clean up before he even knew this was a thing.

"Look at me, honey," he said in the elevator, his finger pulling her chin up. His eyes scanned her with a look she grew to love. Pure, unfiltered adoration. "Feels like we got gifted a night only for ourselves. I can't think of anything better to receive." She smiled as best as she could, trying to get on his level of ease. But one thought sat in her brain, unwilling to make space for anything else. Today's bliss for tomorrow's misery.

"You're right, as always," she replied, trying to convince herself maybe more than him. The kiss she gave him afterwards was to divert his attention from looking at her, because she knew from experience, he'd soon see right through her.

"Have you texted your mom that we'll be late?" he asked, unaware of her bubbling anxiety.

"Yeah, yeah," she mumbled, trying to dismiss the situation.

//

Who cares that mom thinks he's just a reckless celebrity. Would an immature asshole who "can't possibly care about me in the longterm" be say things like that? It was pure fire running through her veins. Maybe it really was a gift, these few hours they got extra. The reality was that even if they'd arrived on time, fresh and dressed up as a cookie cutter loved up couple, her mom would still find something wrong to drill about later. Screw that. Last few moments of solitude.

She was standing in a hotel room bathroom, looking into the mirror, trying to calm herself down.

This worked perfectly into Lando's favor, him still being completely high on the good Christmas vibes. The minute she excused herself, he got on the phone with the hotel concierge and offered to throw any amount of money at them if they'd manage to follow up on his impromptu request. By some miracle, the trail with cold champagne, strawberries and few roses arrived before she returned from the bathroom. When his lovely girlfriend entered the room again, he greeted her with a dramatic spin, rose in one, a tall glass in the other hand. His interpretation of an angelic smile plastered on his face. The plan of catching her off guard worked. She stood there for a moment, taking the scenery in.

"Lando..." she said, speechless enough to muster anything more.

He winked at her and stepped closer. "It is technically our anniversary..." he said, like an open invitation.

Y/N stared at the loved up guy standing in front of her. Mother's voice still ringing in her head. All composure she managed to gain by staring at herself in the mirror gone in a second. How can anyone, ever and anywhere think that Lando, her Lando, is anything but a perfect boyfriend. How can her mother feed her with words like reckless, immature, wild and careless...without ever even meeting him in person. Her phone dinged with the sound a text message and she just knew it was her mom again. She didn't even bother looking at the notification.

"You're perfect, you know that?" she blurbed slowly. Once again, as if more to herself than to him.

His smile grew wider. "I try my best," he noted with a tone that could only be described as playful.

"Many people forget anniversaries..."

"To be fair, it is easier if it's pinned to annoyingly recognized holiday..." he joked and handed her the glass. "Do not ask me when we actually got together, because I don't think there is enough champagne around here for me to apologize for not knowing that date."

She smirked and accepted the glass.

"You did kind of just admit that yourself, you know..."

"I know, but, you didn't ask, so it doesn't count."

He knew her well enough to know that she was about to ask exactly that just to tease him, so interrupted her before she had a chance to even breathe in.

"Toast! To us! To the best outcome a desperate secret meeting at Honda could ever have!"

Giving up on teasing him, she clinked her glass with his. "To the Christmas champagne tradition."

He leaned in and kissed her before tasting the champagne. If it weren't for the symbolic gesture, he'd order anything else. Champagne had a weird undertone of podiums and that was something he hated to get reminded of during off season. But that was not something he needed to tell her.

She gulped the whole glass, happy have something to take the edge off.

"How bizarre, we managed to make it here," she remarked, courage building up.

"Wouldn't have it any other way, honey."

That's it. He was being the ultimate boyfriend, while she was there, barely participating. No more of that. She grabbed the glass from his hands and downed the liquid he barely touched anyway. Surprised Lando only raised his eyebrows and watched her put both of their glasses away.

"Bed. Now," she ordered him, changing the tone of the conversation.

Fascination overruled Lando's facial expression and he obeyed, without a single word. Usually, he was the more dominant one in their sex life. He couldn't help himself, forever horny teenager. But, sometimes, out of nowhere, she whipped up her bossy side. He often fantasized about that when he was alone, racing around the world.

She waited for him to absentmindedly kick his shoes to the corner only to sit at the edge of the bed. Shook her head and nodded toward the pillow. He obeyed and pushed himself further to the back. His eyes were literally inviting her, encouraging her to continue.

With full determination, she took her shirt off, following by swiftly removing her bra. Then she climbed over to him, never breaking eye contact.

Lando wanted to say something, anything, but he was worried that would somehow break the spell. He followed her every move, tuning in. They had spent few days in the family circus and they were about to enter another one. It's been the longest they'd gotten without sex while being in the same timezone. Even though he was not demanding or expecting anything, he was craving it like a starved man.

She wanted to feel hot. Determined to prove that she is a good girlfriend. Swung her leg over his, practically sitting on him. Their lips crashed together in a messy kiss, tongues fighting for dominance. Lando sighed when she parted them. But she was on a mission now. Knowing well enough Lando was a boobs man, she pulled his face towards her nipple and he didn't think twice about what to do next. She watched him suck and pure physical relief washed over her. All will be well soon.

She grabbed him over his jeans, pleased to find that he was already getting hard. Abandoning the kiss, she moved over to gain access to his crotch. Locked eyes with him while opening his zipper, almost violently.

"Take this off," she ordered and boy, did he do as he was told.

The air was heavy with anticipation on both parties.

With thick determination, she knelt over and took him into her mouth. He grew in her instantly, reaching full erection almost immediately.

Wasting no time, she started to move, up and down and suck him off. One hand called over to help at the bottom of his shaft, the other used as a support for her to lean on. She quickly got lost in the rhythm and continued, almost like someone dead set on completing a task. She had to prove herself. He was a great boyfriend and she needed to be the best girl he had. Because tomorrow, only ugly judgemental looks from her mother would await. No warm family welcome, this bliss they lived in for the past few days would be long gone. She could almost see it already happening, Lando desperately trying to impress her mother and her just dismissing him, because she had already made up her mind about him.

But he was perfect and Y/N was head-over-heels in love. With her eyes closed, she kept on moving, barely reaching for breath, ignoring the growing pain in her back, because the pit of despair growing in her stomach was louder anyway. It was all worth it for making her lover happy. Because who knows how it will all look tomorrow. If she could back down from the trip, she would. Her mom does not deserve to criticize someone so perfect like Lando.

Out of nowhere, felt his hand reaching over to her shoulder, somewhat bringing her back to Earth.

"Y/N," he moaned, with an unusual undertone. She took it as a sign to speed up her movements.

"Stop," he continued instantly. She froze, not quite sure what had happened.

"Ok, ugh," he pulled away unwillingly. "I can't believe I'm about to interrupt...Whatever amazing thing is happening right now."

She swallowed her own saliva. Got up a bit, slightly mortified. Why did he stop her. What has she done wrong? He never complained before? That's it - this connected with the treatment her mother had prepared instead of Christmas dinner would be the final straw ending their lovey-dovey period. Her thoughts were tripping one over another, making up an incoherent mess.

Once again, he pulled up his finger and arched her chin up.

"Is everything alright?"

Silence followed. He gave her a questioning, puzzled look.

"I thought you liked my blow jobs," she said with a stern look stripped of any emotion.

"Believe me, I do," he said with a heavy sigh. He couldn't believe himself, never expected himself to pause a perfect blow. "But something feels off about you."

She failed. She failed at going with Lando's flow and ruined what was suppose to be a nice romantic holiday evening. Giving up, she threw herself on her back, lying 90 degrees next to him, eyes glued to the ceiling. If they hadn't been so comfortable with each other, she'd feel very small, lying there like that, him with his dick out and her topless.

Lando had hoped his intuition was wrong. But sadly, he recognized the signs correctly. Without knowing this emotion had pained her ever since the plane got delayed, he felt his own anxiety pile up. Only years of mental preparation for his overly demanding job had helped him to avoid jumping into conclusions too quickly. Even though, deep down, he was terrified that her sudden mood change was due to the fact she didn't love him anymore. It was always the first thing he thought about, no matter how much he tried to work on it. But - years of mental training - he was going to cash that in.

He watched her, hoping she'd look back at him. When she didn't, he reached his fingertips towards hers. Her own hand responded instantly and their fingers tangled together.

"What happened...Did I do something wrong?" he opened with, reaching for any clues.

She kept her stare up the ceiling and chuckled. How cute it was, finding him so unaware.

"No. Lando, you're amazing. Annoyingly so, lately."

He took that as an invitation and shifted his body over so that they shared the same angle and joined her at the "staring at the ceiling" activity.

"I hope that is not the problem - I have hard time not being like that," he joked, hoping it would diffuse the tension a bit. The Lando she met a year ago would probably run away in a situation like this. Or maybe even ignored the obvious distress of his sex partner and let he blow him to his release. But not the Lando of today.

Her lips curled into a small smile.

"Oh, if only all of us were like you," she couldn't help but comment sarcastically.

"You know that you're more than perfect to me, right?" There was no lightness to be detected in his tone. She shifted, a wave of uncomfortableness washing her over.

I may be, but not my family.

"Yes, but I need you to know...I need you to understand, that I truly love you and I am totally mesmerized by you. To me, you are perfect. Even when you irritate me to heavens," she admited, making sure to highlight the words of praise. Scared that if she didn't build enough foundation today, there will be nothing to stand on once the challenge comes tomorrow. She'd tried to warm him about the meeting, but it always seemed to go through his ears.

It was like she was speaking in riddles. "Why do you need me to understand that now?" he asked, eyes now fully glued at his girlfriend, searching for some clues.

She felt his eyes on her and out of nowhere felt very naked. "Because...." ...Words were hard.

"Go on, I'm not backing away from this," Lando insisted, trying to get them both on the same page.

A loud sigh. "We had such a great time with your family..."

It was like she was speaking in a language he was not yet fluent in. "Don't divert the conversation," he hissed, eyes on her like she was some sort of target.

"I'm not!" she gasped, almost offended.

Lando was still not following. "My family is basically in love with you, I have messages if you need proof."

"Yeah. And that's the problem," Y/N smirked bitterly.

He leaned closer to her. "I think we should look up a definition of the word problem..." he joked.

She was still burning holes in the ceiling with her look. "We missed the flight. It's another bullet to my mother’s gun." Stupid, stupid mistake.

"Who is she planning on shooting?" Lando asked softly.

"Us, I'm afraid." She finally met his look and the only emotion he was able to read in her eyes was concern.

If this relationship had taught Lando anything, it was that the hard way is sometimes the only way. So, he finally allowed himself to ask the one thing that had been on his mind for a while now. "Does she not like me?"

Deep down he was suspecting this might be one of the reasons why his girlfriend is acting sketchy. He just hoped it was something more trivial. "She's never met you," she whispered, as if she was defending him for something he hadn't yet committed. So far, there had been only one moment when her mom Facetimed her when he was right next to her. One greeting, awkward wave and a smile that was not reciprocated. He made up some excuse to leave them alone promptly after that, feeling like he was intruding on a private conversation.

"I wondered when you were going to tell me that," he remarked, ready to go full on. He was just now allowing the thought that his lover's parent might have been feeding her bitter doubts for some time now enter his brain.

The obvious change of Lando's expression made her stomach turn, kind of like drinking milk that's gone off does. But, they'd vowed to be fully honest with each other after their first big fight. Deep breath. "She um...It's not like you can say she is exactly on board with all of this,“ she gestured between them. 

And there it was. The confirmation he feared. He did his best to remain as calm as possible. "Don't worry, I figured, you sort of hinted at that few times before. And I'm planning on charming the hell out of her. After all, you do share genes. Some of my tricks gotta work on her." It was more of a plea, lacking his general playful confidence. When she studied his look, it reminded her of the times when he was hiding his real emotions in front of hungry reporters.

He told her once he wanted her to be blunt, rather than deceptive in difficult times. The words started to leave her mouth without much of a filter. "But, what if it does not work. She has this habit of making her mind up before I have any chance to affect it."

Somehow, the fact she voiced it, made it easier for him to react. "Honey, don't take this the wrong way. But, I only care about your opinion. It would be great to have your mom on our side...However, I'd like to believe it's not the base of our relationship."

"No, it's not," she said quickly, silently hoping it was going to be enough for them to survive this challenge.

"So, tell me. What does she think about me?" he asked, suddenly craving to know it all.

She bit her lip. "Lando, don't make me say things like that."

Wow. That bad. "I'm used to getting hate from thousands of people who don't know me. I can cope. The more specifics I know, the better I can prepare...Come on, spill it," he countered, trying to convince her that he can handle it. However, it wasn't like he himself was completely sure of that. Her face was expressionless and he nodded to confirm it nonverbally.

"She thinks you're reckless," she spoke slowly, skipping few heartbeats. She was used to being on the other side, praising Lando when he doubted himself. This place, where she found herself at, was not one she liked.

He analysed it for a moment. "Well, I do get into a car every week to purposefully drive it as fast as possible, so I can she from which angle she might be coming from. Nothing new."

"You're a party boy," she shot back faster than she could think.

And he shot right back at her. "You're a party girl, but I assume your mom has no idea, huh."

"No...," she admitted. For some reason, this calmed her down a bit. She finally took another breath.

"What else," Lando's stared at her, following his internal feeling they hadn't arrived to the end yet.

No point in holding back now, she figured. There was a weird ball of tension in her chest, almost asking daring her to push him to the limit. "She googled you. A lot. And she made sure to tell me names of all your model exes. Then proceeded to tell me I look nothing like that," Y/N deadpanned.

Lando knew this was probably the one thing that stung her the most. But, the thought of someone she held so dearly voicing it her was making him extremely angry. "That's just fucked up-"

She continued, before he had any chance to react more.

"And, she thinks you'll affect my school. That the lifestyle around you is shallow and only attracts bonehead people."

Now, this was finally getting to Lando. Of course, he could not let Y/N know that, not in this moment.

"Do you think that too?" he asked, because he craved to know the truth. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when the world around felt silent and his mind had time to roam freely, he found himself thinking about this. He never really studied and was never going to. His life was based on different approach. He loved it. But that didn't stop him from feeling a bit inferior from time to time.

He expected anything, but a laugh. For a moment he figured she was mocking him. Only once she reached to touch his face he realized just how still and stiff he became throuout out their conversation.

"I think it's shallow and bonehead to assume that. I've met some amazing people in your team, smart people who have dedicated their lives into the sport I'd grown to love while watching get so passionate about it."

There was an unspoken question hanging in the air. Lando dared not to say it outloud.

"And, no. I don't think you deserve to be called any of those words. Only when you're looking in the mirror, because that smug face deserves to be punched one day."

He chuckled. It would take him few moment to truly let her words sink in. "You didn't seem to think that one time in Abu Dhabi." That time when he fucked over a bathroom sink and made sure that she watched them the whole time. Lando watched with joy as her face started getting some color again. He couldn't fight his urge to get closer to his partner, break the tension even further. So, he rolled over to bury his nose in her neck. It was almost automatic at this point. None of his previous girlfriends were this understanding of his overly touchy needs. Words were important, but they grew more on meaning when he could feel her skin, explore her light shiver, watch how her body reacted. When he felt her pushing towards his touch, he swung his arm over her, with the notion of providing some heat to her naked chest.

A more comfortable silence fell upon the hotel room. Both of them lost in their own thoughts. Lando was taking in all of the newly found information. It was a heavy burden, not because of the substance, but because it was coming from someone Y/N held dearly. It was hard not to feel a little injustice of it all. But more than that, he was grateful that she was able to avoid internalizing all of that what was fed to her from her mom. He approached all of this as he would any strategy meeting before a difficult race. Find the strengths, capitalize on them and try to minimize the advantage "the opponent" might have. But truth be told, he'd rather not have to have this sort of competition.

"Thank you," he whispered into the crease of her neck. "Thank you for not giving into it all." He hoped, prayed, that was he as saying was true. It was not just about her mom. It was the press, some of the overbearing fans and anyone who dared to challenge them without having any real insight in their relationship. "I know it must be really hard and not exactly what you might have signed up for."

What did I sign up for? 

She reached over to embrace him, mindlessly drawing circles on his back. The pit inside her stomach was growing smaller. Without really intending to, signed up for a partnership, exciting love affair that got out of hand. Anyone who came before him was redundant. He outshined everyone. 

"I’m pretty sure I must have bribed faith in my past life to have you thrown in my life." 

"Aren’t you my little smart poetic girl," he murmured approvingly and started to cover her skin with kisses. Few moments flew by. "We could order some food, put on the show you like and drift away. How does that sound?" 

She understood his intention. It had been a long day and another one was coming. Her emotions were clashing from one end to another and as much as she tried to hide it all, Lando was proving to be hard to fool. And no - she did not want to chill in. Burning all of it out sounded more fun. To be held for a moment, stuck in the timelessness only lightheaded orgasm created. 

He was still trailing her neck with small pecks, arm locking her in. The untamed curls almost tickling like small feathers. Everything was heightened, as if his skin was loudly calling her in. His words of initiating a calm wind down not matching his action. 

"Please, no more of this PG fun. It’s been days."

He stopped all of his movements. "Well then, pray tell, what do you have on mind?"

The next words flew out of her mouth before she could filter them. "Are you in the mood to fuck me?"

"Am I in the mood to fuck you," he repeated, in his signature sarcasm dripping style. He was having trouble processing how his sexual partner could ever arrive to this question. Unsure whether to address her clumsy dirty talk first instead of the absurdity of the question, he arrived at a simple "Charming…".  Of course he was in the mood. Always, anytime and quite literally anywhere.

"Well it's just, it's been quite a tense talk..." she hinted back carefully. To her surprise, his face went into smirk mode. 

"I will ask you the same thing next time you're hyperventilating about school and you come in begging for stress release," he jested, once again making her eyebrows shooting up. 

"I am never begging," she defended, unwilling to give into his narrative. 

And then he shot back, with his signature you-don’t-have-any-chance-to-resist look. "I said what I said."

Blood ran boiling in her veins. If oil had been in such abundance as his audacity, the world would be able to run cars freely for centuries. "Tell me one example of me begging for sex with you."

Lando turned his head slowly. Oh. Oh, it was on.

Very quickly she realized her own mistake. She ran into that one like a fool. "No, Lando, don't-"

"You know, it has been indeed quite a long day, I think I'm gonna hop in the shower and get a healthy dose of beauty sleep," he declared dramatically, sat up and removed his t-shirt. She rolled her eyes as high as humanly possible. No way would follow through with this premise. "Fine, Lando. I’ll be here, munching on strawberries, naked and horny, all by myself," she tried to tease and leaned over to grab one of the bright red fruits from the trail. Eyes locked in with him as she shamelessly sucked on it. There was a glitch and a twinkle in his look. Almost got her thinking she had this one in the bag. He stepped closer, noses almost touching as he whispered: "Have fun, honey," gave her a little peck on the cheeks while having the nerve to grab her exposed breast. His tone was teasing, daring her to dare a little more. It was annoying in a typical Lando fashion.

"Lando, you gotta be kidding me right now," she sighed, impatience getting the better of her. 

"Few magic words and you get exactly what you want from your reckless racer fuck boy,“ he mocked everyone who ever doubted them. "Oh, sorry, forgot to add, very good at taking your edge off. Am I right?"

His presence was more intoxicating than usual. As if he radiated some hormones making her feral. All the complicated emotions leaving the conversation one by one. Nothing but the two of them left in the room. His hot breath on her cheek, fingers circling over her nipple and his body heat reminding her of each time she wrapped her arms around him as he pushed into her. 

"Yes, that you are," she responded mindlessly and searched for his lips with her own. He allowed her a small peck, like a chef would at a tasting menu. Enough to hook, but not enough to fill up. And with that thought in mind he broke their kiss. "Come on, say it. I want to hear it."

Few moments of silence, her breathing heavy and his almost undetectable. Two ego’s fighting a battle so pointless it was almost amusing. She couldn’t just give in like that, no matter how dizzy her head was getting. 

"Fine by me, honey. Your choice," he danced away, letting her hanging. There was something infuriating about how nonchalantly and elegantly he smiled, knowing well enough her was winning this battle. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes as to prevent herself from watching his tone back. 

This. This was her Lando. Always pushing her into a direction she had no idea she wanted or needed to go. Never the same thing twice, somehow, he always dug up something new. 

She sat on the bed, dumbfounded, playful anger replacing all the anxiety she had felt just moments ago. Was this his plan all along, or did he just have a natural talent at steering her mood into a place where she’d happily go and give into anything he’d suggest her to do?

He was grinning all the way coming to the shower. It was a statement, a game and something to ease the tension. Once the water started, he’d allowed himself do a light check-in with his own feelings. It wasn’t easy to hear all those things. In fact, some of them hit a little close to home. Lando made sure to separate what he had heard from Y/N as a person. She wasn’t the author of these thoughts. Someone else was. A person who he had not yet even met. There wasn’t a single cell in him that would doubt that everything she stared had been said by her mother at some point. 

He closed his eyes and aimed his face directly under the shower head. Images of him and Y/N all coupled up at his family house started to come in, like a set of developed photos. So natural, calming and most of all - honest. Comfort memories he knew he’d be reaching for once the new season and it’s challenges catch up, when the distance and loneliness hit. But at that moment, there she was, right next door and probably still a bit fired up by his uncharacteristic postponing of sex. His hand slid over to his crotch, squeezing himself casually and switching up the mental images to less family-friendly moments. He was sort of expecting her to come and join him in the shower. But no, of course not. Not when he set her up like that. They were all too similar for their own good.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, towel purposefully hanging dangerously low, he couldn’t stop himself from simpering. Once he got a look at her, sitting under the covers, phone in her hand and too stingy to pass him more than two looks. But, she did come for the second one and that betrayed her, aiming directly to where his tower barely covered his waist. 

To prove his point, he shuffled his wet hair, sudden movement making her glance once again. It felt really addictive to know he was the centre of her attention, despite how much she tried to hide it. 

Smugness and water dripping from him, he landed shamelessly on the bed, towel giving up on trying to participate. Her reaction was to frown, making her pet peeve of people getting into the bed wet known, once again. Something Lando became aware very early on. He used this information only when the situation required it. No words were said, as he leaned over her, making sure to leave some remaining water drops on her, and grabbed a moisturizer. 

Then he proceeded to slowly plump it and rub it on his body. The unreasonably loud sounds of him doing that were cutting the silence of the room like a knife. 

His partner sitting next to him hummed quietly. "Whatever this is, it’s not working."

He replied, elegant as ever. "I don’t know what you’re insinuating." He pretended to be as focused on his activity, the same way as he did when doing PR bullshit. "Ah, honey. Would you be so kind and help me reach to my back?" Lando asked overly nicely. Y/N watched him, almost admiring just how bad his acting skills were and how he proceeded with his act without any remorse. He was reaching over to his back, unable to do so, and making it look like the biggest tragedy human kind has ever experienced. And with puppy eyes, he decided to go for a low blow. 

"Please, baby," he said in a tone so insincere it wouldn’t fool a child. This was yet another provocation. 

"You know it irks me when you’re wet in the bed."

He let out a chuckle. She was so bad at keeping herself in check. It was adorable. She just sat there, pretending to be scrolling Instagram, little lines around her eyes forming from how tense her eyebrows frowned. "I do. And we seriously have to get your accidental innuendos under control. Can’t have you walking in public saying these things." He wiggled the moisturizer in front of her face. 

Finally, she snapped. "You are the most annoying and immature guy I’ve ever met. You’re impossible." Lando looked at her, like one would at an angry puppy that’s trying to jump a little too high. 

"One would almost say a miracle, huh."

Once again, he shook his bottle of moisturizer. Having had enough, she snatched it from his hands and put it back on the nightstand.  "It’s a miracle I haven’t killed you yet."

Without missing a beat, he shot back. "And how will we celebrate?"

She let out a sigh so loud the people in the next room must have heard it. Sitting there, not knowing what do with her hands anymore. He wished they were pulling his hair. 

"Are you seriously gonna make me say it."

He simply nodded, arching himself up. If her mind had been clouded before, it was now full on can't-see-further-than-my-nose type of situation.

He leaned over even closer, getting up all over in her personal space. As if that was even a thing anymore. 

Somehow, for some reason he would have yet unpack, his heart was beating like crazy. Say it. 

Accepting that he won what ever this was, she gulped and finally whispered. "Please."

He gave her a questioning look, as if he didn’t hear her. "Hm? Sorry?"

Still debating whether she should smack him or not, she repeated herself. "Please."

"What, do you want me to put the cream on you too? Hydration is important for the skin,“ he teased, enjoying himself immensely. 

"Lando."

"Y/N."

If he were to be completely honest, he was extremely proud of himself to withholding this long. Also, not sure how longer he could go on, given the fact his erection has entered the chat. 

To make it more complicated, she sat up and put her mouth almost onto his. He could smell her aroused energy. Almost taste her on his mouth. And that as even before she licked his lips lightly with her tongue.

"Say it," he mumbled, unable to make it not sound like a plea. 

It was different than what they’d usually do. Many couples dabbled in talking during sex, they never really did. Then something hit her. Like a secret wavelength he was sending her way. Maybe he needed her to talk today. So, finally, she broke in. 

"Lando, please, fuck me.“ 

All those times, he waited for the five red lights to go out only for him to smash the pedal, paid off. Like opening windows in a stale room, he let the fresh air in. Ripped the duvet covering her off, he grabbed her legs to pull her into a laying down position, not even giving her time to gasp. His moves were quick and oh-so-sure of himself. 

"Tell me what you need, love,“ he ordered, while he traced the line of her neck with his tongue. 

He wasn’t certain if she was finding the idea of talking as hot as he did. But he sure as hell hoped. It wasn’t like he needed any guidance at that point. Had every inch of her body mapped out already. But he longed to hear it from her mouth. Towering over her, he nibbled on her neck, one hand running through her hair and the other squeezing her hips, keeping her exactly where he wanted her. 

He noticed she stopped her breathing and locked him with her arms, holding on for dear life. 

"You, I need you, Lando,“ she let out, suddenly all uncertain and shy. It was the vulnerability in her tone that got him. He moved his lips a little lower, so that he could leave a mark on her collarbone, without fearing she’d regret it tomorrow. 

His body was moving on its own. Brushing on her upper thigh, opening her legs up and positioning himself between her. All the blood left his brain. 

"I want you to touch me. I want to walk with marks made from you in public, a secret only you will know.“ 

He was only now realizing how good of a fuel this was for him. Lightheaded, he folded her legs and pushed them to her stomach, making as small as possible. So that she would be completely in his control. 

To grand her wished, he left one mark just below he collarbone and moved to leave a second one on her breast. She let out a heavy breath. 

"Lando, please. I need you inside.“ 

He was almost getting too dizzy not to comply immediately. His erection throbbing into her leg. 

Then, out of nowhere, he flipped them both. 

"Get over me, baby,“ he hummed and positioned himself on his back. She gave him a questioning look and knelt above his dick. 

But he shook his head and grabbed her hips once again. "Up here.“ 

His hungry look must have encouraged her, so she moved until he stopped her, ending up directly above his mouth. "Sit down.“ 

His statement was followed by his strong hands literally pushing her down on his mouth. 

Eyes finally locked again, he smirked for the last time, before he buried his mouth in her. 

Lando wished he knew what he looked like from her perspective. Squished between her, licking and sucking, letting her move in the exact way how she wished. He felt her legs tense up with each move his tongue made. This all got even more intense when he squeezed her nipple between his fingers. 

He twirled his tongue through her folds, circled around the clit, which had her melt. 

"More,“ she demanded and positioned herself so that he could only access. 

Saliva and her juices were mixing in his mouth, the smell of her arousal hitting his nose and making him high. 

He upped his pace and went for the moves he already knew from the past would work. Watching her crumble, barely being able to keep herself up, to the point where she had to balance herself against the wall, was probably becoming his definition of heaven. His tongue moved in a fixed rhythm, exploring every possible place she had to offer. 

"Lando..." she moaned, completely lost due to the moves his tongue was making. 

He felt the urge to stop and take a breath, because judging by the slight movements of her thighs, she was getting close. 

And only moments later, her first release came. Wetter than ever, she held on dearly and with one high pitched sigh, she collapsed almost completely. He had to stop her from crushing his face. 

"Sorry," she let out mindlessly, unable to give him more reaction. 

Amused, he helped her back down and rolled her over on her back. 

Wasting no time, Lando pushed two fingers in her immediately, not giving her any time to calm down or rest. 

Wondering in which dimension he managed to send her off to, he watched, as she squeezed her eyes shut with every little twist her made. As her moans target to get intense again, he shut her off with a kiss. His tongue matching the movements of his fingers. He waited patiently, before he felt like she was getting lost in the same haze as bare minutes ago, only to remove his fingers and stop kissing her out of a sudden. 

Confusion and mild anger washed over her. 

"What-"

"I can’t hear you, baby," he teased and hovered his wet fingers above her mouth. "What was it that you wanted from me? Must have slipped my mind."

The look of pure desperation she gave him was the hottest shit he’d ever seen. 

"Lando…"

"Let’s made a deal, sunshine," he proclaimed and slowly shoved his wet fingers into her mouth. Like the good girl she was, she sucked on them without hesitation. „I’ll stop anything we’re doing, the moment you shut up. Ok?“

They were so close to each other with every possible body part. But it was not enough. It would never be enough. She nodded and he pulled his fingers out, slowly. 

"Deal, Norris."

A lightning shot through his body and nearly split him in half. She never used his last name before, ever. Why was that, out of all the things, doing it for him. She must have picked up on his momentary relapse and gained more confidence with that. "Stop fucking around, I want you inside. Now.“ 

He was already almost touching her entrance with his dick. Eye locked, he reached for her hand and intertwined their fingers. 

"Please,“ she said, loud and proud, making it sound like a demand.

When he finally pushed into her, it was like anything else stopped existing. He belonged there and nothing else mattered. 

"Oh my God, yes,“ she whined, keeping up at her promise. "This is the best shit ever.“ 

Lando’s autopilot kicked in as the last braincell was truly gone. He started to move in a steady beat, finding it incredibly hard to keep himself from literally pounding into her immediately. 

„Faster,“ she encouraged as she held his shoulder with her other hand, to help her find balance. 

Lando was lost, in the best way possible. In her body, in his mind, in the fact that having sex was something completely different when you absolutely adored the person you’d be lying on top of. The built up energy finally finding its release, after days of dancing around. With each thrust, he lost touch with reality more. Only pure pleasure and reminiscence of her voice finding their way in. 

"Oh, God, baby." "Yes." "I need you." "It’s only you." "Shit, you’re so good."

Lando figured a long time ago that, for the lack of better comparison, their bodies must have been made for each other. Different shapes fitting perfectly into each other. They shared their sense of rhythm. It was never too short or too long. She scratched the itch before he got the chance to mention he had one. Lando felt almost sad for anyone who did not get to experience that. 

Somehow, their sex got better every time. 

He missed when she came for the second time, as he was too lost in his own release. His thrusts got more uneven, his body completely arched and then finally - like the slap in the face, pure bliss washed over him. He felt it in what seemed like every muscle, every strain of hair and in every inch of his lower stomach, spreading like nice hot drink in the middle of winter. All was good. There were no problems, only good things. She was perfect. 

He had a hard time recalling what were the exact words they’d share right after he came. The haze started to clear few moments after, when he found himself next to her, puddle of his cum in the middle of her stomach, noses touching each other and light kisses being left like little presents. 

As the heavy breaths grew lighter, he returned back to Earth.

"All good, baby?“ he asked, the sweetness in his tone coming naturally. Searched for any sign of discomfort in her face. He had hoped that she got exactly the kind of release she deserved. 

And many signs pointed towards that. The smile of her disbelief, red flushed face, sensitive skin that reacted to each light touch as if it was a strong grip. 

"I, um. Yes. More than good. Thank you.“ Most people would barely understand with they way she mumbled.

He chuckled. "You don’t have to thank me, ever.“ 

"I was taught that after every please comes a thank you, so pick you battle. All or nothing," she shot back, teasing as ever.

He didn't have to think much before replying. "Well, all of that then.“ 

She nudged him with her nose. "You seemed to enjoy me begging. Though begging might be a strong word. I would never do that." 

Even though she said it in a light tone, he knew it was intended seriously. "Maybe I just really needed to hear it today. That you want me. Need me.“ 

"What I love about this all is that we need each other. Both for different reasons, but that just makes it work even more.“ 

There was comfort in her answer. A realization, an answer to a question they never asked before. 

"I’ll be there for you tomorrow. We’ll crush it, as a team.“

[miharuki]

𝖄𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖁𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖓 𝕻𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖃 𝕽𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗 (𝕱𝖊𝖒) 3

Offical theme nomura

A butler hurried through the vast mansion, carrying the morning’s correspondence for his masters. Arriving at the head of the household’s study, he stopped, straightened his attire, and composed himself professionally before knocking on the door.

“Come in,” came the voice of an older man from within. Entering as instructed, the butler held out the stack of letters that had arrived that morning. He stopped before the desk and lifted the pile. “Sir, your correspondence has arrived. However, there is one letter in particular that I believe may interest you.” The lord of the house took the pile of letters and leafed through them, reading the names of each sender, until he came upon a blue envelope with golden accents. His gaze dropped to the golden handwriting on it: Nomura L. Néantazur.

“Call (Mother’s Name) immediately,” he ordered. The butler bowed and left the study. “What could that demon possibly want this time?” he muttered under his breath.

“Why would he send us a letter like this?” asked the woman, standing beside her husband and fanning herself in distress.

“I don’t know,” he replied, disdain evident in his voice. “I’d bet it’s about that brat again.” The man sneered before taking a letter opener and carefully slicing open the cyan envelope. As he read the elegantly penned words, spelling out Nomura’s intent with the utmost formality, his wife couldn’t contain herself.

���He wants what?!” she shrieked, collapsing into the chair in front of her husband, hand on her forehead in despair.

“To think that little disgrace could catch his attention,” the man muttered, setting the letter down and glancing out the window at a small house hidden within the gardens, far from the main mansion.

“It wasn’t enough to keep her on our property? We had to apologize to the royal family, and now that wretched girl brings even more trouble upon us? How could I have given birth to someone like her?” The man stood, stepping over to his wife, who had her face in her hands, and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Calm down, dear; she’s not a problem to us… for now.”

Naturally, upon arriving home, her parents had been disappointed—if not more than that.

“So, what do we do now?” the woman asked, dramatically sobbing, while her husband smiled beside her.

“We’ll simply say that the letter never reached us. There’s no way we’re allying with that blue devil.”

“Yes, exactly. Well thought out.” They exchanged smiles, pleased with their scheme.

What they hadn’t anticipated, however, was that just a week later, an elegant carriage in dark tones with a blue gleam would arrive on their estate. The man who stepped out wore costly shoes and elegant attire, his guards surrounding him as he made his way to the door and knocked firmly. After a few seconds, the maid opened the door and, shocked by the visitor, dropped the feather duster she was holding.

With a sweet smile concealing something darker, he looked at her and said, “Will you allow us to enter and summon your masters?”

The maid quickly stepped aside, opening the door further, allowing the young man and his guards to enter. The butler, who had been watching from a distance, hurried over to join them.

“A-ah, my apologies! Please, follow me to the parlor.” The butler passed by the maid, tugging on her sleeve as he whispered urgently, “What are you waiting for? Go fetch them!”

The butler led the way to the sitting room, allowing the young man to take a seat before bowing. Soon, another maid appeared, pushing a cart and setting down a tray with a fine teapot and matching cups. She poured tea for the young man, who accepted it with a smile and took a sip.

The door opened shortly after, revealing the master and mistress of the house. The man’s expression initially showed shock before he cleared his throat and regained his composure. Behind him stood his wife, partially hiding her face behind her fan. They both took seats on the sofa opposite the visitor.

“Your Highness! To what do we owe this visit?”

“Well, it seems you haven’t received my letter, seeing as I received no response,” Nomura noted, setting his teacup on its saucer before looking up at them. The man exchanged a nervous glance with his wife before chuckling awkwardly.

“Yes, yes… no letter here. I mean, you know how postal services are these days, eh? Ha… ha…”

“Very well,” Nomura replied, his tone cool as he leaned back slightly. “I am here to propose a business arrangement. A mutually beneficial one for both of us.”

pt1. Pt2

"I'll possibly do Part 4:)

Should I make a smut? Or do you not like that? I think I might turn it into a series. But seriously, Nomura is officially a profile character now.

@aiimee9 @chlov @uhkaey @notleclerc @taylorazureeee @sassykitkat22 @zuumaa @mononlogue @party-9 @endaculi @heartless-tate @mel-vaz @poptrim @kitty-chan33 @surprisemodafakas @reni502 @slowlysweetnightmare @hotnbloodied @yandereoverlord @mel-star636 @aphrodit333 @hotvinimon  @cupidsgift @bien-bonjour14 @l0v3rrl @heraxochi @yamekocatt @lovorette @acenby-weirdo @kisalovesoobin @wutap @ron000 @lazydelusionsimp @kthehoeforfictionalmen @forbidden-sunlight @bubbles2416 @rosegracewood09 @b2mmyy

@julietdelamare @snowlotr @kitkatmochi @happydeertraveler @lem-hhn @crazytacokoala @mitzukichan18 @hey-im-bored504 @resident-cryptid @thefbiiswatching @beardedblizzardexpert @mymemd @smilefortae @emperatris-rinaka @sugarcookie11

@marise-eternal @smilefortae @happydeertraveler @keepghostly @lovelygenerousdream @illytian @beardedblizzardexpert @kpoplover2013 @aiimee9 @forbidden-sunlight @angelofdarkness2 @undecidingfate @queenmimis @princessloveweird @angstylittleb1tch @kyoko-neko @marvelsgirl4ever @kitty-chan33 @txtbeomi @reni502 @bookwormgamerweeb @hillaryary @lxvcia @sell-e @meowmeeps @rains-mae @dragongirl642 @baileebear  @bramblelux @acequeenbee @pixiu0 @defnotlucienvanserra @sirenetheblogger @mspurpl3 @00hellohello00 @husbadosandfics @mapleeereads @saniecho @chinxinsomnia @laskamilkney @astylos @astylos @any-n-everything @lukasrightthigh @kyokiveil @iamapotatoe @ayame0ice @kel142  @xu8hao @msluccapotato @whattheheii @noshitmyfriend

[pinspec]

i’ve absolutely loved the way vi’s appearance has been modified throughout this season.

in act 1, she retains her season 1 look, which could be seen as symbolic of an enduring self image of someone who must be unyielding and unchanging, i.e. someone who can protect zaun. this strength was borne of anger and grief surrounding the loss of her family, and her unchanged appearance makes clear that this vision of who vi believes herself to be still prevails. she becomes an enforcer after the attack on the memorial—not because she forsakes zaun, but because she believes she can’t protect anyone from jinx without the badge.

this is also the same hair she had when she first met and worked with caitlyn. we get the impression that she wants to be the same tough fighter who can keep them both afloat, but considering that vi seems most vulnerable in the presence of caitlyn—who causes her to suffer by persuading her to become an enforcer—we know this is futile. this theme is present during their first kiss, where vi almost buckles while caitlyn stands up straight.

then after caitlyn’s betrayal, a drastic change to her appearance occurs. she dyes her hair black and applies black eyeshadow, even black paint, to her face. she paints on a defensive facade to hide how vulnerable she is and her misery over making the wrong choice again and again and again. she tries to seem dangerous by making her rage visible but only ends up making her pain visible. hints of pink show through at the ends of her hair.

then jinx asks her to help her save vander, to overcome her lasting hatred for the hope of reuniting their family, and she actually does. she makes herself vulnerable again, and is rewarded by an unreal reconnection with jinx in the serene surroundings of viktor’s commune. she feels a flicker of hope that they might save their father. vi has the chance to forge a self-image that is not related to loss, and she seeks her younger self: the person who would put herself in harm’s way for her sister without a second thought.

then she bumps into caitlyn, who describes her as “an angry oil slick”. vi doesn’t respond with anger as she usually would—she just lets caitlyn see her. “don’t sugarcoat it, cupcake.” her dyed hair and shadowed eyes become a metamorphic signal. i believe caitlyn senses vi’s changing relationship with anger and is pushed to confront her own. she leaves her vendetta behind and defects.

in episode 8, vi’s hair is reverting back to pink and growing longer.

she goes to a locked up, grieving jinx and immediately opens her cage. vi’s transformation is almost complete; she has overcome the rage that made her reject powder all those years ago and replaced it with the desire to hold her sister even if her sister won’t hold her back.

succumbing to the loss of isha and vander, jinx traps vi in the cell and leaves, but it doesn’t matter. vi has become a force of love, not rage. caitlyn finds her, and reveals that she met vi halfway and allowed her to free jinx. caitlyn, too, has let go of her revenge motive. unlike vi, caitlyn’s appearance hasn’t changed, but she still expresses—through actions, not words—that she won’t let her anger control her any longer. she finally affirms her loyalty to vi. now on the same page, they kiss for a second time.

by the end of the finale, some remnants of vi’s transformation remain: her dark eyeshadow, her longer hair. she has come to terms with the things which she allowed to haunt her for a long time, but she must still learn what to do with her grief. she leans on caitlyn’s shoulder and accepts her support. interestingly, a physical change has at last found caitlyn, who wears an eye patch. after losing her mother at the start of the season she tried to remain unchanged and unwavering, but came to the realisation that her obsessive, grief-fuelled anger was obscuring her vision. her eye patch represents both an altered worldview and a newfound vulnerability; her skilled sharpshooting will definitely be impeded.

arcane teaches its characters that sometimes being vulnerable is not the same as being weak, and that attaining emotional clear-sightedness is a turning point on the path to self actualisation.

[pandorascripts]

Family Reunion

Uhm... hi... guys!!! Yes, I did go MIA for like a whole year, but I got better at writing and my gay ass got extreme motivation from Agatha and Rio soooo I'm here!!! Not sure if this is permanent, but I really wanted to write Agatha as a mother. Feel free to send in requests (platonic or romantic, either works), who knows if I'll get around to them, but they might motivate me!

Summary: Rio and Agatha begin to heal, too absorbed in familiarity to remember just how bad they were for one another. The Road decides to leap out of Rio's control, thrusting their young daughter away from the underworld and back into their lives.

summary shortened: you're pretty much Nick, except the road decides to throw you back onto the mortal plane for an unknown reason. warnings: some grief, mainly fluff, big smooch scene that we deserved, and me using my Spanish-II class for nefarious acts online (making rio and reader speak Spanish). relationships: Agario/plantonic!reader

all spelling errors are mine, and I apologize, but I'm too excited about writing again to care <3. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Agatha listens as the other coven members cheerily laugh about past experiences -- each letting the burning weight of the trials slip off their shoulders for a moment. The past centuries of her life have been held as a solo journey for Agatha, coven-less, loveless, family-less, and yet, analyzing the people around her, she can't help but wonder if that had been the wrong choice. How is it that these "failed" witches can form a coven far more accepting than the last one she was in? Agatha's not sure, but that spark of humanity she swore died when her coven betrayed her is fighting against the brutal self-taught lessons of apathy. She finds herself drawn into the conversation with a question directed at her. Far too surprised that she's been included, Agatha doesn't clock who it came from at all. Her weight shifts on the log beneath her, fingers anxiously spinning the flower Rio's been harboring since she darkened the road with her soul. Agatha risks a glance at her, then turns back to the coven. Her elbow buzzes with a reminder of a rather bland battle, the hard knitting tool piercing her skin replaying in her mind again. Rio seemingly knows where she's going with this when Agatha hikes up her shirt, lifting her elbow with a small smile.

"You ever heard of the Daughters of Liberty?" her hoarse voice rings out, a faintly muffled chuckle coming from the woman on her right. Agatha smiles at her for the first time in years.

The group enthusiastically shakes their heads, all curious about where Agatha is directing her story. Well aware, Agatha knows she needs to seemingly open up to these women and keep her animosity for them. Letting them in on her past isn't going to do that, so with a snap of her hand the shirt is back down to her wrist, cocky eyes darting around the circle. "Exactly."

Despite how chilling this should be, the group just smiles and laughs at Agatha's story. Agatha won't look into it because that off-putting "joke" just got her respect points with the coven she may or may not choose to betray. That's a win in her mind that is immediately taken away when her old counterpart speaks up.

"I have a scar."

Her tone is a little dry, her face so blank as usual. Naturally, the coven is a little uneasy at Rio's presence, all still deciding if she's trustworthy or not.

Agatha's jaw is sharply outlined as she glares. With a hard breath her nostrils are inflamed, knowing Rio's antics far too familiarly. "No, you don't."

Rio sends her a glare, as if to tell her to shut up. "Yes, I do."

Agatha knows she cannot interrupt again, the coven would be far too suspicious of just how well they know one another. Who Agatha falls in love with is her business -- her weakness is her business. With a taste of defeat that's absolutely disgusting, Agatha lets Rio speak.

"A long time ago, I loved somebody," she starts softly, if not a little too apathetic for a claim like that. The coven is immediately a little interested -- most thinking that Rio is quite the psychopath. Agatha knows they're wrong.

"I had to do something I didn't want to do, and it hurt them," with these words spilt out, Rio gets a little angry at the next part of her speech. Agatha knows what this is going to, her eyes shooting away to look at the stars instead of the stars in Rio's eyes. "But it was my job."

Agatha glares down at her purple pants, the fire a couple feet ahead casting them brighter than their original color. The avoidance is choking her out, but even when Rio speaks again, Agatha is too pained to look.

"She is my scar."

Rio looks over and up at Agatha, not caring that the coven has certainly understood the depth of the relationship between them. For a moment, weakness allows Agatha to breathe in deep, her head softly turning to glance at Rio. The moment the exchange is made, Agatha's body heating up with utter embarrassment, her head snaps. The crack of her knees is deafening, fingers flexing as she tries to loosen the hold on this flower. This damn flower -- why is it still in her hands? Agatha feels grossed out by the question, but more so by her internal response. Rio's face is still burned into her head, the parted lips, eyes open and unafraid of being known by the coven. Rio's look of pure, unaltered love that Agatha swore never truly existed between them.

"Well, I'm gonna take a walk," she snaps out, sending what's supposed to be a condescending smile to the group. Everyone sees through it, more so when Rio sighs annoyedly and rushes after.

Rio would be lying if she said she wasn't slightly pissed, the only thing easing that being the sway of Agatha's hips as she practically darts away from Rio's penetrating gaze. Her eyes remain narrow, watching Agatha fifteen feet up with no objective other than having her back again. Death is lonely, figuratively and literally. She's not found one person who's soul can ease her lack of besides Agatha. Years have blurred together, broken cries of rejection chipping away at the humanity Rio used to harbor, and everything over the millennia she's existed for has undeniably forced her to adept into stone cold apathy. Agatha healed that. During their fleeting time together, Death felt things other than her frozen over hell, she felt desired, understood, she felt human and she understood why humans hate dying so much. Agatha made Death feel like living. So yes, even after this time apart, she's angry that the one soul she refused to take could end up leaving her.

Agatha stops a couple feet ahead now, Rio's gaze running over her body to fully cement the fact that they're back together now, even if not emotionally. Testing waters which have laid still for so long, Rio's chipped nails faintly feel the back of Agatha's spine. When her fingers make contact again, she remembers every night they rested there too -- during walks along the Norwegian beaches despite how freezing it was, fooling around when Agatha was first dabbling in black magic, to nights when Agatha was falling asleep holding their kid and Rio asking hesitantly to take her instead. It's so much, Rio notes, and she understands that it must be for Agatha too because a sound so hauntingly familiar falls from her aching lips -- a moan rippling those waters untouched for years.

Silence is only exchanged after that, Agatha turning around to relent into Rio's care. Seeing her divine face this close again after so many years of punishment, is like allowing a sinner a breath of heaven for Agatha. Her nails rake along Rio's soft face as she soaks in this moment. Her bones are aching to crawl back into the grave she spent so long being comforted in, they're pleading Agatha to just allow them this reprieve, and so she grants it. Rio knows what's coming, her hands clinging onto Agatha as her face dives into her neck. Both their noses dip into the skin, smelling each other, holding each other, for the first time in years. That comforting smell of flowers, dewy earth, and the beguiling scent of death fills Agatha's nose, tears slipping down her face with familiarity.

Rio feels Agatha's hands gripping her head, her own chest stuttering as she struggles with the fleeting emotions entwined with humanity. It's so overwhelming and it's been so long since she's felt it again. Desperate to capture it, Rio grips Agatha's back, nails digging into her shirt as she feels her soul back where it belongs. Still, silence. There's nothing they need to say to her that isn't being felt -- love, security, a hint of forgiveness that Rio hopes won't be nipped in the bud.

Agatha pulls back, Rio tilting her head to analyze her features. When looking isn't enough, they both hold one another's faces, thumbs memorizing the skin along their paths. Rio can feel her eyelids droop, soulless brown eyes moving to the pair of lips in front of her. Agatha's filled with the same desire, darting forward before she can properly judge what's happening, nose bumping against Rio's. The latter pulls away, a soft hum leaving her lips.

"Agatha..."

There's a subtle nod from the addressed, eyes moving off from her mouth to Rio's eyes. It's there Agatha finds that she wasn't stopped out of hesitance or unwillingness, so she leans in again. Rio lets her, invites her when she tilts too.

Agatha hasn't felt a kiss like Rio's kisses in centuries. The moment she feels it again, she lets out a sweet moan. Rio notes how different it is from the ones she usually pulls out -- whether from pain or pleasure. Agatha's was slow and sweet, as if she had been longing for this all her life. It's comforting and full of love. Rio wants more -- she needs to know that this isn't one sided -- that Agatha has started to forgive her for a pain they share. Her hands move to support Agatha's jaw, pulling her into her furthermore as if she wants to swallow her with a kiss. Agatha's giving everything back, lips in tandem with Rio's as they refuse to part for anything.

They're like that for far too long, only stopping when Agatha rests her forehead against Rio's, trying to stifle her panting. Their eyes remain shut, soaking in the physical feel of being loved again.

"I can't -- I can't accept what happened, but -- but I want you to know, I know it hurt you too," Agatha softly speaks, the vulnerability something she rarely shows. It's been years and years of animosity because of their shared grief.

Rio's completely silent, her eyes opening to see the tears slipping down Agatha's cheeks. It takes her a moment of confusion before she realizes that she's crying too -- something that hasn't happened since she held that lifeless body in her heavy arms, crying as she pretended to be tucking her in her crib like she had so many times over the years. Rio's choked up as well, nodding her head as she desperately moves Agatha's hair behind her ears, needing to busy her hands with something.

"I --" Rio can't get anything out. Her thoughts are wilder than a tornado, each one fleeting and escaping her brain before they can be shoved out her mouth. For someone so witty, she can't speak. Rio nods again, lips pressed thin as she leans back in to feel Agatha's lips. There's no denial from Agatha, just like how there never was any all those centuries ago.

The next couple of minutes are spent exchanging sweet kisses, lips slowly and barely moving away just to reconnect seconds later. Rio's hand slips under Agatha's shirt, feeling the taut fabric against her hands when she pulls it out from the waistband of her purple pants. Malleable flesh against her fingertips makes Rio moan against Agatha, a small smirk on her lips when another moan follows -- but not from her. Rio's nails rake along Agatha's stomach, enjoying the feeling after being denied it for so long.

Lost in familiarity, they don't notice the tree cracking behind them -- not until it drops a couple feet out, a hoarse shriek coming from Agatha. Rio's back is turned to her now, hand on her waist as she keeps Agatha close. There's something under the rubble, her eyes thinning down as she glares at the rustling wood. Eventually, Rio steps away from Agatha and kicks over the wood, an unconscious face all too known in front of her. With a hard smack, Rio's knees are digging into the floor, hands grabbing out the sweet face she swore she wouldn't see ever again.

Agatha's stood behind, eyes slightly wide and confused before a soft, "hija" is echoed out in the cold air. Haunted, Agatha stumbles forward to drop down next to Rio, hands moving out to grab at your face. The moment she thinks she can, her hands shoot back and away, knees popping when she abruptly stands. In a hard panic and a heavy breath, her face is whipping around and looking around the road.

"Is this some sick trial?" she screeches out, her lungs aching as she sobs to whoever is controlling this.

Rio's still sitting, cradling your body as her hands touch your hair. The road bends to Rio's will -- after all, Rio only designed the road to bring her more souls -- but this isn't her. This is something else, something far more evil that's infiltrated her dimension. Rio doesn't understand how this is happening, who's behind it, or what the consequences are going to be, but she needs to just soak in this moment.

Rio hasn't seen your chest move in hundreds of years.

Shaky fingers press along your chest, feeling it rise against her hold, then fall, and repeat.

"Agatha," she calls out, turning her head to look at the panicked woman in front of her.

Bewildered and terrified, Agatha meets your sleeping face and freezes. There's a sick part of Agatha that reminds her she had forgotten certain aspects of your face, the guilt eating at her and choking her out. With a shake of her head, Agatha trips over herself as she tries to get away. The sobs are muffled by her vibrating hand, vision blinded by overwhelmed tears. There's too much happening for Agatha to even try regulating herself, so caught up in the face that has haunted her for centuries being thrusted against her in such a short time.

Rio gently picks up your body, head slack against her hard shoulder. The last time you were like this Rio was tightly holding you away from the Ferryman. Her hands rub your back, shifting to make adjustments for you. Centuries ago when you died, you were no more than six, now it seems as if something changed that -- you look like you're ten now. Rio doesn't understand how you managed to "age" if you hadn't had a beating heart in a long time, but she doesn't care.

"Agatha," she tries again, wanting her to see her daughter even if you'll get tugged back onto that old boat soon.

Whipping around, her hands still pressed against her mouth, she gently meets Rio half way. The tears won't stop, shock and disbelief on her aged face. "Oh God," she mumbles, hand slipping over to brush some brown hair away from your face.

You're still you, if not a little pale and older now, but Agatha can't register that. Her baby is back, in some sick way, her baby is back. Rio holds you tightly, feeling so confused as your body is warm against hers.

"What is this?" Agatha hoarsely questions, eyes darting away from yours to Rio's face.

"I don't know -- I didn't do it -- I swear," she sputters out, stopping only when Agatha presses her tear-soaked lips against Rio's own again.

"I know, I know."

Rio calms down at the belief, her arms heavy as Agatha starts to lift you into her own arms. There's a shift from you, Agatha's eyebrows pressing deeply together as she almost glares at you. Still convinced this isn't real, she's as stiff as a board against you. Up until you press into her shoulder, rubbing your nose twice before halting, Agatha doesn't believe it. That single act performed crushes her reluctance, heart stopping at feeling something you used to do all the time against her.

"Oh, baby," she cries out, nose pressed into the side of your hair as you stir. Rio watches with wide eyes, lips parted as she watches how easily Agatha slips back into her motherly tendencies.

Agatha cries until she can't anymore, eventually finding herself sitting down and just holding you against her. Of course, she doesn't want to wake you up but she also can't stop touching you. Desperately aching for the constant reminder that you're tangible -- that you're here -- Agatha's hands constantly touch your face, your waist, your hips -- gently running over your body as she shakes.

Rio sits down in front, hand resting just under your lower thigh, thumb rubbing against the side of your knee. With all this touch, you wake up slightly annoyed, pushing yourself farther into Agatha. Her tears only increase tenfold, fleeting attempts to stop it doing nothing.

"Momma, stop," you quietly whine as she plays with your messy hair, your nose crinkled up just like hers does. The similar aspect makes Agatha tear up, head nodding as she stills her hand on your waist.

"Sorry, baby."

Rio notes Agatha's cracking voice, and so do you. Tiredly, you look up at them both, confused as to why your parents had been crying.

"Why you guys crying?"

"Just really happy, honey," Agatha sniffles out, rubbing your face again. You don't fight against it, eyes darting down to look at Rio.

"Okay." Your soft tone makes Rio's lip tremble, her hand coming out to move some of your curly hair -- so alike to Agatha's -- out of your face. There's a small shake of your head as you adjust your big glasses -- the ones Rio always adored.

"I don't want you to cry, it makes me sad too," you softly admit, moving your face to rest alongside Agatha's sternum. Habits don't die, as proven when Agatha already moves to take off your glasses for you so they don't get bent by how you're laying. Rio acts on impulse too, taking the glasses from Agatha's hands and setting them on her shirt.

"Nosotras sabemos, hija," Rio speaks out, her eyes trained on your face. For a fleeting moment, Rio wonders if you've forgotten the language she taught you, her heart breaking in her chest before you respond with a nod. Agatha's a little behind before understanding what Rio means.

"We know," Agatha reiterates, letting you know that she understood the conversation and agrees.

"Where are we?" you ask, finally looking around to notice what's happening.

Rio can't think of anything to say, not until Agatha comes up with something. "Road trip, dear."

Trusting your mom, you just confusedly nod your head.

"¿Cuándo planeamos el viaje?" you ask out.

Agatha can't respond right away, but Rio does. "You were sleeping, Mama and I wanted to surprise you."

Turning her head to face the speaker, Agatha is a little confused at the question but goes with it. The answer isn't upsetting you, if not just making you a little confused, so she doesn't really care to figure out what was spoken.

"Can I sleep now?" you ask, yawning just after.

"Yeah, baby, of course."

Rio turns to look at Agatha's expression, her heart lurching at just how well motherhood suits her. Brown eyes watch Agatha's gentle hands -- hands that have slaughtered thousands -- sweetly caress your kind face. With a hum, you lean into your mama's hands, eyes shut as you try to sleep again. Agatha is completely lost in having you back, soothingly tracing along your face and down the slope of your nose, touching something she never thought she would again. Rio is too nervous to touch you again, the last time far too devastating for her liking.

As if a mind reader, Agatha brings up Rio's hand to your stomach, setting it there before looking back down at you.

Complete silence falls over you all, Rio's hand stiff before she hesitantly brings it to flatten against your stomach. Apathy is long gone from her usually conniving features, everything overtaken with terrified love. After a minute or two, Rio manages to calm down her anxiety and let her knuckles run against your shirt, remembering the nights when you'd both be sent into fits of giggles when she'd blow raspberries against your stomach. Much to Agatha's dismay, only because it'd rile you up before bedtime. Truth be told, Agatha let it happen a couple times, observing contently from the bedroom door before she'd break it up so you could sleep.  

You're knocked out again minutes later, a soft chuckle coming from Rio's lips. "God, she always was a hard sleeper."

Agatha silently nods, tears slipping down her face again. Rio brushes them away with her free hand, letting her knuckles trace against Agatha too.

"You know we don't have her back for long, right?" Rio asks quietly. In a hard, choked out response, Agatha nods her head. "I know, I know. I just need her for a bit longer."

Rio's lips are tugged taut before leaning into a frown, her forehead against Agatha's as they sit in silence together.

[yuriisclumsy]

hii! How are you darling :)

Can i request a crack/ funny and fluffy cale x pregnant reader ? Like she is a few months pregnant, so cale and the kids always lay with her and dont let her do much.

Ofc the others are overprotective of her, bc like shes clumsy😭 like always falling down the stairs, nose bleeds (me core) and she watched everyone panic while looking at them with a deadpanned look bc

1. Shes a baddie whos to hot to die

2.the baby is fine and alive

And cale is loosing his mind bc he cannot leave her alone for two mins bc she will somehow make even more trouble simply bc shes ✨just a girl ✨

Stay still, will you?

𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝:1,267

»»►This is a funny scenario. I like to think Cale is a super, over the top, overprotective, man. If you mess with those he cares about or loves, you’re about to find yourself in an interesting situation. 

»»►But when Cale finds out he’s going to be a papa, he goes wild. Forget accepting whatever mission the crown prince wants him to do, he needs to be right next to his wife–24/7. 

»»►And let’s be honest with ourselves, this man would literally take this chance to laze around even more. This is the life he wanted, no? 

»»►Oh, but his dear wife doesn’t like sitting still for more than a minute. This is torture for her—but can’t do anything about it because her husband and (adopted)kids want her to relax and take care of herself and the baby. 

»»►But, why? You may ask. That’s for the single fact that she is clumsy (hey just like me!). She crashes stuff, trips, falls, hurts herself—according to Cale and the others—she denies such accusations—and last but not least, she gets herself in trouble. 

»»►So, yeah. [Name] have no “stepping outside the state” privileges until after the baby is here physically. But [Name] is a tough cookie. She can handle herself when no-one is around. So—to everyone’s dismay—she goes outside one day. It’s just to stroll around and see what has progressed in Harris Village. 

»»►One thing to note: she didn’t tell a soul about her outing. 

»»►Now imagine Cale’s face when he comes back to see the staff panicking for the whereabouts of his wife. 

»»►Let's just say…it was chaotic that day. 

“Woah, that looks tasty...!” [Name] drooled at the sight. 

“Good morning, lady [Name]! What can I get you today?” The shop owner greeted [Name] with a smile. 

“Can I have this please?” [Name] pointed to one of the delicacies of the bakery. It was a croissant-looking-bread stuffed full of chocolate. 

The owner of the bakery gave her a bag filled with what she ordered. “Here you go! Please come back soon!” the owner waved goodbye. 

“I will!” She waved back at the owner. [Name] took one of the baked goods and began to eat it.  

“I wonder how everyone is doing at the state.” 

… 

“LADY [NAME]!” 

“M’lady! Where are you?!” 

“Does anyone remember the last place [Name] went to?!” 

“M’lady, please be okay!” 

Currently, everyone is in a frenzy. The lady of the house was nowhere to be found, and everyone and their mothers were running like headless chickens in search of her. And if they did not find her, their master was going to kill them! 

“What is with the commotion here?” a voice spoke from the entrance of the manor. 

Everything stopped. Slowly, the housekeepers and butlers turned their heads towards the voice. They knew this voice. Very well in fact. Although they grew to like it, right now, they wish they didn’t hear it. They prayed that it was a ghost. Dread overtook them as they saw the voice’s owner. 

Cale Henituse. Their young master. And the husband of the manor’s lady they were trying to find. 

“So? Is anyone going to tell me why you are all running like the world just ended?” Cale spoke. 

Who was mad enough to even dare to tell the young master that his wife magically disappeared? Not me. And not anyone in this room.  

Yet a brave soul stood up and spoke. May he rest in peace. 

“Ah…y-young mater Cale,” a young butler went forward and vowed, stammering in his word, “we..uh…. Can’t find lady [Name] anywhere...?” 

“...” 

“...” 

It was deafeningly silent. No one moved an inch, waiting—waiting for the order to execute them. They fully accepted their fate. 

“Well, what are you all just standing there for?” he spoke, breaking the iceberg. 

“Huh?” 

“Standing still isn't going to bring back [Name].” He stood there, staring at the crowd. 

He was right. 

They needed to get back to searching for Lady [Name]!  

A chorus of ‘yes, sir!’ was heard before a horde of housekeepers and butlers left in search of their Lady. 

“*sigh* Why are you like this [Name]...?” Cale whispered and looked up. He slowly walked to the exit of the manor heading to the town; the children followed after him–this included Choi Han. 

“Master Cale, where are you going?” Hans asked. 

“I’m going to the market area in the town,” he said, not bothering to look back. “Ron, make my bed as comfortable as you can make, will you?” 

“Yes, young master.” Ron responded. 

“Great.” 

… 

Lovely day for [Name] sitting in the shade of an umbrella and her delicious foods. Going from one shop to another, she had managed to gather a lot of food. She had gone overboard again, yes, but the baby she was carrying and her were happy. Who could ever disturb such happiness? 

“[Name].” A male voice called her name firmly from behind. 

Of course. The only person that could was her husband. [Name] knew he only meant good, but right now he had broken that tranquility. 

“Oh! Cale, love, darling, how are you...?” [Name] turned and looked at him nervously. The children had gathered around her–with Raon being invisible naturally. 

“[Name]...” Cale rubbed the temples of his face before sighing, “why are you out?” he asked sternly. 

“Well clearly, I was taking a walk. And I bought some snacks on the way.” She answered, petting both Hong and Raon while On made herself comfortable in her lap. 

“What–no. That’s not what I meant.” 

“You asked why I was out, and I told you why.” 

“You know exactly why I asked that.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” [Name] gave the children the treats she had bought earlier. 

“[Name], please. You know how dangerous it is for you to be here right now. You are due at any point now! And I just…agh..I just want you to stay safe.” He said in frustration. 

[Name] looked at him, feeling a bit guilty that he is like that. She had reached her ninth month a week ago, making this month the most crucial. She just didn’t want to stay locked up in her room all the time. It was something that did not sit right with her. 

“I’m sorry…” [Name] looked down in shame. 

“I…*sigh* You are going to be the death of me.” Cale came closer to her and placed his hands underneath her. 

“Hu-huh? Cale? What are you doing?” panicking a little before realizing he was going to carry her. 

“Carry you, obviously.” He scuffed. “We’re going back to the manor.” 

“Aww…can’t we go to another shop? It’ll be the last one, I promise!” Her begging went to deaf ears. He wasn’t letting her get away with it, so she started to wiggle her way out his arm. 

“Stay still, will you?” 

“Not until I get my last treat.” 

“*sight…* Fine. But you’ll have it after dinner. Dinner is going to be served soon.” Cale said while walking to the nearest candy shop. 

“Mmmm, I'm fine with that. Oh! Choi Han, hello. Sorry, I didn’t notice you there.” 

“It’s fine lady [Name].” Choi Han gave her a small nod. 

“Moooom…I want a treat too!” 

“I also want one!” 

“The great Roan Miru will get one too, right?” 

“Wait a second. Since when do they call you mom?” Cale asked in confusion. 

“Yes, yes. All of you will get one.” 

“Don’t ignore me.” 

Choi Han giggled as Cale continued to ask and get ignored by them. 

Fin 

𝚃𝚊𝚐𝚜: @lureslutes, @cruzerforce4256, @narcise63, @potterhead-whovian-117, @margieee194, @zenix108, @vimenorie, @lunavixia, @potterhead-whovian-117, @alithurism, @matchalyne, @minteaspoon, @dontknowhowtousethis, @valacz29, @rainalovesouya, @vimenorie, @lunavixia, @ru8yx. Re-blog or Comment if you want to get added into the Tag section for Lout of Count's Family updates. Back to Lout Of Count's Family Master-List

Master-List