#i don’t even like making gifs but this event just makes me do it 🥹

[chuluoyi]

heart’s pursuit 🏃🏻

[whateverisbeautiful]

♥️Reveling in Richonne - TOWL

#59: The Eternal Love (1.06)

What The Ones Who Live made clear is that even before this world belongs to those who can fight, it really belongs to the ones who love. The ones who don’t let this world permanently change or destroy their ability to love. And so of course that means this world belongs to Richonne. 😌👌🏽

And Rick and Michonne’s indestructible everlasting love is at the foundation of this finale’s explosive final act 💥❤️...

The events of the bridge in season 9 and the devastating aftermath that kept Rick and Michonne apart for years have now led them to know that there are ways in which they won’t always be the ones who live. But even though they won’t literally live forever, they know their love will. Their love is eternal. 🥹

Just when all seems lost, Richonne sees Beale step out of the tent and they make a run for it. Michonne tells Rick to pull the flag down over them as she douses them in liquid to fend off the effects of the explosion.

Pearl is in shock seeing Walker Beale and before she can fully process it, the bombs and gas explode, instantly killing all those CRM higher-ups…except Pearl somehow. 🤔 Now, outside of plot armor, I'm not exactly sure of a plausible explanation for how Thorne survived this with how close and unprotected she was. But we move. 🤷🏽‍♀️

gif cred: @nerd4music

The base is smothered in that chlorine gas and the CRM soldiers have turned into walkers. Rick and Michonne are okay as they stay under the flag and are covered by the water. Pearl shows up with a mask still on the prowl and Rick tells Michonne that he’ll rush Pearl for her gas mask while Michonne grabs the other one.

Michonne asks, “Why you?” And Rick replies, “You’ve got the sword. We go?” And Michonne assents, saying, “We go.” It's a small thing, but I like how this moment always reminds me of their Say Yes scene when Rick tells Michonne he gave her eight walkers to take out because she has the sword.

Next, Rick and Pearl get into a fight and Pearl yells that he destroyed their chance and "destroyed the whole world." Which Pearl, ma'am, that's a little much. The CRM is not the world. As Rick passionately said in ep 1, this isn’t everything.

Pearl and Rick continue to fight and neither are holding back. Pearl starts to get the upper hand but then she grabs Rick’s hair and you already know how Rick feels when someone tries to touch something that belongs to Michonne - so he has to yeet her.

gif cred: @nerd4music

When he tosses Pearl, he gets surrounded by CRM walkers. There’s something symbolic about Rick being surrounded by these masked CRM walkers. They’re like the embodiment of the dead soldier Rick lived a long time as and how the CRM was constantly trying to consume him. They tried to turn him into just another lifeless member of their force and now they try to turn him into another lifeless delt. 

Pearl looks like she’s trying to aim her gun at Rick but then she joins the long list of people who learn the golden rule - never come for Rick in front of Michonne. You’ll get handled everytime. 💯 So sure enough, Michonne approaches and takes a swing at Pearl with Beale's sword.

I gotta hand it to Lesley having to take on a role where you go toe to toe with both Rick and Michonne. Thorne had to go at two heavy hitters back to back. 😅

gif cred: ricksmarlene/nerd4music

Now, Pearl's fight with Michonne goes a lil different because she doesn’t ever get the upper hand in this one.

Pearl says, “You were the one he was always trying to get to. How did you get to him?” I like that she says, always trying to get to. She knows Rick was real relentless in his pursuits to get to Michonne. 👌🏽

And then one thing Michonne is never afraid to do is tell you about yourself so, knowing what she knows about Pearl from Rick, Michonne says, “I didn’t give up. I didn’t give me up like you did.”

According to Richonne, there is always time to throw a little shade. And as Pearl has tried them both, not even poisonous gas was gonna stop Michonne from letting Pearl know...

But also, I like Michonne noting how she didn’t give up and didn’t give herself up because Michonne knows if you lose yourself you lose your way. She knows it from personal experience, as we saw at the start of her TWD journey.

It makes sense that Michonne was the only character in TOWL who refused to give herself up. Her briefly having to be Dana was like a more external version of the way the CRM internally makes everyone feel like they have to trade who they are to be what the CRM expects them to be.

While Michonne tried to play along to honor Rick’s request for five seconds, she ultimately decided that this place does not get to change her because what they make you is a cog in their machine and so detached from who you are at your core. Again, when you give in to that you lose yourself and then you lose your way.

And considering Michonne's way is meant to lead her back to her babies she was never going to let them take her from her. Then once she found her husband, she was also never going to let them take Rick from her again either.

Even when Michonne left that apartment in ep 4, while I think she was always going to make a choice that led her back to her kids, I don’t think Michonne would be able to live with just knowing Rick was out there externally and mentally imprisoned. So I think at some point she’d absolutely try to save him again. She’d have to. Saving him is saving her, it’s saving their family and it’s always been made clear that Michonne will never give up on her family. 

gif cred: @nerd4music

Determined to find Rick yet again during this fight with Pearl, Michonne yells “Where is he?” a couple times until Pearl finally tells her to turn around.

(Side note: I always feel like this whole exchange between Pearl and Michonne would have been the perfect organic opportunity to have Michonne declare she’s Michonne Grimes. Like if Pearl asked who she really is, after having asked her a similar question in the arena in ep 3, and Michonne said her name is Michonne Grimes...that would have had me turning up, ijs 🤩) 

Rick is struggling as the pile of CRM walkers grows and nearly overtakes him. Pearl fires shots at the walker that Michonne ducks behind. And then the way Michonne rises up when Pearl's murder attempts against her don’t work...it’s giving baddest chick in the game. 💅🏽

And Pearl seems to be realizing she’s come face to face with the baddest as she gets more desperate and says, “You don’t understand. In a dead world, love is dead.” Michonne shakes her head and says, “Love doesn’t die. Watch.” And then she grabs Beale’s sword and plunges it into Pearl as Pearl gets to learn this Dana lady is real good with a sword. 😋

Again, it’s quite ironic for Pearl to die by Beale’s sword. The sword she swore on and the symbol of the CRM philosophy she so badly wanted to believe in ended up being her demise.

And Rick had it right - he and Michonne really are the sword that kills and gives life. So much so that both Rick and Michonne used this same sword to take out two opponents within a short time span of each other. A couple that slays together stays together, it’s just the truth. 😌

gif cred: @nerd4music

Michonne repeats, “Love doesn’t die” and again I'll admit I wasn't crazy about the dialogue throughout this fight scene. It was a bit heavy-handed and I felt the 'love doesn’t die' sentiment could have perhaps been expressed with more subtlety and subtext but again...we move. Plus, Danai’s such a gifted actress that she makes that line work more than it would in lesser hands. 👌🏽

'Love doesn’t die' is clearly said one; because it’s one of the main messages of the show and two; because they want you to worry for a second if those are famous last words based on what happens next.

Cuz then Rick is swarmed by walkers with seemingly no way out and he has to use a grenade which leads to Michonne just seeing a big explosion.

In a moment that parallels Say Yes, Michonne drops her sword when she thinks she’s seen Rick explode. The moment also parallels Rick's last full TWD episode, as now Michonne has to think she's seen Rick blow up for the second time after he seemingly 'exploded' on that bridge. You just know that tragic bridge memory popped into Michonne's head after hearing the grenade. 😞

gif cred: nerd4music/michonnegrimes

I was thoroughly convinced that they were not going to have either Rick or Michonne die in a show called The Ones Who Live so I was positive Rick survived this explosion. Even tho, for just a split second there I did have to acknowledge this is the final episode and it’s a finale where Rick and Michonne aren’t as untouchable as previous finales so...maybe…but fortunately, the universe loves them some Richonne so Rick survives by covering himself in walker bodies. 

gif cred: @nerd4music

When Rick emerges, he immediately goes to Michonne and she runs to him and they embrace which is heartfelt. Especially because the last time something like this happened and it seemed Rick had blown up, they weren't able to run into each other's arms afterward and instead had to go years without seeing each other again. So you know it means a lot to them to be able to hold each other right now like they so longed to do that day on the bridge.

gif cred: @nerd4music

It's sweet that even amid these circumstances, Rick and Michonne still seek this moment of connection to let each other know they're glad they're okay. And there's big Say Yes vibes with this hug being similar to how they ran into each other's arms and embraced in 7.12, so you know I’m here for it. 🥰

As they make their way out, they stand over a wheezing Pearl and she expresses that she’s come to see that Okafor was right, but she adds, “You just have to hope Beale was wrong.” And then Pearl hands Rick the mask and it’s sorta like a final peace offering between them.

Rick silently takes the mask and then he and Michonne fight their way through walkers and make it to some upper ground. Again, the walkers have some practical use as Michonne uses them as a stepping stool. And it’s sweet seeing Rick urgently pull walkers away who are trying to grab at Michonne. 😊

gif cred: @coolpartytimefan

Rick gets one more signature him-against-the-horde moment as he shoots a bunch of walkers. It made me think about the many iconic Rick vs Everybody moments he's had over the years in TWD.

And, being the resilient man he is, of course, Rick Grimes is the one still standing after all those fights and faceoffs.

So then Rick makes it to the top of the platform as Michonne helps. Once they're finally out of the swarm, Rick and Michonne remove their masks and have a moment as they look at each other and look around at their plan being a success.

I love the little moment of Rick putting his arm around her and then Michonne putting her arm around him. 🥰That’s another thing about Richonne - they’re gonna make any moment a coupley moment. 👌🏽

gif cred: @taiturner

So as they zoom out and we get a shot reminiscent of the end of the TWD pilot ep, I love how in contrast to the pilot - Rick isn’t alone this time. 🥹 He found his other half in this crazy apocalypse and Michonne is by his side through it all. Including taking down the most powerful people in the most powerful military.

gif cred: @ricksmarlene

After looking around, Michonne and Rick start to hop from platform to platform to get up out of there. They did it, y’all. Mission accomplished. 🥳 As always, our beloved Richonne proved that they are...

And now, at long last it was finally time for Richonne to complete their ultimate mission and go home. 😭

And home isn’t just a place. For Rick and Michonne, most of all, home is their children. 👌🏽🥲

[buckybabieboy]

Heyy! I was reading you work, which I love btw, and I wanted to request a one-shot or blurb for little!bucky accidentally getting drunk, like how would he act, what would he say. I feel like he’d be super clingy and needy. With cg!mommy!reader please 🥹 Love you writing <333

Lol this is gonna be the cutest thing ever😭. Thanks for the request Babie!

Tipsy Baby.

☁️ Summary: Bucky has way too much to drink at Natasha’s party, leaving you to take care of your little boy.

⚠️TW(READ.): sub!touch-starved bucky, dom!fem!reader, Bucky is so touch starved😭, reader is able to carry bucky, lactation kink cuz I felt like it, mentions of alcohol, Bucky can get drunk if he drinks an abundance.

📝A/N(PLEASE READ): DO NOT READ IF YOU DONT LIKE. ITS THAT SIMPLE. DON’T REPORT MY WORK JUST BC YOU DONT LIKE IT. Anyways, pls enjoy this lil blurb! drunk Bucky is just the cutest 🥰. and your right, bucky is VERY clingy AND FUCKING TOUCH STARVEDDDD when he’s drunk.

“Mommyyyy!” Bucky slurs out as he dramatically falls in front of you on the compound’s floor.

“Mommy pay ‘tenttion to me!”

You peer over your phone and watch as your baby heaves and pants on the ground, his beautiful pale skin flushed with pinkish-reddish tones, and his big puppy dog eyes red and puffed.

“Baby, are you drunk?” You question him, though you already know the answer. He only whines and thrashes his limbs around in a hissy fit, not using his words.

“W-why are you so faaarrr?” He wails petulantly, completely ignoring your question.

“M’ not far, sweetheart, ‘m right in front of you.”

An empty bottle of Tiger Beer has accompanied him on the ground, clutched inside his sweaty palms.

“Gimme that!” You sigh before getting off of your comfy spot on the couch and snatching the bottle out of his hands. He whines even more.

“Who let you have this?”

Bucky pouts and mutters something, but it’s almost impossible to hear with the music and noise that flood throughout the compound.

“Can’t hear you bud, you’re gonna have to speak up f’me, okay?”

“T-tasha…” He hiccups. “N-Natasha lemme have some, mommy…”

Another exasperated sigh escapes from you as you begin to regret supporting Bucky’s idea to come to Natasha’s party. It didn’t really surprise you though, since he was always a party guy when he was younger. You rarely ever drank, especially when you were going to an event. You opted out of that a long time when the both of you got drunk, which you both know didn’t end well.

Natasha had invited everyone to her floor for a party. You weren’t too fond of the idea when you heard there was going to be alcohol, but Bucky was very excited and begged you to go. He assured you that Steve and Sam would be there to watch him.

So eventually you gave in, but not before making him promise that he wouldn’t drink.

When you arrived at the party, Bucky was acting more than normal. He immediately started chatting and playing party games with Wanda and Vision. He even played Twister with them, which you knew was a surprise to everyone. Despite the fact that loud noises triggered him, he seemed to be having a good time. Needless to say, you felt comfortable with letting him go off on his own for awhile.

Scanning the room, you spot Natasha by the fridge, a Tiger Beer in hand. The trash can next to her was filled with empty bottles of that stuff, and you knew they had to be Bucky’s. He couldn’t get drunk easily so it would take a copious amount of alcohol to get him drunk.

The blame wasn’t all on Natasha, though. Wanda, Vision, Steve, Natasha, and Sam all were made aware of Bucky and his little space—you’ve told them a numerous amount of times for his safety. So Natasha could’ve given him a bottle, but Bucky must’ve gotten his hands on this much alcohol all by himself.

You’d have to talk to them about that another day though, because right now, your little boy was cemented on the cold floor, spacey and dazed below you.

“S-so pretty. Mommy so pretty!” Bucky giggles, his head cocked to the side in awe as he gazes up at you. He wasn’t thinking about anything else. He literally couldn’t. His little brain couldn’t process anything while in little space, so him being drunk definitely amplified it X10.

“C’mon, baby boy. Let’s get you taken care of.”

You offer your hand to him. He doesn’t budge though, instead he whines, and mutters more incoherent sentences. This wasn’t the first time Bucky lost all of his words. When he was little, most of the time he would gesticulate instead of speaking up.

“Hmm…” You tap your index finger on your chin, prenteding to brainstorm. “Oh! I know what you want! You want uppies!”

Bucky nods and squeals, making grabby hands up at you. You place your hands under his arms, pick him up, and set him on your hip. A precious little noise escapes from him as he wraps his legs around your waist, his arms around your neck, and leans into your touch. The smell of your hair seemed to be the only thing he was able to process.

Once you make it to your floor, you set him down on the bed. He whines once again when you leave and you quickly shush him, reassuring him that you’re just getting his pj’s out for bed. Bucky stands up to take off his pants but stumbles and trips, landing face down on the floor.

“Hnnngh..” He whines, starting to pick up his thrashing and wailing from earlier.

“Hush, my little boy, let Mommy take care of you.”

“M’ dizzy…” He fusses. “Everything’s spinning…”

“I know baby, I know. Let’s get you in your PJ’s, okay?” You hush him a little bit before helping him off the ground and settting him back on the bed. It was a struggle, but you got his pants and shirt off. Now the task was to replace them with his nighttime ones. You take one leg of the pants, grab his leg, and slide it in.

“Good job, Jamie! Now your right leg!” You praise your little boy. He giggles when his pants are all the way on, and doesn’t even fuss when you put his shirt on for him.

“Perfect… now let Mommy get changed and then we can go sleepies, okay?”

He fussed, but you got changed in no time, and his fussing quickly became coos of happiness once you cradled him in your arms.

“My little baby.” You fawn. “Your mommy’s boy aren’t you?”

Bucky’s eyes flutter, as he tries to stay awake. His baby blues are glossy and clouded from the substance earlier.

“Mmm… uh-huh! M’mommy’s boy! Mommy’s goodest boy!”

“Yeah, except for earlier. What did I tell you about drinking that much alcohol? You know your little mind can’t take it.” You scold, and he pouts up at you.

“Sammy was watchin’ me! But then he drank some too, ‘n we-” His hiccups interrupts him.

“W-we made a stupid bet. Who could drink the mostest, ‘n I won.” He giggles at that last part, obviously proud of himself for beating Sam at literally anything.

You were about to respond when you noticed his eyes flutter. His metal fingers tug on your tank top—you already know what that means by now.

“Awh my baby’s hungry! You hungry, sweetheart?” You coo at him in the softest tone possible. He does nothing but nod, his words are becoming little to none—indicating that he was deep in.

“Go ahead, Jamie. You can have some, mommy doesn’t mind.”

You help him out a bit by tugging down the top yourself, your leaking tits out for Bucky to suckle on. He wastes no time, immediately latching his pink lips on your right nipple. His suckles were harsh and rapid. All he wanted right now was to taste your sweet nectar. A few strokes to the scalp and he’s almost out—his stamina completely gone from earlier.

You praise your little baby. Whispering to him all of the things he loved to hear. Calling him all of the names he loved to be called while in his little space.

The meekest whines and whimpers come from him as he suckled more frantically. As time went on he became frustrated—frustrated at the fact that he was too exhausted to keep going.

“Shh, it’s okay. I know… your so exhausted, hm? So exhausted from having so much fun earlier?”

You stroke his scalp with your fingers, keeping the movements slight and slow for him. Bucky could never describe it, but there was always a certain tactic, or pattern in which you’d scratch his scalp that made him feel so innocent. So vulnerable.

You know this, You know what touching Bucky’s hair does to him, what it does to him when he’s completely reliant and under your control.

“I’ve got you, Bucky Bear. Hush now.”

Bucky eventually quiets down, and so do his suckles on your nipple. He lets your nipple fall free from his mouth, some milk dripping down his parted lips. You wipe it off gently.

“Mommy m-mines?” He whimpers. “All mines?” He nuzzles himself into your chest, the warmth of your body and vibration of your voice as you cooed to him always calms him down.

“All yours, honey.”

[wildestdreamsblog]

I reaaaally love your blog and writing. You deserve all the followers and attention!! Yandere is so difficult to make accessible because it has so much potential to be negatively triggering instead of….like….arousing…ly? The whole fear to….haappy chemicals…I don’t know the science 🥹 but you do it perfectly.I am always amazed and in love with what you write❤️❤️❤️

For your follower event, if you arent too full alreadddy. Thinking “You were only supposed to be a temporary psychologist where a member was confined “ with Hoseok or Seokjin?

I had a dream like that recently and I can’t get it out. I would love to see your rendition 🙏

Happy Easter, I hope you enjoy the chocolates and bunnies ❤️

My Sunshine

Pairing: Patient!Jung Hoseok x Psychologist!Reader

Warnings: Soft Yandere, Obsessiveness, Possessiveness, Manipulative behavior, Violence, Slight sexual themes, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

A/N: ahhhhh yes, our love for twisted love! Tysm for loving my works! Belated Happy Easter hehe this was late but tysm for celebrating with me.

3000 celebration

He kept on smiling.

Had you met him under differences circumstances, you were certain that the thought of him being a danger to the society wouldn’t cross your mind. You were sure that under different circumstances, you and him would be friends. He had that specific aura in him, as though he was the sun that brought light to the world. He looked as though anyone could mess up and he wouldn’t have it in him to be angry. Not only did he look kind, but he was one of the most good looking men you had ever laid eyes on. His prominent jaw and his heart-shaped lips were only some of the attributes that stood out. His eyes were crinkling as he continued smiling at you.

Jung Hoseok looked like the kindest person you would ever meet.

Except that he did send twelve people to the hospital. The worst part of it all was that he was seen to be laughing as he beat up the men. He was said to be having the time of his life as he bathe on their blood.

He was happy.

Just like now.

You cleared your throat and crossed your legs, your notepad resting on your thighs as you tried to calm your nerves. Hoesok looked like he was not affected by any of this, as though he was not mandated by court to be evaluated psychologically. He was too calm as though he wasn’t currently confined in a mental institution because, and he quoted, he was a menace to the society.

Yet there he was, sitting on the couch in front of you with his hands resting on his lap- an image of a good, patient student.

“You look nervous, Doctor. Please, don’t be,” he broke the silence with his comforting voice, his eyes shining with genuine worry over your state. “I don’t bite.”

Oh, but he did bite that one guy. But not you, though. He decided you looked like a good person. The psychologist that came before you was on mental health leave. He stated that Hoseok’s case was stressing him out, that he was beyond saving and so they temporarily sent the new doctor in. For the life of him, he didn’t know why he was the cause of that doctor’s stress when all he did was smile at him.

Maybe he should stop smiling? Ahh, but he was just so happy, he thought.

“How are you, Hoseok?” You finally asked, looking up from his files to the man himself who was still…smiling so unnervingly.

He tilted his head in what someone could described as adorable. “The food is bland, doc. I think I’m losing weight since they sent me here two months ago,” he replied with a shudder, remembering the tasteless meals they made him eat. He even volunteered to replace the cook and they only looked at him with fear in their eyes. He was being serious, though.

You stood up without a second thought, going straight to your bag to grab your packed lunch. You were walking to him when you paused, suddenly thinking of the warnings they told you.

Don’t get too close, they said.

Don’t get fooled by his innocent face, they said.

He’s dangerous, they said.

He’s obsessive, they said.

In hindsight though, you should have listened to them. But then you kept on walking and placed your food container on the coffee table in front of him. He was watching you curiously, that smile was still ever so present on his face. He watched you hesitate before looking at him, your hand holding your own utensils.

“I won’t hurt you,” Hoseok claimed with a nod. He knew you what you were thinking. He wasn’t a bad man, he would never hurt you.

You blinked owlishly when he caught on what you were thinking before slowly placing the utensils in his large hand. “I’m choosing to trust you, Hoseok.”

A bad decision, really.

That day, he finished the food for the first time since he was institutionalized. You were good at cooking, and he found himself looking forward to his visits. He found himself hating when the clock strikes one hour. He hated when he had to leave.

The first few visits, he would only smile at you and would evade your questions with his silence. And so, you started talking about your day, your family, your work- anything to fill the silence for an hour. Jung Hoseok merely listened. You did it for another two visits until he started chiming in, asking you follow-up questions with such genuine curiosity. It was during the fifth visit when he started sharing about his childhood, about how he had a loving mom and a younger sister…about how they both perished because of some stupid break-in that happened when he wasn’t there to protect them.

He was sixteen.

You told him it wasn’t his fault, that he had no control over what happened before. You told him that he shouldn’t blame himself.

He grinned at you and told you that yes, he didn’t have control before. But now, he had all the control and power. “I wouldn’t let anything bad happen to my family again.”

You frowned at his words before looking down at the file you had already gone through several times. Did you miss the information about his family? You were certain he had none. He was said to be merely existing with no known ties. Or had all of you been fooled?

“You’re cute when you’re confused,” he observed as he leaned in, his chin resting delicately on his hand. “Your face is so expressive. You’re like a…sunshine.”

Your eyes widened from his unexpected compliment, and you couldn’t help but feel you cheeks warming up. “And I like how sunshine makes me feel,” he trailed off before smiling even brighter at you.

Brushing off the confusing feelings he evoked from you, you looked at the peculiar man, in front of you before straightening your back. “It says on the file that you no longer have living relatives.”

“I’m referring to the future family I’ll surely have, sunshine,” he divulged dreamily as though having a family of his own was promised to him.

That day was the first time you saw the swirling darkness and insanity in his eyes.

You didn’t look up when he entered the room for his visit this time, your eyes focused on your laptop to keep your emotion in check. You heard the nurse removing his straight jacket before leaving the room.

Hoseok observed you from the distance he hated, your head bowed on the device when he heard it. You sniffed, your eyes looked swollen.

Were you crying?

Hoseok felt his hand turned into a fist, his smile faltering slightly. He badly wanted to come to you if not for the device enclasping his ankle. He detested that thing- how it could control him, how it could stop him from going to you.

Additionally, he wondered why he cared…or why he didn’t care that he was falling for you.

“Who do I have to hurt, sunshine?” He inquired with a reassuring smile that did anything but reassured you. You haltered your movement before slowly sitting down in front or him.

“I didn’t bring you food today. I’m sorry-“

He waved his hand at you, his focus not on the delicious meals you always brought him. His main focus was on who he had to hurt for hurting you. “Why are you crying, sunshine?”

You swallowed the rising tightness in your throat, tears desperately wanting to fall. “I’m not-“

“Tsk. We don’t lie here, sunshine. You made me promise not to lie to you. Shouldn’t you, too?”

“I just-“ you took a deep breath to calm yourself before looking at anywhere but him. “I just had an awful week, Hoseok. It’s just a lot. My other clients aren’t exactly as…kind as you are. I have a lot of responsibilities on top of my grandmother’s hospital bills-“ you cut yourself off before you could even rant longer. You dared to raise your eyes to his, only to find him listening intently. The twisted gears in his mind turning as he processed what you were saying. “I-I’m sorry. You’re my patient. I shouldn’t have-“ you trailed off before clearing your throat. “That was unprofessional of me. You have your own problems and you didn’t need to hear mine.”

He regarded you for a moment with silence that wasn’t welcomed, a tad bit too long before he beamed at you once again. “Would you like to hear about my past, sunshine?”

“Of course,” you answered, hiding your excitement. You barely scratched the surface with him, only letting you know what he wanted you to know. And besides, his old psychiatrist would come back soon. After all, his court hearing was fast approaching.

He smiled eagerly at you before tapping the space next to him. He saw you hesitated. Hoseok hated that. Oh what he would give to see you come willingly to him, he thought. Ah, it would come. He was sure.

“It’s a secret, sunshine,” he added as though it would convinced you. “You need to come near me so I can whisper it to you,” he reasoned out with a pout, his eyes twinkling with mischief. You were safe with him. He promised himself never to hurt you when he accepted that he was falling for you. He watched you with enthusiasm and when you finally sat next to him, he felt the happiest. He turned to you before thoughtlessly holding your soft hand in his larger one. Your heart beat faster. You never expected his hand to be warm and strong. He was confusing you. Jung Hoseok was messing with your emotions. They did warn you, but you had always been a stubborn girl since you were young. You were about to pull it away from him when he spoke.

“My father was the leader of an…organization,” he began, his eyes focused on the way your hand was smaller than his. He loved how the size difference made him feel. He loved… “It was his enemies who murdered my family.”

You stopped pulling your hand away from him. He was finally sharing. He was finally letting you in his dark and bloody past. “Where is your father, Hoseok?”

He chuckled as if you asked him a funny question. He was now nuzzling your hand, rubbing it so gently against his cheek.

You didn’t have to know who was his first kill.

You didn’t have to know it was his own flesh and blood.

“He’s dead, sunshine. Not that I care,” he mused before planting small kisses on the back your hand, his hold tightening when he felt you about to pull away. “He was an abusive person who hurt my mother. That’s not love, right?” He asked you before turning his head to you. He was close…so close that you could clearly see the color of his eyes, could clearly count the little freckles on his face. He was so close that you could feel the heat coming from him.

Hoseok smiled at you before lifting his hand and caressing your cheek with the back of his hand. He was watching his hand touched your skin as though he was enchanted by it. He smiled, still smiling when the conversation was as heavy as this way. “You don’t hurt the people you love. Because if you did, that’s simply not love.”

You went home that day with your thoughts scrambled by what he revealed. You weren’t aware that he was that powerful, that his family was one of the richest and most powerful family in the country. You weren’t aware of how dangerous he really was.

But you were now as you looked at the email from the hospital stating that your bill and any succeeding treatments were all taken care of by none other than the Jung Group of Companies.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said for the fifth time today, your patience running thin from how stubborn he was. You were sitting in front of him despite his insistence that you sat next to him. He missed you. Thrice a week visitation was starting to not be enough for him. He worried for you constantly.

Did you eat?

Did you come home safe?

Did any other fuckers looked at you?

Did they?

Did they try to get your attention?

Did someone try to touch you?

Did they?

See, he worried. And it was for that reason that he had someone following you for your protection, and well…his sanity.

“Come sit with me, my sunshine,” he smiled at you as he patted not the sit beside him, but his lap this time. Your eyes widened at what he wanted. You weren’t a fool, you noticed him becoming touchy with you. You noticed him starting to be possessive of you. You were shaking your head before walking further away from him.

He hated seeing you walked away from him. He tilted his head to the side before giving you what he knew you couldn’t resist. “My sunshine,” he called you in a sing-song voice, smiling so sweetly at you it made you sick. “If you come to me now, I’ll tell you about why I beat those boys. And wouldn’t that make your job easier?”

He could see the fight in your eyes, could see you wondering whether you should trust him. In his opinion, you should trust him. He only wanted what was best for you, and well…he was the best for you. He watched you make your decision, and at the end, your sense of self-preservation lost the fight. He was triumphant as he held you in his arms, his hand caressing your waist.

God, he loved you.

“You see…those men,” he whispered from behind you, his lips touching your neck as he spoke and you couldn’t help but feel goosebumps from the way he touched you. “They were the one who murdered my family.

You stiffened from what he said…and from his lips that were peppering open-mouthed kisses on your neck. His hold on you was tight, his other hand caressing your smooth thigh. “And if you do a bad thing, shouldn’t there be consequences? You know…I waited too long for justice to come. I was patient, until I wasn’t. They weren’t atoning for their sins, sunshine. They keep on hurting innocent people. And I stopped them,” he whispered hotly in your ear, his finger so close to your core. Fuck, were you just as twisted as he was? How could you be attracted to him? To this?

Your core clenched when he traced your slit on top of your underwear. He chuckled when he felt how wet you were. He couldn’t wait to marry you. He couldn’t wait for the beautiful family that the two of you would create.

“That way, they could no longer hurt anyone. Am I not the good guy here?”

You could see it clearly now. Jung Hoseok had a distorted concept on what was right and wrong. He saw everything as black and white, his foundation was that he was good to those who were kind, yet he was even worse to those who were bad.

He enjoyed delivering his twisted justice.

“And if I’m the good guy, don’t I deserve the happily, ever after?” He whispered. You turned to look at him, his pupils blown wide evidencing his lust. He smiled at you before leaning in and kissing you so softly you thought it was your imagination. “I think I do, my sunshine. I think I deserve you.”

A knock woke you up from the twisted and hypnotic words from Hoseok. Your hour was done. You stood up hastily, fixing your skirt and blouse before facing him. Fuck, what had you done?

“I-I think…I think you need another doctor. This is our last meeting,” you stammered at the calm Jung Hoseok. He was sitting on the couch with his legs spread apart, his eyes focused on you. For the first time since you met him, he lost his smile. He looked dangerous. He was dangerous.

You should have listened to them.

Next week was his final hearing, and he already knew what would happen. He wasn’t a Jung for nothing. If you thought you would leave him that easy, you were in for a treat. He would be with you after his hearing. It would all be done. You would finally be in his arms each night. And it was that thought that calmed him down.

He only smirked, “See you next week…my sunshine.”

[kingofbodyrolls]

Coming Home (m) | PJM | Epilogue

When your best friend, Park Jimin, who you’ve had a crush on since forever, suggests you stay at his house to heal and find yourself again after a series of traumatizing events had haunted you for years, you don’t hesitate to accept. Within those walls, a safe haven is woven, where wounds can heal and memories find release. As he nurtures your shattered spirit, an unexpected intimacy unfurls, leaving the fragile barrier between friendship and deeper emotions in question - can you keep your feelings hidden?

→ Pairing: Jimin x reader (female, “Y/N”) → Other characters: Yoongi, Hoseok, Seokjin, OC (female, she is the therapist) and another OC (male, he is the perp). Also readers parents and mention of Jimin's. → AUs: Best friends to lovers!au, detective!jimin → Genres/themes: thriller/dark, yandere vibes, slice of life, healing after trauma, angst, smut and fluff. → Rating: mature/explicit/R18 → Word count: 5,3k → Warnings: Explicit smut, kissing, cuddling/spooning, unprotected penetrative sex (stay safe - OC’s on the pill), slice of life, healing after trauma, BIG feelings, protective, fluffy and sweet Jimin, he is just soft and loving 🥹 → Disclaimer about warnings: I know nothing about sexual or physical abuse (I only know psychological because I experienced that, not in a sexual context though). This story is fiction, I do not mean to say that this is how one would go through their emotions or handle this situation. This is a delicate and fragile subject, so proceed with caution. I also know nothing about police work or the work in emergency/hospitals. Also, I don’t own BTS or know how they would act in a similar situation. This story is purely fiction, a fragment of my imagination. They just inspire me so much 💜

Cross posted to AO3!

→ Taglist: @thelilbutifulthings

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With the capture of the perpetrator, the weight that had loomed over your life like a persistent shadow should have been lifted. 

The threat was gone, the danger subsided, yet an inexplicable unease still clung to your heart. The ordeal had left scars that extended beyond the physical realm, and even though the world appeared safer now, the echoes of fear lingered in the corners of your mind. 

Stepping out into the public domain did offer some relief, as the open spaces and bustling crowds served as a reminder that you were no longer being watched, that the eyes of the perpetrator were no longer fixated on you. 

But the invisible chains of anxiety and trauma proved harder to break, leaving you struggling to embrace the newfound freedom.

In the midst of this turmoil, Jimin had emerged as your steadfast pillar of support. His love for you seemed to shine even brighter in the aftermath of the ordeal. 

Every gesture, no matter how small, was a testament to his devotion. His warm embraces provided solace, his soothing words acted as a healing balm, and his unwavering presence brought a sense of security that you craved. 

As you navigated the uncharted waters of recovery, his actions spoke volumes. His insistence on making you feel cherished and safeguarded demonstrated his commitment to helping you heal, piece by piece. 

Even the suggestion of a couple’s retreat - a space where both of you could disconnect from the outside world and reconnect with each other, reflected his understanding of your needs.

The decision to book the retreat for the upcoming weekend became a glimmer of anticipation, a beacon of hope that promised serenity and a fresh start. Jimin’s thoughtfulness in organizing this escape showcased his unwavering love, a reminder that he was by your side, willing to venture into the journey of healing together. 

As the days passed and the retreat started to blossom within you, fueled by the love that Jimin showered upon you - a love that had the power to mend even the deepest wounds of the soul.

In your psychologist’s cozy office, the safe space where you could unravel your thoughts without reservation, you found yourself grappling with emotions that seemed stubbornly persistent. 

The sessions had become a refuge, a place where you could articulate the turmoil within you, even if the words felt inadequate to capture the complexity of your feelings.

Sitting across from Chin-Sun, you hesitated for a moment before finally expressing your confusion. The logical part of you recognized that the ordeal was over, that you were safe now, yet the emotion remnants refused to be neatly tidied away. 

You confessed your longing to feel fine and restored, a desire that contrasted starkly with the lingering unease. Her response, though comforting, carried the weight of time. 

The promise of gradual healing felt like a distant horizon, a place you yearned to reach but couldn’t see clearly just yet. As the words left her lips, you absorbed the truth that recovery wasn’t a linear path, that it entailed both patience and persistence. 

But even amid the uncertainty, there was a glimmer of hope. Her assurance that, in time, you would regain a sense of ease in your day-to-day life acted as a reassuring beacon. The thought of stepping into a future where anxiety no longer held dominion over your every thought was a vision you clung to, a vision that fueled your determination to push through the lingering discomfort.

With each session, you uncover layers of emotions, gradually unraveling the complex web woven by trauma and fear. Chin-Sun’s words became a steady guide, reminding you that the path to healing was as unique as your journey through the ordeal itself. 

And as you navigated the ebb and flow of your emotions under her guidance, you found solace in the belief that, with time and the support of those who cared for you, the shadows of anxiety and fear would eventually give way to sunlight of healing and newfound tranquility.

As the weekend unfolds, you find yourself at the threshold of a new chapter in your journey to healing. The anticipation of the couple’s retreat was a mix of excitement and trepidation, a concoction of emotions that accompanies you on the drive towards the coastal haven that awaits.

The journey itself was a symphony of melodies and laughter, a playlist carefully curated to match the journey’s rhythm. 

Jimin’s lighthearted banter wove a tapestry of comfort, a reminder that you were embarking on this adventure together. The miles between your home and the retreat melts away beneath the wheels of the car, replaced by a sense of togetherness that only grows with every passing moment. 

And then, as the tires crunches on the gravel path leading to the retreat, a new vista opens before you. The sun slowly begins to paint the sky with hues of gold and tangerine, mirroring the warmth that emanates from within. 

As you checked in and received the key to your room, the promise of respite beckoned like a soft melody.

Entering your cozy haven for the weekend, you were met with a sense of comfort and sanctuary. The king-sized bed, invitingly adorned with soft linens, seemed to promise restful nights.

The windows framing the beach were like portals to serenity, the sound of waves a gentle lullaby that seemed to whisper tales of healing and renewal. 

The en-suite bathroom, the closet, and even the mini fridge held a promise of convenience, ensuring that your stay would be as enjoyable as it was peaceful.

The allure of the beach was irresistible, beckoning like an old friend ready to envelop you in its soothing embrace. The soft rhythm of waves breaking against the shore was a symphony that set the pace for the evening. 

Hand in hand with Jimin, you venture onto the sandy canvas, your spirits lifted by the promise of carefree moments ahead. The sun’s warm caress was a gentle reminder of the joys of summer, and as you settled down, the grains of sand molding to the contours of your bodies, a sense of tranquility settled over you. 

The world beyond the shoreline seemed distant, leaving only the two of you in this intimate cocoon of relaxation.

As you lay back, the ocean breeze carrying whispers of salt and adventure, you find yourself immersed in a gentle conversation. Stories flow like tributaries merging into a river of memories, laughter punctuating every anecdote. High school escapades and college misadventures were shared like treasures, creating a tapestry of moments that bound you even closer. 

The sound of the waves seemed to echo the rhythm of your hearts, each beat a testament to the connection you share. 

As the sun begins its descent towards the horizon, casting long shadows along the shore, you exchange glances that speak volumes. 

The love and comfort that you had found in each other’s company was a treasure that had been unearthed, a gift that was now a part of your journey. And as the waves continued their eternal dance, you knew that this day, this time together, would forever remain etched in your hearts.

The echoes of laughter and the gentle crash of waves followed you as you left the beach behind, moving towards a quaint local restaurant nestled in the heart of the town. Its welcoming lights flickered like fireflies in the evening sky, drawing you closer to a promise of culinary delights and shared moments. 

The restaurant’s ambiance was a blend of cozy charm and a  touch of rustic elegance setting the stage for a memorable evening. The aroma of freshly prepared dishes wafted through the air, tickling your senses and stirring an eager anticipation within. 

As you settle into your seats, the soft glow of candlelight illuminated the menus before you. Each bite is a symphony of flavors, a fusion of artistry and passion that delights your taste buds. 

The richness of the red wine compliments the meal, enhancing the experience with its velvety notes. Between mouthfuls, you exchange glances that speak a language all you own; a silent acknowledgement of the shared contentment that fills the space between you.

The evening air is crisp and invigorating as you step out of the restaurant, your fingers instinctively entwine as if unwilling to let go og the connection that binds you. 

The town is alive with the gentle hum of its nightlife, a backdrop to your leisurely stroll back to the retreat. The world around you seems to fade into the background, leaving only the two of you, cocooned in a bubble of timelessness.

With every step, every shared smile and whispered word, the love you felt for each other seems to amplify. The moon cast its silvery glow, lighting your path and lending an ethereal quality to the night. 

The way your breaths seem to synchronize, the way your fingers interlock, it is as if the universe is orchestrating this moment, recognizing the profound bond that you share. 

As you enter your room, the echoes of the day’s laughter and shared stories seem to linger in the air. The curtains dance with the gentle breeze, casting intricate patterns on the floor, a reflection of the intricate journey you had undertaken together. 

And as you settle in for the night, the soft rustle of sheets mingling with the beating of your hearts, a reminder that in each other’s arms, you had found a safe haven, a place where your eternal love could flourish. 

The room was silent except for the sound of your beating hearts. You sigh and feel Jimin press his warm body into yours, spooning you tighter. 

You relish in his hold and let out a soft moan, while you try to calm your racing thoughts. You feel so loved here in his loving embrace, and you realize that you want him like this for the rest of your life. 

He presses his crotch into your ass, and you feel his growing erection grind into you. 

A deep groan escapes his soft plush lips as he rolls his hips against you sensually. Wetness begins to pool between your legs and you squirm as an involuntary moan leaves your mouth. Fuck.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks innocently in a teasing voice, giving another delightful roll of his hips to your ass. Fuck, the duality of this man, you think as you chuckle and moan in frustration.

“Not with that hard dick of yours grinding on my ass,” he moves to hover over you, looking you straight in the eyes, his breath already ragged. 

He leans down, locks your lips in a tender and sweet kiss and then makes a slow and forceful grind with his dick to your clothed cunt. In search of release you arch your back and moan his name hungry for more.

“Take this off,” he tugs at your shirt, well his shirt. 

You shimmy into a seating position, as he sits on his knees and helps you get rid of the offending piece of clothing, leaving your naked breasts for his eyes to soak in.

“Fuck, you’re so gorgeous,” he sucks in a breath and licks his lips teasingly. 

You feel more of your arousal soaking your panties at his pleasing words.

He pushes you lightly down again with a smirk lacing his lips as he looks just about ready to devour you whole. “You’re not that bad yourself” you laugh wholeheartedly, catching his attention as your boobs jiggle. 

He makes another grind to your pussy and your chuckles are immediately replaced with a growl of his pretty name. He lets out a pleased sigh and smiles, before he surges down to your neck, sucking lightly. 

Nipping at your neck, he leaves small marks in his wake as he slowly descends down your tingling body.

He kisses your collarbones, licking his way down to one of your breasts. He licks around it playfully, before he captures your hardened nipple in a swift motion. He teaks and pinches, making you moan the prettiest noises as his dick twitches inside his boxers. 

For a minute or maybe two, he played with your tits, squeezing them together, flicking and sucking.

“Jimin, ah!” you whimper as you run your hands over his tensed abdomen. He kisses down your soft stomach, venturing down to your throbbing pussy. You feel his hot breath on your clothed core, as he licks his lips before sliding your panties off.

“So fucking wet for me, huh?” his eyes are sinful, as he checks out your cunt, before diving in.

He pinches your clit with his thumb and index finger, “So swollen I can almost feel it pulsating.”

With his pretty, plush lips he wraps around your clit and sucks it into his mouth, twirling his tongue around it, while his hands slip under your ass to hold you closer to his face. Then he moves down to your slit, fingers stretching you open as he laps at your folds. You feel delirious, your juices slowly running down. 

Your hands find his beautiful head of soft black hair, and you pull on it as he eats you out like a man starved.

Slurping noises fill the room, making your pussy clench in anticipation. 

The more he sucked or touched you, the wetter you grew. Removing his tongue from your core, he sits up, appreciating the view. By the lack of contact you let out a frustrating growl. 

But you don’t have to wait long before he inserts his index finger into your throbbing cunt. You hiss and clench at the contact, but relax the following second as he slowly starts pushing his digit in and out of your pussy. 

With your wetness, the glide is easy and it doesn’t take long before you are used to the intrusion of his finger inside of you. His one finger reaches deep inside your cunt and you moan in pleasure as he watches you close your eyes, throwing your head back into the mattress.

You begin to feel the pleasure building in your stomach and for a moment your toes begin to curl, “Shit! I’m almost there, Jimin–”

The second finger he adds, gives you a slight stretch and you feel your breath hitch. He hums, pleased, as he starts pumping his index and middle finger in and out of you, slow at first. 

As you moan his name and curses leave your mouth unabashedly, he picks up the pace more as your noises spurs him on. It’s not long before he adds a third finger, and you arch your back at the stretch, but Jimin places his other hand on your stomach, pressing you down to the bed. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” you whimper as he begins to fuck you harder, fingers slipping in and out of you. He scissors you open, pulling out and searching for your sweet spot when pushing in again. 

As the pads of his fingers tickle and press on your sweet spot, you mewl.

He dives back down to your clit, starts sucking as he fingers you at a fast pace. 

You feel your body tighten, your vision going blurry and you close your eyes as you come undone to a moan that sounds awfully like his name. You huff for breath, as Jimin keeps lapping and fucking you slowly with his fingers, helping you ride out your orgasm. 

“Fuck” he growls as he removes his fingers, taking them up to his mouth, licking each digit dry of your slick juices. 

You leave out a dragged out groan, “Fuck, that’s hot” and feel your pussy throbbing again.

He removes his boxers, freeing his raging hard cock, giving it a stroke as he throws his head back while letting out a soft moan of your name. 

You lick your lips and reach a hand out to touch his dick, but he swats it away, “Sorry babe, but I desperately need to be inside you. You can suck me off later.” 

You don’t want to be one to complain, when you already feel a new flood of arousal drenching your pussy, mixing with your earlier orgasm and his saliva. He gives his dick another stroke, as he looks deeply into your lust filled eyes.

When he braces your folds, you gulp and let out a delicious moan. As he drags himself further into your warm hole, he pants in your ear. You shudder and roll your eyes back as his lustful sounds send tingles down your spine.

You grab his biceps, as he pushes himself all the way in, making you feel so fucking full. 

“It’s so good, Jimin!” you whimper as your hands clench tighter around his biceps. As he drags his cock out and then back in, he hisses in pleasure. 

“Damn, you still feel so tight” he growls  as he sets a slow pace, fucking you tenderly, as he looks at you with hooded eyes. 

“Faster, Jimin,” you pant as he picks up the pace and starts fucking you faster. 

He drags himself out, only to push back into you with so much force you feel his hips dip into your ass. You feel delirious as he begins to hit your g-spot repeatedly, making you breathe like you just ran a marathon. 

Sweat beads at your hairline, and you notice sweat dripping off Jimin's handsome face. He pants and moans your name, as he fucks you deeply.

“Fuck, Jimin! I, I-” you begin, panting hurriedly. He slows the pace down for you to make a coherent sentence.

“Do you want to come on my ass?” you manage to ask him, albeit shyly as you feel your face turn beet red as a blush settles.

He stops his motions for a second, looking at you endearingly and he chuckles at your sudden shyness, “Fuck yeah”. 

He pulls out of you, and for a moment you feel so empty, as you turn around, on your hands and knees, stinking your ass in the air towards his slick cock.

You push yourself back, with one of Jimin’s hands on your ass and the other on his dick, he guides you back onto it. 

He enters your pussy without much discomfort, but you do feel a slight stretch at the new angle and you can already feel him hit inside you deeper.��

Your head falls down on the bed, droll pooling at your mouth and running down to the sheets. He picks up at a fast pace right from the get go, hands on each side of your ass, as he thrusts deep inside you.

“Jimin, I’m coming!” you moan his name as you feel the knot in your stomach about to snap. With one hand, he finds your clit, pinches it hard, then rubs it in circular motions. 

He alternates between quick and slow, and it's making you go crazy. Your chest moves up and down, as you heave for air, face pressed to the sheets and hands clenching around it.

You feel your vision blur as your orgasm overtakes you moments after he begins to touch your clit. Your tight walls close around him and he feel his own orgasm tethering dangerously close and he knows that if he wants to cum on your ass, he has to fucking pull out now. 

But he wants to stay a bit longer inside your warm pulsating cave, as you ride out your orgasm.

“Fuck!” he yells as he pounds into you and then he pulls out and strokes his dick and releases his semen on your ass. 

You jiggle your ass teasingly, and he grabs some of your soft flesh, squeezing it in his hand as he gasps for air as he rests his throbbing dick on your ass.

You feel so utterly tired that you collapse on the bed, so out of breath. Your body feels tingly and spent. You turn to your side as you watch Jimin follow suit and fall down beside you, with his back to you.

“You have a tattoo?!” you almost shriek, but your sore throat makes it sound more like a whimper than anything else. He chuckles and nods his head into the bed. 

Why haven’t you seen that before?

 Instinctively, your fingers begin to trace the contours of his spine, his delicate tattoo etched into his skin like a secret map. Three moon phases line down his spine, and they almost glisten under the soft ambient light of the room. 

“Do the moons mean anything significant?” you ask as your fingers keep tracing the ink. 

“Yeah. They each represent a meaningful chapter in my life” he turns around to face you, and captures you in a chaste kiss. 

“Turn back, I wanna look at it again” you say as you poke him in the shoulder to get him to move around. As he turns his back to you again, your touch lingers over the tattoo, the significance of its design tugging at the strings of your heart.

You trace the first moon, on the top of his spine, closest to his neck. “That one is of the moon’s phase the very first day we met in kindergarten,” a nostalgic smile tugs at your lips, as you trace the crescent of that first moon, your minds remembering your beginnings, the days of shared crayons and laughter in the playground. 

Your hand then travels to the second moon, more pronounced and radiant. 

“That one is of the moon’s phase on the day in high school I realized I had feelings for you,” a rush of memories floods your mind, the playful teasing and stolen glances that had marked the awakening of something deeper. 

The tattoo seemed to capture the essence of that realization - a confession of feelings that had simmered beneath the surface. 

And finally, your fingers land on the third moon phase adorning his skin. 

“That's the day that I became a police officer”. It represents the day he had chosen a path of courage and responsibility. The weight of that decision, the commitment to safeguarding others, was etched into the ink, a mark of dedication that mirrors the love he has for you.

As you traced the contours of each moon, it was as if you were tracing the trajectory of your lives, the shared milestones that had shaped you into the people you were today. 

The tattoo was more than an artwork; it was a testament to the depth of your connection, a tangible embodiment of the love that had blossomed against all odds. The moon phases held a mirror to your journey, each one reflecting a facet of your shared history. 

The innocence, the awakening, the unwavering devotion - they were all there, etched in indelible ink. And as you let your fingers linger, you realize that this tattoo is part of him, a part of you, and a part of the beautiful tapestry you have woven together. 

It’s a reminder that even in the darkest of nights, the moon still shone, casting its gentle light on the path you have and will walk together.

Amid the gentle lapping of the waves and the soft rustle of the night breeze, an unspoken tenderness envelops you both. 

The atmosphere seems to shimmer with an almost palpable sense of affection, your fingers intertwining and tracing his moon tattoos as the conversation flows effortlessly. With each word exchanged, the layers of your relationship are peeled back, revealing vulnerabilities, dreams, and reflections. 

The notion of having done things backward danced into the conversation, a thought that had crossed your mind more than once. You share how you felt that maybe, in another universe, you could have come together sooner, avoiding the pain and suffering that had marked your past. It is a sentiment laced with regret, a tinge of what-ifs.

Jimin’s warm gaze, however, held a different perspective. He listens to your words, his thumb brushing tenderly over your hand as he prepares to share his thoughts. 

“You know,” he begins softly, “I believe that every step we took, every twist and turn, brought us to this exact moment. Maybe it wasn’t the path we expected, but it was the one we needed.” 

You feel tears pool at your waterline by his soft spoken words.

His words resonate with a quote of wisdom, a profound understanding that speaks to the intricacies of your bond. 

He goes on, his voice carrying the weight of his emotions, “And as much as I wish you didn’t have to endure what you did, I also believe that it’s part of what makes you so incredibly strong, so resilient. It’s a testament to your spirit.” 

With every syllable, he seems to weave a tapestry of reassurance, affirming that even the darkest chapters have a role to play in shaping your love story. 

And then, in a moment that leaves you truly speechless, he produces a ring, a delicate masterpiece of metal and gemstone that glints in the low lit bedroom.

Your heart skips a beat, as he looks into your eyes, his voice steady and brimming with affection. 

“Y/N, you’ve shown me a love I never knew was possible. You’ve been my rock, my partner and my best friend. Will you marry me?” the words hung in the air, the weight of his proposal settling between you like a cherished promise. 

Tears gather in the corners of your eyes, shimmering like dewdrops under the moonlight. 

A surge of emotions overwhelm you, and as you nod, words escaping you, the tears finally spill over. 

You reach out to him, your arms wrapping around his naked body in an embrace that holds the universe of your feelings.

The kiss that follows feels like a culmination of every shared laughter, every tear wiped away, every hurdle overcome. 

The ring on your finger feels like a circle binding your past, present, and future together, a symbol of the love that had weathered trials and emerged stronger.

 And in the quiet harmony of your hearts, you both know that this is just the beginning of a new chapter - one where your love, tested and unwavering, would continue to grow and flourish.

The following day greets you with a sense of tranquility, a feeling that seems to linger from the beautiful moments shared the previous evening. The sun baths the world in a gentle glow, casting a warm invitation to embrace the day ahead.

You and Jimin had decided that today was all about relaxation and release. 

The tension that had built up over months, the weight of past trauma and newfound joys, all deserved their own moment of acknowledgement and release.

The luxurious spa you enter seems like a haven of serenity, a space designed to envelop you in a cocoon of calmness. Soft, ambient music hummed in the background, and the soothing scent of essential oils filled the air. 

You exchange knowing glances as you change into plush robes, ready to let go of the worries that had become far too familiar.

The skilled hands of the massage therapist work their magic, kneading away the knots of stress and worry that had taken residence in your bodies. 

With each press and stroke, you could feel the tension slowly dissipating, replaced by a sense of ease that was long overdue. As you lay side by side, lost in the world of tranquility, you could almost hear the sigh of relief echoing between you. 

It is as if the very act of being pampered is a balm for your souls, a way to acknowledge the challenges you’d faced and celebrate the triumphs you’d achieved.

After the massages, you emerge from the spa like new beings, your steps lighter, your expressions more serene. 

As you make your way back to the retreat, a quiet understanding passes between you. The intensity of your experiences had deepened the bond between you, making the simplest moments feel profound.

With the gentle caress of the breeze on your skin, you settle down on the patio of your suite, where a table is set for a delightful lunch. 

The azure expanse of the ocean stretched out before you, its rhythmic waves serving as a reminder of the ebb and flow of life itself. The delicate clinking of glasses and the murmur of the waves intertwine in perfect harmony, creating a symphony of relaxation. Plates adorned with delicious dishes are placed before you, a feast that mirrored the nourishment your relationship had provided in recent times. 

As you savor each bite, the laughter that punctuates your conversations feels like a melodic thread, weaving through the tapestry of your shared experiences. You speak of dreams, future plans, and even the silliest stories from your childhoods. 

In a quiet corner of the world, where the whispers of the ocean and the rustling leaves seem to compose a symphony just for you two, Jimin’s heartfelt words weave a spell that transcends time itself. 

As you sit together on the beach, your fingers entwine and your gazes lock, the weight of the past mingle with the promise of the future. Jimin’s eyes hold a mixture of emotions, a kaleidoscope of regret, determination, and most importantly, an unwavering love that has stood the test of time.

His voice, soft yet resolute, carries his feelings to your heart with each word. 

“Y/N, I’ve loved you all this time,” he confesses again, his eyes glistening with unshed tears as he looks at the ring dorning your finger. 

“You are the love of my life, the one who’s been etched into my heart since that very first moment we met” there is a tremor in his voice, a vulnerability that lays bare his soul. 

The frustration of not finding you sooner, of not being able to protect you from the darkness that had clouded your life, weighed heavily on him. 

He isn’t just apologizing for the lost years; he is acknowledging the pain he’d felt for every moment he couldn’t be by your side.

“I regret every moment we were apart, every day I couldn’t hold you close,” he continues, his voice gaining strength as he channels his emotions into his words. 

“But from now on, I promise you, Y/N. I will cherish you like a precious gem, protect you like a shield, and love you with everything I am.” 

With each promise that flows from his lips, it is as if the very atmosphere resonates with his sincerity. The waves seem to whisper agreements, and the wind carries his vows to the universe. 

This moment, under the expanse of the sky and the watchful gaze of the stars, is a testament to the unbreakable bond that had weathered the storms of life. 

As if Jimin’s declaration hung in the air, you can feel the power of his love enveloping you, creating a cocoon of warmth and safety. 

Tears well up in your eyes, not out of sorrow, but out of the overwhelming beauty for this moment. You reach out, cupping his face in your hands, your thumbs wiping away the stray tear that has escaped from his eyes.

“I believe you,” you whisper, your voice a gentle affirmation that echoes the depths of your own feelings. “And I love you too, Jimin. With all my heart.”

His smile, a mixture of relief and pure joy, is like a sunrise after a long night. He leans in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that carries the weight of the past and the promise of the future. 

And as your lips touch, it is as if time itself paused, giving you both the chance to savor this moment; a moment that holds the culmination of a love that had traveled through time and adversity to finally find its place in the sun.

→ Author's note: Gosh, I just had to add Jimin’s moon tattoos (in a variation, I know) into the story. Because damn, he looks good with those beautiful moons on his back 🥹 Also, I hope the story wasn’t complete shit - I did enjoy writing it and have more planned (ones with lighter themes. Anyone up for a roadtrip/camping trip with Yoongi? 😝).

← previous | s.masterlist | m.masterlist |

[bjyxobsessed]

The behind the scenes videos - SO MANY COINCIDENCES! 🔥🤭😆

🍬XZ’s video opens with a tiny video screen (and don’t think I don’t see all those little read and green lights!) and later in Yibo’s video there’s the coordination with the TV props and this shot with the video camera… almost as if they were making it look like he filmed XZ’s earlier 😉

By the way the music in Yibo’s video is Dayflower by Cathedral Bells - gotta love how the Captain hammers 🔨🔨🔨😂

XZ’s video featured a glimpse of a white peony - and we know whose nickname that was when he first started in the industry 😏

And just a little of my own CPN, it seems like the photo shoots where Yibo is rumored to be with XZ or they are getting ready for an event together, we catch these little glimpses of fond smiles… Which seem so reminiscent of interactions when they were filming and promoting that I like to think he’s looking at Yibo 🥹

But the 🍬 to beat ALL other candy is the video XZ dropped on Douyin after the event. Yibo left the venue early (supposedly he had to get back to his filming set - Baby had a LONG day with work in the early morning then prepping for and doing the show).

The post says something like “It happened that as Xiao Zhan walked in, light and darkness meets.” UM HELLO? Yes sir we DID see the two of you in black and white but thanks for hitting me over the head about it 😂

We got soft-focus Xiao Zhan walking around - a house? Hotel room? Like he’s waiting for someone… With the smooth r&b jazzy sounds of Aaron Taylor singing “I will leave the lights on until you get home” before the music transitions to something you keep on your “Sexy Alone Time with Bae” playlist…

YOU CAN NOT TELL ME ALL THIS WAS NOT PURPOSEFUL! Imagine your partner is working so hard, squeezes some time to be able to show up at the same event with you, then has to be right back at work… It’s a rough day for them🥺 Isn’t this just the type of sweet shout out you’d post if you lived in a world where you couldn’t shout it from the rooftops?? 🥹

It’s still hitting me right in the feels… XZ doesn’t drop 🍬candy, he drops 💣BOMBS that destroy with sweetness…

All this and I didn’t even touch on the rumor that some XZ-only fans spotted them together at the hotel or the video from right after the show ended and XZ came backstage, where fans say you can hear him asking his staff where Yibo is…

Anyway, this is all CPN and dreams 😏😉

[cheolhub]

“i’ve never wanted anyone to fuck me this badly.” + “are you sure? once we start, i might not be able to stop.” with taehyun, please? CONGRATS ON YOUR MILESTONE, DARLING <333

SAR’S 3K MILESTONE EVENT

pairing. taehyun x reader

wc. 600+ (starting w a bang)

warnings. hint of corruption, virgin!reader, grinding + dry humping, making out, insinuation of virginity loss, pet names (doll, baby)

note. chris my love 🥹 thank you so much!! i really hope u like this <3

taehyun was patient. it’s one of his commendable traits beyond being sweet and undeniably sexy. he knew you were a virgin, knew you were saving it for someone special. he thought it was cute, really. how you seemed hell-bent on being his cute, “innocent” little doll and how you would whisper against his ear while he’d grind his clothed length into your clothed cunt. 

“not yet. i want my first to be special.” 

he didn’t mind. how could he? you were just so cute– totally worth the wait. so he kept the sexual contact to a minimum, lingering touches, innocent makeout sessions…and not so innocent makeout sessions…

your makeout sessions could be heated. maybe a little too heated to where you’d get carried away with the way his hips buck into yours while you straddled him. 

you're honestly starting to get addicted to the friction against your weeping cunt and every kiss, every breathless moan, every grope of your flesh leaves you wanting more and more and more. 

you always stop him when it comes too close, though, practically edging your beloved boyfriend. without realizing, you constantly test his patience– he almost thinks you do it on purpose, but when you mumble out, “‘m sorry…” the anger fades and he’s melting through the cracks of your hands. 

“it’s alright, doll, no rush,” he’d whisper, peppering kisses to your face till you’re giggling and he’s left with an aching hard on. 

but today… today has been hard for him and you’re needy for some love, making grabby hands as soon as he steps into your home. today he’s quick to pull you into his lap and roughly press his lips to yours, catching you completely off guard. today he has his tongue shoved into your mouth, needily rocking you against him. 

“fuck…” you moan, breaking from the kiss and taehyun swears he feels his cock twitch at the sound of the swear falling from your lips. “taehyun… please…”

the words make him freeze, has adrenaline pumping through his veins. “what is it, baby? wanna stop?” he asks, tone sultry though it’s a facade masking his lowkey panic. 

“uh-uh.” you shake your head, shuddering out a breath as you roll your hips against his, clenching around absolutely nothing.

his brain fogs and he almost loses the ability to speak, but he needs you to clarify before he loses it. “then what is it? what do you want, doll?”

“wan’... wan’ you to fuck me,” you whine, brows knitting together in pleasure. “please, ‘m ready… so ready. i want you.” 

he can’t even hide how turned on he is, all the images of how tight you likely are and how pretty you’d look impaled on his cock rushing straight to his throbbing length. 

he wants you to be sure, though. he doesn’t want this to be some spur of the moment decision, he needs this to be something you want.

“god… really?” he pants, already feeling close to release just at the mere mention of you wanting his dick. “be honest with me now, love, we don’t have to…” but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to.

“yes,” you moan breathlessly. “i’ve never wanted anyone to fuck me this badly.” 

his eyes widen in shock and before you know it, you're on your back and he’s hovering over you with the hungriest look in his eyes. all those times you’ve asked to stop– all those times he’s had to think of repulsive thoughts so his cock would go soft after you’d innocently edged him– are filling his head. 

patience wearing thin, one more time, he asks, “are you sure? ‘cause once we start, i might not be able to stop.”

“i wouldn’t want you to stop.” you tell him honestly. “i want it. all of it.”

© cheolhub — all rights reserved, please refrain from copying, reposting, modifying or translating my work on any platform.

[italeean]

HELLO THIS IS RANDO TO ELLE I REPEAT RANDO TO ELLE, OVER!! I HOPE YOU ARENT BEING DROWNED OUT WITH REQUESTS FOR THE MILESTONE EVENT (IF SO PLEASE DONT FEEL PRESSURED TO DO MINE, AND MAKE SURE TO TAKE LOADS OF BREAKS WHEN NEEDED!!) ALSO I APOLOGISE FOR THE ALL CAPS I DO THIS WHEN I’M EXCITED OR JUST ENTHUSIASTIC IN GENERAL!

SO FOR THE EVENT:

THE NAME’S RANDO, BUT YA KNOW THAT ALREADY,

I’M SUPER LOUD AND LOVE FUN EXCITING STUFF, THOUGH I CAN ALSO GET SCARED EASY- AND I LIKE PERFORMING ARTS (ESPECIALLY SINGING, HIPHOP DANCE, AND MUSICAL THEATRE) OR ARTS IN GENERAL AND PRANKS AND PARTIES AND IM BASICALLY A GREMLIN HDJDHSKS-

I AM ALSO A LEE BUT SHHH YOU DIDNT HEAR THAT FROM ME-

FOR THE FANDOM, EITHER GENSHIN OR BUNGO STRAY DOGS- I DON’T MIND WHICH!

AND ALSO I’D PREFER PLATONIC AND A DUDE CAUSE THE B IN BRO GOTTA STAND FOR BESTIES >:D

ANYWAYS THAT WAS PROBABLY A LOT BUT I HOPE YOU’RE DOING WELL AND HAVE HAD A GOOD WEEK SO FAR!!

ANYWAYS THIS WAS RANDO, OVER AND OUT-

RANDOOOO MY DEAR!!! IT'S BEEN SO NICE TO SEE YOUR REQUEST POPPING UP IN MY ASK BOX 🥹 About how many requests I have, I can officially say that I passed the 20 requests!! 😸 Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy the match I gave you... I chose BSD as a fandom hehe ❤️🍡 *some dango for my #1 Itto stan* P.S. You better have slept properly, or else.

🔮 For the match-up, your pair is... RANPO

🔮 Why did I choose him for you?

• SAME GREMLIN ENERGY, THAT'S THE FIRST REASON • I can see you getting the zoomies together after having an overdose of sugar... poor Kunikida would take a sick leave probably hehe~ • You two would probably fall together into Yosano or Dazai's tickly clutches... or maybe both of them at the same time • I can imagine you two (lovingly) bullying the life out of poor Poe... he'd get wrecked at least twice a week • Ranpo is always honest (even blunt and cheeky at times) so he would always give you a honest feedback about your singing, dancing or theatrical performances... you can always trust his judgment • I'm imagining you creating a song with a couple of lines about every member of the Agency hahahaha • Maybe someone would even get revenge on you two if you made his lines comical enough (ahem Kunikida *cough cough*) • The detective would probably have fun with giving you jumpscares... maybe even tickly jumpscares~ • PLAYFIGHTS WITH KENJI AND ATSUSHI. PERIOD. • You could have a "bro/bestie night" with a nice movie, maybe a comedic murder mystery, and a huge pile of sweets!!! • You could give yourself a silly bros nickname, like THE RANS, since your names both start with RAN • Ranpo probably wins both tickle fights against you, thanks to his observation skills and his great memory. He'd remember each and every one of your weaknesses...

🔮 Tickle scenario

The Agency was completely quiet for once. Dazai and Kunikida were on a mission together, just like Kenji and Tanizaki, Naomi was out shopping with Kyouka, Yosano was buying more bandages and a new chainsaw, the President was having a negotiation with Mori, Atsushi was out "fighting" Akutagawa and Ranpo was on a crime scene.

Which means that when you arrived at this building, you found no one to welcome you. You sighed, although you didn't get mad, you knew that your friends were out doing their job... so you decided to use that time to explore around the building.

You went around and checked everyone's desks, making your heart skip a beat when you almost knocked over a pen holder on Kunikida's perfectly tidy and organized desk, and in the end you found it. The treasure. Your eyes literally lighted up at the sight: you had found Ranpo's stack of sweets.

You genuinely wondered how Ranpo was able to eat all that sugar without getting sick, but a rumble in your stomach made you snap back to reality. You were hungry, but you couldn't eat those sweets... you knew how jealous the detective was of his food, so you decided not to touch anything.

...

After an hour, the pile of candy was complete gone, and you gulped when you heard the door open and the sound of approaching steps. It wasn't your lucky day. Before you could even think about hiding the evidence of your hideous crimes, Ranpo appeared before you.

"AAAAAHH I'm so disappointed! The case was so easy that I spotted the culprit from afar! I didn't even get to use my ability! Seriously, isn't there an intelligence test to become a policeman?" The detective was clearly grumpy, so he did the thing that usually cheered him up, which was eating sweets to his heart's content.

However, his frown deepened when he found his stack completely gone and the wraps all scattered around the floor. "Rando..." The detective looked at you with a piercing gaze, even putting on his glasses, "do you know where my candy went? "I... you... no... I mean... I didn't... well... I WAS HUNGRY!!!" You couldn't lie at all, especially to the greatest detective of all times.

"Now I'm hungry! What am I supposed to eat, huh?" If you hadn't been so nervous, you would've probably noticed the playfully ominous glint in your best friend's eyes. "Erm... I... I think Kunikida left s-some raw veggies in the fridge..?"

"EEEEEEEHHH VEGGIES??? BLEH! HOW DARE YOU?! YOU'RE GONNA GET IT!!" The green-eyed guy jumped on you, but you managed to put your hands on his shoulders and push him off... Or so you thought.

When you raised your arms, two fingers immediately wormed under your arms, thoroughly digging in the very center of your underarms. "KYAAAHAHEHEHEHE RAHAHAHANPO WAIHIHIHIT NOOOO!!!" You were immediately reduced to a laughing mess, but Ranpo showed no mercy.

On the contrary, he moved his hands and made you think he had decided to spare you and let it slide for once, but right after you breathed a sigh of relief, twenty wiggling fingers descended on your poor tummy.

"WAAAAHHAHAHAHAHA NOHOHOHO RAHAHANPOHOHO NAHAHAT THIHIHIS!!!" You begged, wishing your thin cotton shirt could protect you better from the pokes, pinches, scribbles and spiders that were targeting your midriff.

"Yes, this! You deserve it for eating my secret stack of sweets! Hmph!!" He huffed while he started circling your belly button. "NONONOHOHOHOHO BROHOHO PLEAHAHASE LEHEHET'S TAHAHALK ABOHOHOUT THIHIHIS..!" As soon as you understood where his finger was going, you started pleading and squirming, making the tickly feeling even worse (or better).

"You should've thought about it before eating my snacks... now I'm gonna dig and get them back!" The brunette exclamation as his finger found your bellybutton and started wiggling extra quickly, as if it was digging in your poor belly.

"AAAAAAAAAHAHHAHAEHEHHEHE NAH- NAHAHAHAHAHAHA NOHOHOT THIHIHIS PLEHEHEAHASEEE" It surprised you how mean a cute guy like Ranpo could be, but there you were, squirming like a little worm, trying in vain to escape your tickly fate.

But alas, your yelling, squirming, pleading and begging fell on deaf ears. Only when your laughter went silent and you asked him to stop, Ranpo actually ceased his assault. "Are you okay?" The detective asked while handing you a glass of water "Sorry if I overdid it..."

"Don't worry, I'm fine, and well... it was deserved hehe" You gave him an embarrassed smile and scratched the back of your head, "Now... shall we go buy more candy and annoy Poe?"

"YAY! LET'S GOOO!!!"

[luzswonderland]

Thoughts on “Watching and Dreaming” Part 1

Since this maybe the last time I might actually do one of these, I want to make it count and make it special. I really am going to miss this show. These past few weeks have been difficult.

I loved the cold open of hearing “King Titan’s” voice before the title card showed for the last time. It makes this episode feel more final🥹

Even though it was creepy, I did like Luz in Emperor Belos’ attire. It lowkey fits her.

Seeing Luz, Eda and King all have dreams of their greatest fears is really symbolic of the show centering around them and I appreciate that.

Luz’s fear of losing her new friends and home

Eda’s fear of being rejected by her family

King’s fear of his heritage

Luz’s light glyph always comes in handy 😉

This reunion means so much to me. It’s probably been months since they last saw each other🥹

Eda giving Luz and King kisses was icing on the cake

Raine being possessed by Belos is so jarring😣

“So, toys break all the time. You just fix them.” -Yikes😬

As traumatizing as they might have been, the scenarios that the Collector put Luz, Eda and King through were kinda funny lol

The maze, the marble game and Jenga lmao 😭

What the archivists did to the Collector and the Titan race was so messed up

Wish we found out more about this event and lore 😢 It would have been a fire episode and plotline imo

The abandonment issues that the Collector has 😭

The imagery of Emperor Belos taking over the Collector’s heart was cool

Amity came in clutch with the light spell. So sweet 🤗

I appreciate the trip down memory lane with the Collector. So many events occurred in just three seasons 🥲

“Did you know Lilith was her captain?” “Really, now that’s a spin-off I’d watch.”

That’s so crazy! Me too! 🙃

Tinella Nosa cameo. Havent seen her in a minute ☺️

“I get it. You just need kindness and forgiveness, huh?”

I don’t know about that Collector lmao

Mood

My heart stopped when this happened. OMG!😭

Eda and King going berserk for Luz is everything to me!

Meeting King’s Dad was a treat. He has such a warm personality 😊 Wish King could have met him.

Love the glyph detail on the pants

“He fears what he can’t control.”-FACTS 👏🏾

“Luz is a Noceda. You know what that means. It means she’s way to stubborn to let any of this get her down. She’ll be okay.”

Love how Camila believes in Luz and cheers everyone up. They have a really healthy relationship. 🤗

“What is this stuff? Why won’t it stop?

Oh, Collector 😭

THIS FORM IS SICK! 👌🏾

I wish Amity got to see her in this form😩

“I still can’t think of anything to say!”

Don’t ever change Luz 🥹

Luz, King and Eda doing their thing again for the final time 😩

The animation went insane during their fight scene. I have so many iconic moments but my favorite has to be this one

Their expressions and their happiness really does a good job of displaying their prior connection as a realistic family unit. I love it 🙌🏾

“Wow” Indeed

A sight to behold 👀

[tutuandscoot]

I’m sorry you had a bad day! Sending you hugs and kisses. My go to serotonin boost is that 2010 worlds interview where they’re in their farrucas costumes and T can’t stop giggling 🥰 she’s so cute because 95% of the time T is so poised and polished in interviews but if she gets hit with a Scott-induced giggle fit 😂 she’s hopeless and it’s adorable. And idk how to explain but Scott’s voice does something so cute the way he says “she’s so happy, she has the giggles.” Also they must’ve been so tired?? They were truly insane doing worlds right after they won gold at their first freakin Olympics. I love that pic of them on the worlds 2010 podium with T holding onto S with his arms wrapped around her, his head leaning against hers. They look like they could just fall asleep right there 🥺

That last bit: maybe THAT’s what he means when he says she’s often restless when she sleeps 😄🥲🥹

Also on that last bit YES I always feel like that in their hugs (The Hug™️or just any cuddles) and I feel weird saying that bc.. @ the crazies but it’s not in a sexual/romantic way it’s just that they truly are each other home and feel so safe they could legitimately loose consciousness and wake up in the same safe place they left 🥹 (kinda said something along the lines of that in this post from my bby blogging days).

Ahh that giggle moment at worlds is the cutest!! I also find the story behind it really funny: apparently he has a habit of picking up accents when they’re in other counties and he retells it that he was speaking kinda in an Italian accent.. which I don’t really hear.. he seams to just be speaking in his normal super lovely Canadian accent.. but as with many things them it must’ve been something so tiny and subtle that only T picked up on and that just sent her packing.. which tbh makes it even more endearing. And poor sweet T she was trying so hard to pull it together, not appear rude and he does such a good job of covering for her like saying ‘oh well I’m ready for tomorrow but T we’ll have to sort out’ and you just know after this whole thing they both cracked up into a fit of laughter (once they were out of the press area). I love this side of them- that silly best friend stuff and where they know eachother so well and the inside joke is so specific and they can tease each other in the most harmless way 💖

Later in that clip the interviewer asks them ‘who is your biggest competition’ and I have to say (while I’m sure all skaters/teams get asked it) it’s always really bothered me how they would be asked about their competitors.. like wtf this is VM’s interview. Completely off from the event we are talking about here but like their interview after winning 2017 worlds, how she asks about the 🇫🇷. WHY?? How rude to take the focus away from VM in their moment of glory to praise their competitors (which VM being so sportsman like and humble and nice to everyone would of course say great things- things the 🇫🇷 probably don’t deserve considering their lack of sportsmanship). It’s like a 1 min interview and they have to spend half of it talking about another team. I’ve seen quite a few instances of it happening with DW being the ‘other team’ but god it makes me mad..

Anyway..

Then on the podium it’s so clear how exhausted they were.. in the K+C almost non-responsive to the score and confirmation they had won their first worlds (which btw they were the only oly gold medalists to go on and win worlds the same year- Yuna was second and the pairs and mens winners weren’t there). Them ‘singing’ the anthem is kinda sad in contrasting it to singing it at the olys. There’s some commentary (somewhere) of the team Canada person at the time from worlds saying they aren’t sure if VM will continue- many teams/skaters after a success like this would cut their losses and hit the pro circuit. It’s odd to think there were people in team Canada so on the outskirts of what was really going on with VM.. but it also may have just been a non-answer answer as to not give people a narrative VM didn’t want out yet.. but as they’ve said it was clear they would continue.

Such a sweet moment encapsulating a momentous achievement- only the second Canadians to win ID worlds, and after they broke nearly every record under the sun. A moment on top of the world, embracing and just feeling so grateful, a moment of centring, feeling present, eyes closed to shut out the rest of the world. A silent “good job kiddo” from him probably, and T just feeling like she did it, she didn’t let him down, she’s still standing and is a world champion, for now at least.. everything was perfect.

And not to take anything away from this moment- their feels were completely validated, whether it was joy or exhaustion or anything else, but a few years later when she would burst into tears realising after winning a second world title thinking this wasn’t satisfying.. just propelling their journey even further..

-Go to VM moment for a serotonin boost!

[aris-ink]

Ari. Honey. Darling. Love.

I am not joking when I say I will rip into any bitch who is mean to you. Your work is fantastic. You are fantastic. Respectfully and disrespectfully people on the internet are too sensitive and need to learn to takes things with a groan of salt.

You are more than allowed to write darker fics. It’s a writing form for a reason. If people out there can’t look at your work and see it as a fictional creation meant to explore a means of creativity then fuck them. They don’t even have to read it. They can just skip over it or block the tags or you even.

Like. I don’t know how other people read fics or watch movies or the shows but the point of them is to pretend for a little while. To have fun with it. People happily watch horror movies and watch murder documentaries or screwed up stuff like that when some of the events are based on real life going ons. But they can’t handle a little (incredibly well written and thought out) story that they DONT EVEN HAVE TO READ IF THEY DONT WANT!!???

I’m dead ass serious. If there are people being mean to you you need to tell me or even just post the ask with a period as a response and let your wonderful followers come at them with bricks and pitchforks. You may not be mean. But I am for the people I care about.

We protect our own in this community.

I am... just... bear with me for a sec... when I want to put somebody on my rec list, I always ask first. people don't usually do that but I really prefer to, because I wouldn't blame somebody if they didn't want to be publically associated with my blog, you know? that just makes you a target as well if someone is awful enough (especially if you're a writer too...), and I don't want anyone to ever get upsetting messages or asks because of me. I even often end up asking if I should go on anon if a mutual's blog is particularly soft, so that they don't get judged for just talking to me.

but every mutual I asked was like, idc lmao I like your writing and if anyone has a problem then too bad 😭 so my point is... you have no idea how much it means to me that you're willing to put yourself forward and... how much it means that you all chose to stand by me. I am never joking when I say to people that I don't want to involve them in my fights, I don't want them to become a target too. you're such a sweet, kind soul, and you don't deserve to deal with rude comments. and it would kill me if you had to just because you stood up for me.

but the fact that you want to and are willing to means more to me than you will ever know. because I don't feel so alone anymore. I don't know how to thank you properly, I don't know how to thank any of my mutuals really, but I do know that I love you all with my entire heart. 🥹❤️ And I love you, so much.

Thank you for being here, thank you for being you <3 and thank you for being my friend. 🥹 Because you're a wonderful one. I love you <3

[italeean]

HIHI ELLE!! AAAAAAAA CONGRATS ON 350 FOLLOWERS!! YOURE SO COOOL!! Remember me when you’re famous 😞✊ I know I’m not rly in the t community but I hope it’s okay I send an ask for the event?? My hobbies are reading, writing, drawing, painting, sculpting, video editing, and video games. I love psychology and literature, both classic and more recent. I also like webtoons and manwhas. I don’t like parties or big groups of people, or watching sports. I prefer one on one interaction or small groups of people, and going outdoors and exploring rather than going to a crowded place in a city. I hope it’s ok I participate in this event if I’m not too much into the t community, but I’m very much so a ler. For the fandom I’ll go with Haikyuu, platonic relationship, and I have no gender preference. Tysm in advance if you accept!! 😻😻💙💙

Waaaahh hello my dear ❤️❤️ It was such a pleasant surprise to see you participate 🥹 Thank you so so much... you're so kind and sweet and cool!!! I hope you'll enjoy your match-up ❤️🍡 *some dango for you*

🔮 For this event, I match you up with... ASAHI

🔮 Why did I choose him for you?

• First of all, Asahi is not the biggest social butterfly out there (no offense obviously) so I think you'd enjoy hanging out with one another • He's also very athletic, which means you'd be able to go out and explore all you'd like • He's also a very good listener, so you could tell him about psychology theories or interpretations of classic and modern literature • I also see him as the kind of guy who'd get invested in the books you tell him about to understand you better • You could also join the third-years during the visit to the temple for New Year's, or just hang out with them!! • I can totally see you sneaking a few pokes to Asahi's sides when he gets too anxious... it's a little subtle thing you do to make him snap out of his spiral of negative thoughts • You could also help him with his designs, since he becomes a designer and you like drawing • He'd totally use your art pieces, may it be drawings, sculptures or video edits, for his fashion lines • 6 words for you: VIDEOGAME. NIGHTS. WITH. HIM. AND. NOYA. • You could probably tickle him also when he gets too invested in his work and basically forgets he's a human being with physiological needs... you know, just to "kindly invite" him to take care of himself • I also have the feeling that Asahi would be a little more talkative with you because he'd be more comfortable with hanging out alone with you and his anxiety would be much more bearable • I see your friendship as a quiet one, full of mutual listening and quality time... both you and Asahi are the kind of friends everyone needs

🔮 Tickle scenario

The sun, the chirping birds, the fresh air, the quiet swish of a nearby torrent, the sound of your steps... this was your ideal afternoon. Just you and your best friend Asahi.

It was refreshing both for you and for Asahi. Even if he was Karasuno's ace and had gained poularity after the sudden rising of the volleyball team, he didn't exactly like the popularity or the fangirls that constantly tried to be around him. Obviously he was always respected with everyone who approached him, but sometimes he felt the need to get away and just spend some time in total peace and quiet, and when he needed that peace and quiet, you were the only person he wanted to be with.

You weren't boyfriend and girlfriend, and you've never even had a crush on one another. You were best friends, and from a certain perspective you even had a deeper bond compared to a couple who has recently started dating.

Asahi was a very quiet and reserved person, who sometimes had difficulties with expressing how he felt, but you could always tell what was going through his mind without him saying anything. The ideal afternoon for both of you was being together just the two of you reading, talking or taking a walk in the nature, just like you were doing today.

You had just reached your usual spot near the torrent, where you usually took a break before going back home. "Ah... I really needed that, thanks Asahi." You smiled thankfully at the ace, who sheepishly smiled right back at you.

"Anytime, and honestly I needed that, too." The tall guy replied, "So, how's school going? Are you doing something interesting in literature class?" He sat down on the grass and patted the spot right next to him, inviting you to sit next to him.

"Oh yeah, I really like both the author we're analyzing and how the teacher explains it!" You took your seat next to your friend, "What about you? I hope that the last year of high school isn't too brutal." "Well..." he began, "I won't deny that it's very difficult, but I'm managing!"

"I'm sure you're taking care of yourself though, right?" You inquired while raising your eyebrow in an inquisitive way. "Well..." He scratched the back of his head, and that was all you needed to hear.

"How. Many. Times. Did. I. Tell. You. That. You. Gotta. Take. Care. Of. Yourself?!" You scolded him, emphasizing every word with a poke to his torso. "Ah! He-heyyy..!" Asahi tried in vain to escape your pokes, "I-i knohow... but- no wait!"

You didn't even let him finish his excuses, you just went for his stomach and scribbled your fingers all over the soft skin, protected by the thin fabric of the shirt.

It didn't take him long to give up. Despite his menacing aspect, he was quite weak to tickling, which you obviously knew as his best friend. "AAAHAHAHAHAHA okaHAhay Ihihi gihihiveHEHEhe..!" He pleaded, and you stopped. You were feeling quite merciful. "Fine, but you better take care of yourself from now on!" You pouted.

Asahi chuckled and gave you some headpats. "Fine, fine... you win..." He laid in the grass and glanced at the clear blue sky. You did the same, but before that, you grabbed your backpack, took out a packet of nikuman and gave it to the tall guy.

"Eat this, I imagined you weren't taking care of yourself so I grabbed something from Ukai-san's shop." Asahi thanked you and stared eating immediately. "So," he said "tell me about that book you're reading..."

[harrywavycurly]

Hey Sarah hope you’re good❤️ do you think you could do something about the ways Eddie shows or tells you he loves you?🥹❤️❤️

Hiii lovey!! I’m good I hope you’re doing amazingly!! Of course so can do this for you!! I hope you enjoy and this 100000% made me emo😂💖

*Eddie just strikes me as the type to show you he loves you in tiny ways as well as just full on shouting it at you lol*

How he shows you he loves you:

He gets up before you to start the coffee maker when he knows you have work or have to be up early

He takes your car to get its oil changed or any maintenance it needs while you’re at work or lounging around the house and half the time you don’t even realize he’s done it

He picks up the book he knows you’ve been wanting when he sees it at the store

He leaves you flowers on the counter that he picks randomly when he sees them on the side of the road and thinks you’d like them

He puts a picture of you in his van and wallet

He gives you one of his rings, whichever one you love the most.

He drives you everywhere without question or hesitation

He learns your favorite songs on the guitar so he can play them for you when you’ve had a rough day

He always has your favorite snacks on hand

He always answers when you call

He listens when you talk about things he knows are important to you

He makes notes of important events so he doesn’t forget

When he hugs you he always gives you a tight squeeze before he lets you go

How he tells you he loves you:

“You’re my favorite person.”

“I think you’re actually the love of my life.”

Little notes he leaves around the house that just say “Hi baby. Love you :)”

“I fucking love you.”

“You’re it for me.”

“You make me believe in the whole soulmate thing.”

“I love you baby.”

“I got this for you.”

“I saw this and it made me think of you.”

“Oh I saved this for you.”

“You’re the only person I’ve ever truly been in love with.”

“I mean…there’s no me without you.”

“Oh sweetheart. I’ve loved you since the day I met you.”

“I made this for you.”

“I have everything I need right here, with you.”

“I’ll always love you.”

[dilf-whore]

my kind of girl (finale)

previous

pairing: billy hargrove x f!reader

genre: friends to lovers! , fluff

summary: you grow closer and closer with the redhead you tutor… and maybe with her stepbrother too

A/N: and here’s the finale! i’m so glad you guys enjoyed this series and thank you for supporting my works as well, i really appreciate it 🥹❤️ let me know your thoughts on this series!

requested: no

requests are OPEN

masterlist

・°☆

You stayed quiet the next day, moving your head or smiling whenever Billy talks to you. You just feel so odd and well, hurt -  you just had a realization last night and you don’t know what to do about it because the man you’re in love with does not feel the same way. You can’t help it, it’s hard to just suddenly throw your emotions away. It’s hard to try and act normal with him attached to your side all the time.

Everything was a blur to you despite the rowdy and busy surroundings of Hawkins High, your hearing’s fuzzy as you keep coming back to the events last night and how such a small thing shattered you into pieces. You’d often breath shallowly and your heartbeat speeds up whenever someone especially girls would come to you both and congratulate Billy for winning the tournament last night, it wasn't the same rapid beating you usually have around him - it’s more of an uneasy and uncomfortable feeling that makes you want to burst into tears. 

Today was such a slow and suffocating day, you just want to go home and be alone but you still need to teach Max and endure a few more hours in the same house as Billy. 

He doesn't fail to notice your silence and how you’re always out of it today. You didn’t even hug him and Max when you saw them this morning. It worries him so much, he just wants to embrace you and comfort you but it seems like there’s a barrier between you two today - it’s killing him without having a hand on your warm skin, and not being able to help you with whatever you’re going through right now. So he decides to just give you space, he’ll talk to you tonight.

・°☆

You arrive at their place and ring the doorbell, your palms sweaty as you anticipate and hope a red hair girl opens the door.

Please be Max.

Max goes out of her room, her footsteps echoing outside. She tries to get to the door but Billy rushes to it and grips on the metal doorknob. Max softly gasps, startled by his brother’s sudden movement. She stands still and looks at him with confusion and a hint of annoyance on her freckled face. 

You suddenly take a step back when you were met by a tall blonde boy that you’ve been trying to avoid. You sigh and try to bring your composure back, “Oh hey, is Max-”

“We need to talk” he cuts you off, grabbing you by the wrist as he pulls you into his bedroom. “Wait in your room Max, we won’t take long” he says, closing his door. He faces you and holds both your arms softly, “Talk to me. What’s bothering you? Are you alright?”. 

You gulp - your surroundings starting to feel tense, “y-yeah I’m good”

“i know you’re lying Y/N” 

You take his hand off of you and get to the door, “I-I’m not lying. I better teach Max, she’s waiting. We have things to do, sh-shouldn't you be going out with that girl from last night? Seems like you guys like each other” you blurt out. Your eyes grow wide and turn back to face him. You didn't expect for you to say that - you were only thinking about it, guess your thoughts were so loud it came out. Your hand grips on your face as you cover your mouth -  your cheeks warming up in embarrassment. Dumbass! you just had to say it, you scold to yourself.

He sighs in relief, a smirk forming on his face. “So it’s about last night huh?”

“I don’t know who she was. She just came to me and gave me a compliment. Then started being touchy which made me so uncomfortable and annoyed, so I told her to go away. She even thought I winked at her” He says, approaching you. “In fact, you were the one I was winking at”

You step back, heartbeat racing “Oh” was all you could say as you look away.

“I don’t even like her, she’s not the kind of girl I want - you are. My eyes are only on you since the first time I met you.” He confesses. “I’m in love with you, Y/N. Took me a while to realize it but I do. I really do, and I want to be with you” he adds.

There was silence in the room, you were speechless. Everything’s still processing in your mind, Billy Hargrove just confessed his love for you. You out of everyone. Billy fell for Y/N Y/L/N - the tutor. The man who made your heart flutter, who made butterflies go crazy in your stomach, who made you smile and forget your problems, actually feels the same way about you.

You finally meet his hypnotizing blue eyes, “I’m in love with you too”.

A huge smile forms on Billy’s face and wraps his strong arms around you and lift you off the floor. He’s ecstatic - the most amazing girl is in love with him too. He presses his lips into yours, you melt into his and kiss him back. Your body has relaxed - relief and joy flowing through your system. 

He finally pulls away - trying to catch his breath, “so you were jealous huh?” he teases.

“Hmm maybe” you giggle softly.

“But jokes aside, I’m sorry for making you feel horrible” 

Max suddenly knocks on the door - impatient, “I’m glad you guys figured things out but we got some studying to do!” she yells.

You laugh and Billy puts you down. “Gotta go now” you say. You grab the door but Billy pulls you in for another quick kiss. “Okay, I’m gonna miss you though” he grins.

・°☆

A few months has passed and you’re happier than ever. You and Billy are like each other’s missing puzzle piece, perfect for one another. He loves to drive you to wherever it is you need to go, he told you to stop using your car because “my pretty girl shouldn’t be riding on an old ugly car”.  Neil has also been put behind bars making everything way better for Billy and Max, anxiety finally leaving them - the fear of being yelled at or get mercilessly beaten is now long gone.

Today is Max’s birthday, you and Billy planned to celebrate it at the arcade and invite her friends. You told them to keep it a secret and just wait there so you could surprise her. You three arrive at the place, Max steps out of the car first and goes to the entrance. “Happy Birthday!” her friends greet as she opens the door. Lucas, who’s holding the cake approaches her and lifts it up. She then makes a wish and blows the candle.

“Alright let me take a picture of you guys” you say, motioning them to get together. “3, 2, 1” click.

After a couple more pictures, you all ate KFC and the kids went around the arcade to play. Leaving you and your boyfriend with cleaning up, “Let’s play Dragon’s Lair” you say. Billy throws the trash and dusts off his hands, “Let’s go”.

He grabs your hand and go to the game. Inserting a token, you hold the joystick and start to play. You were too focused on the game and didn’t notice Billy coming up from behind. He rests his chin on your shoulder and puts his hand on top of yours causing your body to shiver. He moves your hand that’s on the joystick as he press the buttons with the other. You look at the monitor and watch your boyfriend take control.

click

Billy loses his focus from the sudden flash on his side and lose the game. You both look to where it came from and see Max with a sheepish smile on her face, “had to take a picture”. Your boyfriend chuckles and turns you to face him. “Maxine take another one” he instructs.

He cups your cheeks and kiss you.

Max gives a disgusted look, “ew” click

“Gotta have a picture of me kissing the love of my life”

・°☆

taglist:  @shatfairy @ribyourtoplip @1950schick @stephhevring @uglynuggy45 @sincerelii @jelly-donuts @eddiemunsonsbitch86 @mess-in-side @ineedtherapypleaseomg @koroktsuya @anitatvd @piizzaprincesss @cherriebat @gloryekaterina​ @younxii​ @angelbbygrl​ @inprixssss13​ @variety-fangirl​ @loudbluepancake​ @xcallmetaniax​ @ainhoamunson​ @fanatics30​ @daddysfavoritesexkitten​ @mochamori​ @squishiejiminiee​ @yellenabelovaa​ @glxwingrxse @xxx-wounded-angel-xxx​ @ronnieissupermegafoxyawesomehot​ @dobbythehotelf @bakugouswh0r3 @beomkihao @finelineskies​ @chocolatepizzatyrant​ @plk-18 @roguemetalmaster13​ @vvanteffect @be-gentle-with-my-potatos​ @my-obsession-spn​

[aemondsbabygirl]

Here we goooo ! I’m so happy you updated despite going through something personal and difficult AND trouble with your computer. Let me just say that I am so glad I started your story and wasn’t rebuffed by the number of chapters. I love it so much !

My heart broke for child aemond in the first few paragraphs! The way you describes his yearning for a dragon and acceptance as a Targaryen, his loneliness, and his feelings of neglects was so accurate and sad! The fact that he couldn’t even rejoice long enough after finally claiming a dragon, always broke me. He should not have had to pay any price for Vhagar.

Aemond seeing Daenera was so beautiful! Aegon forever the jester had to annoy his brother even in the sept 🤭 the way he gave her that forehead kiss and then immediately looked at Aemond and smirked !

The way Dae was avoiding looking at Aemond was so endearing. Babygirl is trying so hard to ignore her feelings 🥹

I find Aemond’s obsessive love for her beautiful (I don’t know what it says about me lol). He’s such a simp for her and I love it. This part was so beautiful: “In the recesses of Aemond’s mind, a poetic notion flickered through his consciousness: he was the night itself, cradling the radiance of a star, guiding her across the sky in a loving dance.”

Wtf is wrong with Aemond and the way he hates the small folk that much? He sounded like such as asshole, thinking of them as dirt beneath his feet. Maybe only Daenera can help soften his heart towards them. The crowd calling Aemond a monster made me sad though. Yeah it is true he is a kinslayer, but he isn’t a monster. To me at least.

The emotional distance between them is hurting me!!!! I mean, I get that it’s totally a normal reaction for her. I have to remind myself that he killed her brother. But yet I still miss them SO MUCH! I feel the weight of their distance almost as much as aemond.

Otto’s speech was clever. Painting them as forbidden lovers. I wonder how it will reach Daemons ears and how it will be received..

Loved Daenera’s little taunts to Aemond with the poisons. She technically could have poisoned him. And Aemond is so prideful that he went with it 🤭 and then the way he watched her eat that fruit! Poor boy is going to die from blue balls.

I also loved the way Dae made Tyland shut up 🤭

Aegon speech omg!!! He is insane. Clearly playing with fire. I absolutely loved the way Aemond responded. He subtly humiliated him publicly. I loved even more their discussion after Aemond’s speech. He definitely hit a sore spot for aegon. He’s right in everything he said. Aegon keeps mocking until someone snaps, and we both know where that led Aemond in the show…

Alicent’s is continuing to be annoying with her obsession with the faith. I am glad aemond took Dae’s threat seriously lol And Jaehaerys’ gift!!!! I love this boy so much!!!! The twins are so cute, and I am in denial for what is coming.

!!!! The books from the Citadel!!!’ I’m going insane over this! The fact that this was Aemond’s plan

Aemond’s realization, while Dae danced with gwayne was so sad but true. Despite making her officially his wife, he cannot posses what isn’t freely given. And she’s purposefully (and understandably) giving her positive attention to other people, laughing, and dancing with someone else. Luke haunting Aemond is only fitting, as he is the embodiment of his betrayal of Daenera. I totally get what she’s doing and why she’s doing it. Aemond deserves her scorn and more. But I can’t deny that I do miss them together so much 🥹.

This was such an insanely good chapter! I loved the several little funny moments thrown in, they made the whole chapter lighter despite the heavy events. I loved seeing what was going on in Aemond’s mind. I’ve missed our one eyed criminal.

A Vow of Blood - 94

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

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

Chapter 94: Once in grief, heart of black but forced in green II

AO3 - Masterlist

25k words.

The Great Sept was awash in shadows, despite the shutters of most windows being thrust open to let in the light from outside. Yet, the shadows seemed to reign within the sacred space. From each point of the sept’s seven-pointed star structure, a sliver of golden light spilled in, illuminating each statue of the gods stationed at the center of each point. These statues faced inward toward the sept’s heart, where a large, round altar stood surrounded by hundreds of flickering candles. While each idol had its own altar at its feet, the central altar was dedicated to all of the gods, signifying their unified presence. 

Above, from the expansive, domed ceiling, light cascaded through the windows, its intensity waning as it delved deeper into the sanctum. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax from the large candlesticks scattered strategically throughout, their flames battling the ever-encroaching gloom with bursts of warm, golden radiance. The flickering light cast moving shadows that played across the stone floors and walls, adding a living element to the stillness of the sacred space.

Aemond stood at the heart of the Great Sept, with only the High Septon beside him, facing an altar ablaze with candlelight. 

The gods had never granted Aemond anything; as the second son, he was merely the spare. And everything he possessed, he had fought to claim for himself. 

As a child, Aemond had attended the dragon-riding lessons at the Dragonpit, despite not having a dragon of his own. He often lingered in the shadows, a fierce envy igniting within him as he watched his brother and nephew-cousins bond with their dragons. His only companion during those times was Daenera, who, like him, was also without a dragon. Aemond had never understood why Daenera did not share the same bitterness and envy–he couldn’t grasp how she could accept her status as a Targaryen without a dragon so readily. He had surmised that perhaps it was because she was a bastard, fearful that her Targaryen blood was not as pure as his own–or so his mother had told him.

The air had been thick and warm, as it was now, though it had been heavy with the scent of dragons–smoke, and charred flesh, and ash mingling together–and not the sweet, cloying scent of incense and beeswax from the many candles littering the Sept. It was there that his brother and nephew-cousins had played their cruel jest, strapping wings to a pig and presenting it to him in mockery. The Ping Dread, they had called it. Their laughter had surrounded him, ringing in his ears as he had descended into the cavernous depths beneath the Dragonpit.

Insult after insult had marked his childhood, a relentless stream of disrespect and indignity that wove itself into the fabric of his early years. His brother and nephew-cousins had never hesitated to remind him of what he laced, never missed an opportunity to make him feel lesser–to make him feel less Targaryen than even the bastard children who had dragons hatch to them. 

The seed of resentment had taken root all those years ago in the depths of the Dragonpit, where Aemond’s desperate effort to claim a dragon of his own began–a fierce attempt to prove he was no less Targaryen than any of them. 

Each time he had ventured into the bowels of the Dragonpit, he faced failure. The dragons housed there had already been claimed, and once a dragon accepted a rider, it recognized no other. Despite this, Aemond had persisted tirelessly. He tried again and again, driven by a relentless determination to demonstrate his worth and secure his place within the Targaryen legacy. 

Night after night, Aemond had bowed his head in fervent prayer to the gods–prayer for a dragon of his own. He prayed for his father’s acknowledgement, yearning for a moment when his father might see him, recognize him, and care for him. He prayed for relief from the constant mockery of his brother and nephew-cousins, wishing for their respect rather than their scorn. Most desperately, he had prayed to be freed from the crushing loneliness that gnawed at his soul.

Faithfully, he had performed the rituals: lighting candles during his visits to the sept, attending masses alongside his mother. Yet, no divine answers came. There was no dragon for him to claim. His father continued to overlook him, turning a blind, guilt-ridden eye away. His brother and nephew-cousins never ceased their jeers, offering him no respect, only a deep scar that split his face–a permanent mark of disdain. And through it all, he remained isolated, perpetually alone. 

When the chance had finally arisen, presenting a dragon without a rider, Aemond seized with an desperation that eclipsed all other concerns–he had long since ceased praying to the gods. He had set himself before Vhagar, the largest and oldest dragon in the realm, and demandes she accept him as her rider. This was the opportunity he had yearned for–a dragon of his own, and with it, he thought he would gain the respect and acceptance he so desperately sought. 

And in that moment, as he stood before the beast and bellowed his command, the dragon’s massive jaws gaped open, the heat from her breath searing the air as flames began to gather at the back of her throat, Aemond questioned if he had prayed to the wrong gods. The primal power of Vhagar, so close and overwhelming, made him wonder if the divine had ever truly listened, or if his fervent pleas had been in vain.

His grip on the reins had been so fierce his knuckles had turned bone-white, and he had felt his bones groan under the strain of his hold. As Vhagar’s powerful wings beat through the air, his heart had pounded so forcefully it felt as though it might burst from his chest. In that moment, with Vhagar beneath him, Aemond had felt an exhilarating sense of invincibility–a god himself, or as close to one as he would ever be. He had claimed the most formidable dragon in existence, and with that claim, he believed he had finally attained his greatest desires. 

The price Aemond had paid for claiming Vhagar had been steep–an eye, cruelly carved from its socket by one of the bastards who had mocked, humiliated, and tormented him throughout his life. 

Claiming the dragon had changed nothing. There was no justice for the blood he had spilled, no reparation for the grievous injury he had suffered. Instead, the seed of injustice had taken root in the soil of resentment, and from that, his rage had flourished.

His father had never truly acknowledged him, even when Aemond had gone to great lengths to be the ideal, dutiful son. The respect he had longed for remained elusive; instead, he was the subject of whispered conversations in shadowed corners, his scarred face drawing looks of revulsion.

Even the love from his mother, while genuine, was marred by shame and guilt—it was a conditional affection, a painful truth that Aemond had come to realize now that he had sought justice for himself. 

Claiming a dragon had changed nothing–except for him. In his loss, he had forged himself into a weapon, burying any notion of love deep within his heart where it could neither grow nor see the light, left instead to rot and fester in darkness. To the world, he presented a mask as hard and cold as steel, as sharp and merciless as the blade he wielded with ease.

Duty had demanded sacrifices from him, and sacrifice he did.

For so long, all Aemond had desired was to be respected, to be revered, to be seen as someone of greatness. He had admired The Rogue Prince for the respect he commanded, a respect born of both fear and honor. As a second son and a dragonrider, Aemond too yearned to carve his name into the annals of history as a war hero, to be remembered not just in fear but in awe. And beneath all the layers of ambition, the desire to be loved still lingered, buried yet persistent.

In pursuit of this, he had made his sacrifices. He spilled blood. He let go of his hopes and wishes for genuine respect and reverence. He sacrificed his honor and, ultimately, his very name.

If respect would not come through admiration, then he would claim it through fear. His honor was irrevocably stained, yet in its own twisted way, this realization liberated him. Aemond accepted the grim truth of his legacy: his name would be carved into the annals of history, not alongside the Rogue Prince’s for his daring feats, but as the Kinslayer. He was destined to be remembered in infamy, condemned by gods and men alike, forever marked by their curses.

The gods had never bestowed upon him any gifts, nor had anything else come to him freely. Everything he had, he had fought for and seized with his own hands, claiming each fragment of his existence through struggle and strife.

Standing in the sanctity of the gods, he felt no divine presence; he believed they had abandoned him long before he became a kinslayer. Had the gods shown him mercy or ensured justice when he most needed it, perhaps they would have been with him as he rode into the storm, perhaps they wouldn't have placed the boy who stole his eye in his path. Maybe then, things would have been different. But the gods had not been with him, and he suspected they never truly had been.

If the gods now thought of him, they did not think of him kindly–not with the blood he had on his hands.

As Aemond shifted his gaze, a gold dread settled in his chest, his heart seeming to freeze as his eye locked onto something–or rather, someone–on the far side of the altar. His breath caught, as he stood in silence, watching the figure that lurked just beyond the flickering flames of the altar. The light cast eerie shadows across the figure's face, lending a deceptive warmth to skin that was otherwise as pale as death itself.

Death had its grip firmly on him–his skin devoid of life, his eyes clouded with a milky blue haze that spoke of the grave. The figure stood there, drenched to the bone, dark curls clinging to his scalp. Water dripped steadily from his soaked clothing, forming small pools on the cold stone floor of the sept. 

There he was, the boy he had killed.

The boy who had made him a kinslayer.

The boy whose blood had cost him what he loved… 

Yet, not everything was lost. Though her love might forever elude him, she remained his–his bride, his wife. The boy may haunt him all he wanted, it would not change a thing. Whether it was vengeance or justice, it no longer mattered. He was dead. Aemond would carry the weight of that haunting gaze–those lifeless, milky eyes judging him silently. 

Aemond’s gaze fell to the cloak draped over his arm. His fingers brushed lightly across the plush, velvet fabric–rich green in color, adorned with a golden, three-headed dragon embroidered elegantly on the back.

He was under no illusions about the gods playing any part in this union. There were no divine blessings gracing this marriage; it was a product of his own ambition, a result of his personal decree. Underneath the soft glow of the candles and the veil of decorum that draped the ceremony, Aemond knew a hidden, festering truth lingered–a wound concealed, yet far from healed.

The heavy doors behind him swung open with a resounding throng, the sound slicing through the low murmur of conversation and resonating through the vast, domed ceiling. The sound reverberated within Aemond’s chest, his heart thrumming with its echo. All eyes turned towards the source of the light that split the darkness, streaming through the widening gap–a sliver that expanded until the light became almost blinding in the shadowy room. 

Aemond took a moment to steady his heartbeat and ensure that his composure remained intact–his features set into a mask of smooth, cutting steel, an expression of indifference crafted to rival those of the gods that seemed to gaze down in silent judgment. As he turned to face the blinding light, he had to squint against its glare, momentarily disoriented by the dazzling brilliance that seemed to cleave the sept in two. 

At first, she was little more than a dark silhouette, swallowed up by the blinding light that streamed through the sept’s entrance. She was light refracted, a splintered, ruinous divinity–an image of a goddess, both unlovely and lovely, like a half-forgotten memory of something divine. 

Was this what the moth saw just before its wings succumbed to the searing embrace of the flame? Aemond believed so, for in that moment, he felt a similar pull, as if he were the moth drawn into the fire. A fierce heat ignited beneath his skin, engulfing him, consuming him, as he stood transfixed by the sight of her.

Aemond gritted his teeth, swallowing hard as he beheld her. His heart thundered violently within his chest, each beat threatening to shatter his ribs and burst forth, falling to the sept’s floor for all to see–exposing how pathetic and vulnerable and weak it truly was, corrupted by love, poisoned by love that had rotted him from within. He clung to his mask, steeling himself, gripping it so tightly in fear that those gathered would see what lay beneath it. 

Desperately, he clung to his mask of indifference, gripping it with the facade tightly for fear that those gathered might glimpse what lay beneath. Beneath the cloak, his hand tightened into a fist, the ring on his finger pressing uncomfortably into his skin. 

As they began their procession into the sept, following the stream of light pouring through the open doors, she seemed to absorb the light around her, drinking in the radiance. The beads on her gown shimmered like morning dew catching the first rays of the sun–she seemed like a star descended from the heavens to walk among them. Each step she took was accompanied by the soft whisper of her gown brushing against the floor, the sound resonating in the deep silence of the sept. 

With each step, she drew nearer to the altar–nearer to him. The brilliance of the light dimmed as she approached, swallowed by the encroaching shadows that clung stubbornly to the space, despite the hundreds of candles flickering in defiance of the darkness. 

As she was led down the aisle towards the altar, there was a delicate, almost fragile quality to her demeanor. She resembled a wounded bird, her smile a blend of ineffable melancholy and sweetness. Beneath the crafted facade of porcelain and ivory, there was hidden steel–an armor not unlike his own. 

Her gaze, fixed on the flickering flames at the altar, refused to meet his. This act of defiance, while deeply endearing, also cut him sharply. He longed for her eyes to turn towards him, but her refusal only heightened the sting of rejection, a familiar restlessness that prickled beneath his skin. It was a sensation akin to needles against his nerves, a reminder of the bitter sweetness of her presence–an affliction he craved, even if it came with a burning resentment. 

They came to halt just before the altar, with Aegon allowing Daenera to withdraw her hand from the crook of his arm as he faced her. Aemond’s gaze narrowed slightly, his lips pursing as he glared at his brother who had moved to cradle the sides of Daenera’s face. His brother’s touch was almost tender, as if it were familial affection, and Aegon brought Daenera’s forehead down to his lips, bestowing a kiss that seemed both intimate and patronizing. Daenera’s expression shifted to one of bewilderment, a slight frown creasing her brow as her lips pressed together in confusion and discomfort. Her gaze flitted nervously down the aisle, her brows knitting together in uncertainty as he held her face a moment longer–too long. Before he withdrew, he let his knuckle gently trace over her cheek–a gesture that might seem tender and affectionate if Aemond didn’t know how his brother. 

Finally, Aegon turned away from Daenera and faced Aemond, a smirk curling at the corners of his lips. The smirk was charged with amusement and seemed to mock Aemond’s pointed glare.

Fury simmered within Aemond, his fingers itching to unsheathe his sword and cleave Aegon’s hand from his body, but he was all too aware of the absence of his weapon and the presence of witnesses. And he knew better than to let his rage explode in such a public setting. Aegon smugly retreated to stand with their mother and grandfather, the latter offering him a reproachful glance. He reached out to briefly ruffle his son’s hair as the boy stood before his mother. 

The bewilderment lingered on Daenera’s face as she watched Aegon retreat, her eyes blinking slowly before she composed herself. As she turned towards the altar, her blue eyes lifted to meet the High Septon’s gaze–pointedly avoiding Aemond’s. She took a tentative step forward, then paused. 

At that moment, a tightness gripped Aemond’s chest, as if his ribs were constricting around his lungs–tightening around his heart. He suddenly felt like that young boy again, alone in his suffering, refused the one thing he ever truly wanted. 

Daenera’s gaze drifted over the crowd before she slowly turned away from Aemond entirely, making her way towards Helaena and Jaehaera. With a soft smile, she extended the bouquet of flowers to the young girl, her voice a gentle hum, “Will you hold this for me?”

A radiant smile lit up Jaehaera’s face as she let go of her mother’s hand to take the bouquet, which was nearly as large as she was. Although Helaena would likely end up holding it eventually, for the moment, Jaehaera glowed with pride at being entrusted with such an important role.

Once the bouquet was settled in Jaehaera’s arms, Daenera straightened to her full height and turned back towards Aemond. She walked deliberately back to his side, her gaze remaining steadfastly away from him. As she took her place next to him, her expression was once again a mask of porcelain–an impenetrable facade of serene grace, betraying no hint of vulnerability. 

The High Septon’s voice rang out, commanding and resonant, cutting through the silence of the sept like a clap of thunder. “You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

Turning away from Aemond, Daenera adjusted the veil, carefully lifting it from her shoulders along with the cascade of her hair that tumbled down her back. The removal of the sweeping of the veil unveiled the gentle curve of her neck, where her earrings swayed with the motion, catching Aemond’s eye. His gaze was inevitably drawn to the faint line of soft pink drawn on her skin from where the blade had kissed her. Though it had healed, a subtle scar remained, a mark on the tender flesh that, while not deep enough to be permanent, would take its time to fade. 

As Aemond unfolded the cloak, its deep green hue appeared almost black in the subdued light, though its true color shone through when it caught the light just right. When he draped the cloak over her shoulders, he noted the subtle tension in her neck, the fine hairs at the base of her skull stirring as a shiver seemed to travel down her spine. 

The lingering scent of roses clung to her skin–sweet and flowery with undertones of saffron and raspberry, and a hint of something he couldn’t quite place. The fragrance filled his senses, warming his blood and settling in his stomach, sending a shiver through him.  A tingling sensation prickled beneath his skin, the desire to reach out for her itching at his fingertips. Yet he exercised restraint, allowing his hands to fall and settle behind him as he straightened his spine. 

As Daenera turned back toward the High Septon, her hair cascaded elegantly over the cloak, with the veil gracefully following suit, settling softly over both her hair and the cloak. Aemond’s gaze, too, shifted forward, focusing intently on the High Septon as the ceremony continued.

The boy’s silent figure lingered by the altar, shadows seemingly coiling around him as rivulets of water trailed down his face and soaked clothing. Motionless, he made no move to acknowledge his sister or intrude upon the scene; he merely stood there, an eerie specter that continued to haunt Aemond with his presence.

The High Septon directed his gaze toward the King and Queen, his tone respectful as he addressed them, “Your Grace,” and “Your Grace.” He then turned to acknowledge the Dowager Queenwith a respectful nod before addressing the assembly as a whole.

“My lords and ladies,” he began, his voice resonant and commanding, “we stand here in the sight of the gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

The High Septon extended his weathered hand, silently inviting Daenera to place her own within his. As she complied, the heavy sleeve of her gown rustled softly against the fabric of her skirts, her hand coming to rest gently in the Septon’s grip. 

Then, he extended his other hand toward Aemond. He lifted his palm, the deep scar running across it visible, glowing in the candlelight–a lingering mark of the love they once shared; the testament of it. 

As the Septon brough their hands together, he placed Daenera’s delicate, soft hand into Aemond’s calloused one. The contact sent a shudder down his spine, which he struggled to suppress, his heart pounding violently against his ribs–beating much the same as it had when he had claimed Vhagar. Her skin felt unnervingly cold against the warmth of his own.

A ribbon, symbolizing unity and connection, was then delicately wound around their clasped hands. This act served as a tangible representation of the vows they were about to make, physically binding them together in a gesture of their newly forged bond.

Once, her hand had not trembled as it did now. It had been warm and steady, her palm gently meeting his, their blood mingling in a bond that neither of them fully acknowledged at the time. For a long time, it had been a creeping vine, slowly touching upon everything. This creeping love had flourished in the darkness, thriving in the night and the spaces between the shadows and the heart.

His gaze drifted to the altar behind the High Septon, where flames burned brightly, and the candle wax dripped slowly down the stone slab. At the center of the altar, the seven-pointed star was etched deeply into the stone. 

Aemond found it strange that he had felt a deeper sense of divinity back when they had sat alone before the hearth’s flames, enveloped in darkness with only the flames as their witness. There had been something sacred in that moment when they had cut their palms–when they had shared their blood. 

Now, as he turned his attention back to Daenera, he observed her intently. The flames cast a warm glow over her delicate features, flickering in the blue of her eyes–eyes that stubbornly continued to elude him. He found her denial cruel, even now, as they stood so close, hands tied together. She ignited in him a feverish desire, a longing not just to possess but to be wholly possessed by her. 

The love Aemond felt for Daenera was of a nature separate from the divine sanctity preached by the Faith or the sentimental ideals told to children. He understood that it was marred by darkness, corrupt and corrupting, a love that was as vicious and obscene as it was consuming. It was born from the shadows, a dark flower growing from tainted soil–an inherent reflection of its twisted, obscene and flawed essence.

Yet, amidst its darkness, there was an element of purity–a facet of this love that was beyond the sanctity preached by the Faith, deeper than any tale told to children. Even a flower that grows twisted, possessed its own haunting beauty. 

As a boy, he had yearned for love, a longing that had been ruthlessly bullied out of him, carved away until he rejected any hint of weakness. And love was weakness in the purest form, wasn’t it? He had sworn never to seek such vulnerability again–determined never to be perceived as weak. That desire had been buried deep within him, denied and discarded. Yet here he was, a scar burning across his palm, having sought that very weakness he abhorred. 

He found himself ensnared, tormented, and utterly consumed by the intoxicating sweetness of her poison–even in its cruelty. The yearning he harbored for her suffocated him; he choked on it, drowned in its dark allure. He loathed this weakness, the restless unease it brought, for it exposed the soft, pathetic core of his rotten heart. 

When does love truly begin? At what moment does the knife sink so deep that the flesh weeps with love? Aemond had cut himself open on this love for her, bleeding and wounded, yet still willing to endure another wound, just for a single kiss–just for a fleeting glance. 

If the gods were ever inclined to heed a prayer of his, he hoped it would be this one: either to liberate him from this torturous love so that he can fulfill his duties to his family, or grant him the strength to withstand the weight of her hatred. 

It seemed the gods had born Aemond with an insatiable hunger–the longing of it, a hungry desire, a craving to possess and be possessed. 

He had long starved himself of his desires, had swallowed his longings, denying his ambition and wants for years, claiming only what little he could. For so long, Vhagar had been his sole solace, the only refuge from his hunger. But now, he would not deny himself his single true desire. He would claim Daenera as his wife, even if it cut him open. He would harden his heart around the vulnerability she inspired, protecting her there even if she clawed and tore at it.  

The High Septon spread his hands wide, holding them aloft as he called upon the gods, his voice resonating through the heavy silence of the sept. “We invoke the Father, to protect these two souls from their enemies and ensure that any wrongs against them are met with justice; the Mother, to bless this union and keep it safe and fruitful–”

Aemond felt something stir within him at the invocation, a feeling clawing its way from the darkness into the light, neither entirely pure nor wholly corrupt, but imbued with a deep reverence. His heart pounded against his ribs, threatening to burst forth as a deep hum emerged from his chest. It flowed from his lips in an ancient vow, long buried and mostly forgotten. 

“Isse aōha perzys nyke rijībagon.”

In your fire I worship. 

He had spoken those words to her that night–the night when they had cut their palms and mingled their blood, binding their veins together in a shared vow. Though it felt like a distant dream, Aemond recalled it with startling clarity. In that moment, the world had seemed to dissolve into insignificance. All ties of duty and responsibility vanished, leaving only his hunger for her and the two of them alone in existence. 

Back then, they too had been enveloped in shadows, the warmth and light from the hearth licking at their skin, much like how the hundreds of candles now tempered the chill lingering in the air of the sept. That moment had been far more intimate, a baring of hearts as profound as it was unspoken. 

Aemond had known it even then; deep within him, the realization had gnawed at his consciousness and echoed through his bones. He had desired her as his wife, shrouded though his feelings were in denial and pretense. His longing had been so intense that it had even driven him to seek out his father once he felt her slipping from his grasp.

He yearned for the days when she had gazed upon him with affection–with love. He ached for the moments when her eyes had met his with understanding, prying beneath his mask, erasing the deep, persistent ache that followed him like a shadow, soothing the deep-seated loneliness that had settled within his bones. 

But he would accept her scorn as long as she was his. 

As Aemond spoke, her gaze rose to meet his, her blue eyes flickering with a tremor of uncertainty. She looked at him in bewilderment, confusion, and disbelief–she looked upon him as a girl would behold a thing once cherished, that had come to destroy her in the end. 

The High Septon’s voice rose solemnly in the hushed silence in the sept, “We call upon the Warrior, to grant these souls with the courage needed to stand firm against adversity, and to protect their sacred union from the evils seeking to pull them apart; the Maiden’s grace, to fill their hearts with love and tender joy!”

A low, reverent murmur fell softly from his lips as Aemond watched her closely, “Isse se vāedar hen aōha prūmia mazeman lyks. Isse aōha ondos, iā egros lēda skore kostā gaomagon naejot nekēbagon hen skoros iksis aōhon.”

In your breath I find life, in the beating of your heart I find peace. 

In your palm, a blade, with which you may use to carve out what is yours.

In the utterance of those words, Aemond found both rot and reverence. They evoked a memory–one where Daenera had pressed a blade to his throat, its edge a dangerous whisper against his skin. She had wielded the power to press the blade deeper, to end his life with a single, ruthless stroke, and drain him of life–she could have cracked his ribs and torn his heart from his chest. 

Yet, she had refrained. Despite her resistance, her refusal to voice it–despite the silence that followed–there was an unmistakable thread of love in her restraint, reluctant though she might be to recognize it.

In that fleeting moment of hesitation, Aemond found a sliver of hope–imperfect and twisted though it was. This love, betrayed and broken, was nonetheless a form of love, shaped by the sharp edges of their intertwined fates. And even in its twisted, deteriorated form, it was something he clung to desperately.

“We ask the Smith, to fortify their bond, crafting from their spirits a connection as resilient as the finest steel, capable of withstanding the trials of time; the Crone, bestow your wisdom upon them, lighting their path with the lantern of foresight and understanding, guiding their steps through life together.”

Her gaze remained on him, the fire from the altar reflecting in the deep blue of her eyes–reminiscent of a sun blazing against the night sky, tears barely held at bay. Her lips parted, releasing a trembling breath.

In that moment, Aemond felt the urgent press of her nails against his skin, a sweet stinging marking his flesh as she dug her claws into him. “Ondoso aōha prūmia rests ñuhon.Nyke tepagon ao ñuha jorepnon.”

By your heart mine rests. 

I give you my prayer.

“And from the Stranger,” the High Septon’s voice rose with solemn authority, “we ask that he not claim them before their time, but instead grant them a long and loving life together.”

The High Septon’s invocation reached out to the gods who had long been indifferent to him, who had never answered his own pleas. Aemond did not seek the divine favor of the gods who had abandoned him–would they even hear him if he did? Instead, he sought a divinity shaped by something far more visceral–one forged in fire and blood, far removed from the distant indifference of the gods he knew. 

Aemond concluded this vow with a voice that held both resolve and raw intensity, “Isse aōha nesh, morghon kesan gīmigon, se isse aōha perzys kesan zālagon…Ñuha jorrāelagon, bisa nyke vow naejot ao ondoso Perzys Ānogār.”

In your embrace, I will welcome Death; in your fire, I shall be consumed. My love, this vow I make to you with fire and blood.

Daenera’s eyes, a stormy sea of blue, held a tempest of emotions–the cornflower blue of willowing fields mingling with the deep blues of dusk and dawn, relentless waves crashing upon the shore mingling with the blue of fleeting dreams. In that sea of blue, a fierce resentment burned with such intensity that Aemond could almost feel its searing heat against his flesh–a consuming fire that promised only to reduce him to ashes in the wake of its wrath. Within this blaze, there was a strange sense of intimacy–only hatred born of love could bring such intimacy. 

Her voice slipped through the space between them with the subtlety of a hidden blade pressing between his ribs, each word furthering the blade, letting it sink into his flesh. “Aōha kivio, pōnta vāedagon lēda se echo hen pirtir.”

Even your vows sound like a betrayal.

The accusation stung, and perhaps it was a betrayal, both to the gods who had long ignored his pleas–who remained still his gods–and a deeper treachery–a betrayal of his own heart, laid bare and vulnerable. He betrayed himself, and in this, he revealed a weakness he had long sought to conceal–a weakness he had long sought to rid himself of. 

In the bite of her nails, Aemond felt her silent demand for him to hold his tongue, for him to keep his words burning in his throat to choke on. The sting of her touch held a dark reverence–a perverse sort of devotion only hatred born of love held. And like a sinner seeking absolution through the infliction of pain, Aemond welcomed the sting, knowing well that there was no true absolution for him, but accepting the pain with a twisted sort of gratitude. 

His love for her was a brutal thing, verging on viciousness–an intensity that he understood as the only true way to love. For him, love was akin to a blade working a wound, a relentless assault of teeth, claws, and shredded flesh. It was a raw, bloody vulnerability, given and received in equal measure, an all-consuming force that left both of them exposed and scarred.

The High Septon’s gaze flickered between them, his voice rich with gravitas of tradition and divine solemnity. “Look upon one another and speak these sacred words,” he instructed. “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger, I am theirs and they are mine from this day until the end of my days…”

Aemond’s voice was steady as he began, “Father, Smith, Warrior–” as Daenera spoke the same words. They continued in discorded unison, their voices intertwining in the sacred vows, “Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger…”

Their gazes remained locked on one another, the faint whisper of flames fluttering in the silence that enveloped their words. A tremor threaded through her voice, eyes wide and wet as she stared back at him, the corners of her lips quivering. 

“I am hers…” Aemond declared as Daenera answered, “I am his…”

“And she is mine…” He continued, voice steady.

“And he is mine…” Daenera echoed, her voice soft but firm. Her grip on Aemond's hand tightened, her fingers curling and pressing into his flesh with a vindictive intensity. The tips of her fingers dug into the spaces between his bones, twisting his flesh, promising to leave the sting of red crescents on his skin.

Together, they intoned, “And with this kiss, I pledge my love from this day until the end of my days…”

Gently, Aemond raised his free hand to her face, tenderly brushing away the tears trail. Daenera neither moved closer to welcome his touch nor recoiled from it; she merely endured it with a quiet resignation. His hand lingered on her cheek for a moment longer before he leaned in, capturing her lips in a quick, aching kiss. It was fleeting, yet devastating in its intensity. Her lips were soft, but there was a coldness to them, a distance that stung him more than any blade ever could. As their mouths met, he tasted the bitterness there–bitter like the dark wine he liked, bitter like the poison that he had come to crave.

Aemond’s heart ached with the need to linger, to lose himself in her, to drink deeply from her as if she were the sweetest nectar–desperately pathetic for it. He knew well the taste of her lips, the pull they had on him, and how he was drawn to them despite knowing it could destroy him. Her lips, though soft, were distant, and even in this intimate moment, she felt like something just out of reach.

It was a kiss that seemed to solidify their vows, a silent pledge made before the watchful eyes of the gods. 

The High Septon’s voice cut through the silence, rising with a solemn authority as he declared, “Let the gods and all present bear witness to this union!”

He raised his hands towards the heavens, as if drawing down divine favor to imbue his words with sacred power. “Let it be known, from this day until the end of days, Daenera and Aemond are united as one, bound together in the sight of the gods. Cursed be he who seeks to tear them from each other, for their bond is holy!”

As the High Septon concluded his oration, the solemnity of his words hung in the air, a profound declaration of unity and commitment steeped in the traditions and beliefs of the Faith of the Seven. “They are one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever!”

The High Septon carefully untied the ribbon that had bound their hands, his movements deliberate and measured. The soft fabric brushed against Aemond’s skin as it slipped away, signaling the end of the ritual. Though their hands were now free, the vows they had exchanged had irrevocably bound them together in a more profound way.

Lucerys presence lingered just beyond the altar. He hovered there, a silent witness to the proceedings, his unseeing eyes fixed on them, judging, watching–a cold reminder of the past that refused to stay buried, refusing to be forgotten.

As they turned to face the court, the air within the sept seemed to shift. They stood side by side, a unified front, their hands still clasped together as though the ribbon hadn’t been removed. The quiet solemnity that had enveloped the sept was slowly replaced by a growing murmur of approval, building into a robust applause that reverberated through the grand space. The resonant sound filled the ornate, arched ceilings of the sept, reverberating off the gilded stone. 

Aemond felt the weight of the court’s gaze settle upon him, a familiar burden he bore with practiced ease–steel concealed beneath a veneer of calm. His lips curved into a self-assured smirk as he bore their judgment. 

Together, as the applause washed over them, Aemond began to lead Daenera, and their procession, down the aisle when a youthful voice pierced the air, halting them. 

“Aunty Dae!” Princess Jaehaera shouted, much to the dismay of her nursemaid, her voice followed by the patter of small feet over the smooth stone of the floor. The young princess darted towards Daenera, her arms filled with the bouquet of flowers she had been given to hold earlier. “Your flowers!”

Daenera’s lips curved into a warm, genuine smile as she accepted the flowers with a gracious ‘Thank you.’

“Can we have lemon cakes when we get back?” Jaehaera asked with hopeful eyes, moving out of the reach as her grandmother came to quiet her from interrupting the procession. 

“Of course, you can have as many cakes as you’d like,” Daenera replied, her tone soft and indulgent. Jaehaera’s face lit up with a radiant beam, her joy palpable as she was swept into the embrace of her nursemaid. 

With a decisive, yet graceful stride, he guided his wife forward, each step marked by the soft rustle of her skirts. The sound of their footsteps, muted beneath the applause, echoed against the stone floors of the sept. The court began to follow after them as they led the way. 

They moved into the column of light streaming through the open doors, the golden rays catching on Daenera’s gown once more, the beads shimmering with a delicate brilliance. In the recesses of Aemond’s mind, a poetic notion flickered through his consciousness: he was the night itself, cradling the radiance of a star, guiding her across the sky in a loving dance. 

Ascending the steps into the daylight, they emerged onto the landing that overlooked the plaza below. The sky above was a brilliant blue, the sun beginning its slow descent towards the horizon. Aemond guided Daenera to the edge of the landing, their presence announced by Ser Rickard Thorne’s resonant voice:

“Prince Aemond Targaryen and his wife, Princess Daenera Targaryen!”

As Ser Rickard Thorne’s announcement echoed across the plaza, the crowd erupted into cheers and adulations. Aemond gazed down upon them, observing the shifting masses of people as their hands reached towards them. It was as if they sought to touch upon them. Despite their enthusiasm, Aemond felt detached, viewing them with disdain; to him, they were mere mud beneath his heel–a sea of commonality, their attire practical and drab, tinted in various hues of brown that matched the earth. 

The hands that surged towards them were as telling as the faces: weathered and worn by hard labor, stained and rough, clawing at the air in a desperation that bordered on primal. Pathetic. 

The cheers that rose from the crowd were not for him; Aemond knew that if they reached for him, it was not in reverence but in violence–they sought to tear him limb from limb and wrench the sapphire from his eye socket as they tore the ribbons of his bowls out of him. It was a cruel death, and in their eyes, he was all too deserving of such a fate.

At his side, Daenera waved to the people, her expression softened by a gentle smile. He wondered, with a tightening in his chest, whether the crowd would turn on her if given the chance now that she was his wife. Would they rip at her dress, snatch the silver and gold from her hair, claw into her flesh in their wild fervor?

The thought of their hands, stained and rough, ravaging her was anathema to him. He resolved silently that he would not allow it. Any attempt to harm her would be met with swift retribution. He would see to it that anyone who dared lay a finger on her would lose that hand. 

Aemond’s watchful eye scanned the crowd when he felt Daenera’s hand slip from his grasp. The loss of her touch struck him like the snuffing out of a warm flame, leaving his skin tingling with its absence. He let his hand drop to his side, restlessly twitching.

His attention followed her as she took a tentative step forward, passing her bouquet of flowers into Lady Edelins hands as she did so. Her posture was poised, her spine straight and head held high, though there was a carefulness to it. Moving with deliberate grace, she approached the edge of the landing, her gaze sweeping across the now hushing crowd. 

The plaza descended into silence as Daenera reached out to grasp the wrought iron railing of the landing. Her hands traced the contours of the weathered metal, sweeping along its length as she gracefully bent her knees and leaned forward. Her arms extended fully, her body nearly parallel to the railing as she tilted her head forward in a deep, respectful bow to the assembled masses. 

“The Mother bless you, Princess!” A voice pierced through the silence. “May the Mother protect you!”

The crowd, seemingly moved by her gesture, erupted into a cacophony of shouts and cheers, surging forward with renewed fervor. 

The gold cloaks sprang into action, their voices raised in a command as they pushed the crowd back, striving to prevent them from breaking through the line and storming the steps. The tension between the disciplined restraint of the guards and the swell of the crowd grew. 

Suddenly, a shout cut through the clamor, piercing and clear: “All Hail Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen! The Rightful Queen!” It was quickly followed by another, the crowd’s voices swelling, “Seven blessings to Lucerys Velaryon!” 

Just as the clamor swelled, Ser Criston Cole intervened from behind them with a decisive tone, “We should get back to the Keep. The crowd is getting restless.”

Heeding his advice, Aegon and Helaena descended the steps, the nursemaids trailing closely behind, each holding one of the twins. Jaejaerys clutched his toy dragon tightly, a frown on his face at the noise, while Jaehaera’s head bobbed slightly, her eyes wide and uncertain. The Dowager Queen followed in their wake, accompanied by the Hand of the King. 

The Kingsguard flanked their procession, their white cloaks fluttering dramatically in the breeze. Their hands rested on the hilt of their swords, ever vigilant and poised for action, ready to draw steel should a threat arise. 

Aemond approached Daenera, his hand finding its way to the small of her back as he spoke softly but firmly, “Come.”

Their gazes met, and she responded with a small, solemn nod, a slight frown on her face. Aemond's touch remained firm yet gentle as he led her towards the staircase. Daenera carefully gathered her long skirts in her hands, lifting them just enough to ensure she wouldn’t trip, her movement graceful and deliberate under his watchful gaze. 

They descended together to second landing, their pace deliberate as they approached the next flight of stairs leading down to the bustling plaza below. As they drew closer, the roar of the crowd grew louder, and hands reached out from between the guards who struggled to maintain control. The guards formed a human barricade, their voices sharp and commanding as they ordered the crowd to step back and make way. Despite their efforts, the narrow path through the plaza seemed to shrink under the pressure from the surging throng, which grew increasingly restless and agitated.

A piercing shout cut through the din, “Cursed be the Kinslayer!” 

The word ‘kinslayer’ echoed ominously through the air, its resonance carrying the weight of venomous hostility as it reverberated among the crowd. 

Aemond drew Daenera close, his hand steady against the small of her back as he cast a wary glance down the narrow path. The crowd pressed against the line of gold cloaks, their faces contorted with hostility and their hands reaching out in a desperate, grasping motion. 

They shouted at him as though he were some cruel man who had lured away the princess of flowers–drawing her from her mother’s protection, binding her in marriage to keep her forever by his side. They painted him a monster. And, perhaps, the accusation rang true. After all, the monster they thought him to be was not so far from the man he was.

“Monster!” Someone hurled at them–at him–the word slicing through the air. In stark opposition to the insults hurled his way, flower petals began to rain down upon them, fluttering through the air like pink snow before settling on the ground where they were trampled underfoot. The sweet scent mingled with the dirt and grime of the city. 

“The Mother protect the princess from the kinslayer!” A voice rang out, its fervent swallowed by the tumult. Almost immediately, another shout echoed through the throng, “The gods protect you from the monster!”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding as he suppressed the impulse to react. He remained impassive, his gaze unwavering despite the barrage of vitriol directed at him. To him, their disdain was inconsequential–a mere squeak from rats that would not distract a cat from its path. He cared little for their outcries; his focus was solely on the path ahead and on Daenera by his side. 

Amidst the cacophony of insults and outcry directed at Aemond, there was also currents of prayers and adulations aimed at Daenera. Shouts of well-wishes and expressions of admiration were directed towards her, while flowers and petals continued to rain down upon them as they made their way through the narrow passage between the buildings towards the awaiting litter. 

Aemond extended his hand, offering support as Daenera climbed the steps. Her veil fluttered in the wind as she prepared to step into the litter, momentarily revealing the green cloak draped over her shoulders. With a graceful motion, she settled into the plush seat, the fabric of her gown spreading around her. Aemond followed, ascending the steps and ducking into the litter. He positioned himself directly across from her, his gaze lingering on her as the door closed, shutting out the bustling city beyond.

She had been radiant, smiling and waving at the crowd outside, but as soon as the door closed, her smile vanished. It fell away like a fading illusion, her hand drifting to rest in her lap, her demeanor shifting to one of quiet resignation. Her gaze remained on the narrow slit in the window shutters, through which she could watch as they city slipped by as the litter began its journey. 

Outside, the clamor of the crowd was reduced to a distant murmur, muted by the walls of the litter. The noisy throng was mostly swallowed by the relentless sound of wooden wheels rumbling over the cobblestones, the litter jolting and shaking with every bump. Aemond detested riding in a litter. 

The fleeting rays of sunlight played across her face as the silence stretched, heavy and unyielding. Aemond’s gaze remained on her, watching her closely, attempting to decipher her expression–her face was a mask of neutrality, eyes resolutely averted, her demeanor devoid of any pretense or desire for interaction. 

Aemond broke the silence with a tone that seemed almost too forceful. “You look beautiful.”

Daenera’s eyes stayed locked on the narrow gap in the shutters, her refusing to meet his gaze. She answered coolly, her voice devoid of warmth or emotion. “So I’ve been told.”

Lively music echoed through the throne room, the musicians playing with a cheerful energy, their instruments weaving a tapestry of festive melodies that filled the grand space. The low hum of conversation mingled with the music, creating a backdrop of lively chatter and the soft clinking of glasses. 

At the center of the festivities, Aemond and Daenera were prominently seated on a raised dias, positioned before the imposing Iron Throne. Behind them, the twisted wrought steel of the throne loomed like a dark, intricate wreath, its sharp, jagged edges framing their elevated position. Their table, draped in lush green velvet, stood out against the grandeur of the room, adorned with two opulent floral arrangements that flanked them in a rainbow of colors; red, yellow, orange, purple, blue, white. 

The table, set between columns bearing the stern, stone effigies of Aegon the Conqueror and his son Aenys, seemed almost dwarfed by the weight of their gaze. The stony visages of the king's past seemed to watch over the proceedings, their silent presence a reminder of the legacy that had led them to this point. 

The table itself was a canvas of decadence, laden with an array of sumptuous dishes and fine wines, reflecting the opulence of the occasion. Gold and silver platters gleamed under the flickering light from the wrought iron light fixtures above, their surfaces showcasing a feast fit for royalty. Each dish was meticulously arranged, a testament to the culinary mastery that had gone into preparing the evening’s repast. 

Aemond had filled his plate with meats and steamed vegetables. And yet, he felt no desire to eat. 

From his elevated position, Aemond cast a detached gaze over the lively celebration below. Although he was positioned at the head of the festivities, an unmistakable sense of separation lingered within him. It had been barely a week since he had last sat here, celebrated for his perceived victory over the bastard boy and his dragon at Storm’s End–just a week since Daenera had entered the throne room draped in bloody red, mourning her brother's death.

Now, she sat beside him once more, adorned in gleaming ivory rather than somber red–a cloak of green draping over her shoulders. This time, she was not just his betrothed but his wife, bound to him in the sight of the gods and the realm. 

This was what he had longed for–her by his side as his wife. This was what he had fought for, what he had meticulously plotted and schemed to achieve, even going against his mother’s wishes.

Although the satisfaction of finally claiming her as his wife was immense, the sense of victory was diminished by the persistent coldness that lingered between them. Her polite smiles to guests were a veneer over the underlying chill, while Aemond himself offered no more than a sharp, satisfied smirk. Beneath that smirk, though, lay a constant ache, an unspoken yearning that prickled at his fingertips, urging him to bridge the distance between them. 

Daenera offered no pretense, her demeanor cold  and unyielding beneath the mask of formality she wore. She made no effort to engage in conversation with him, nor did she show any desire to. Aemond had expected this, and he refrained from forcing the issue–though it did little to ease the sting of her indifference. Instead, he resigned himself to the chill of her silence, finding some solace in the knowledge that she was now his wife–an unalterable fact that remained, despite the emotional distance between them.

Around them, guests in their finest attire mingled and laughed, reveling in the opulence of the feast. The room buzzed with animated conversation and the clinking of cutlery as the evening’s festivities unfolded. The servants moved deftly among the tables, replenishing goblets with rich wine and ensuring no cup remained empty for long. 

Rows of elegantly set tables stretched between the imposing columns, their surfaces adorned with gleaming silverware that shimmered with every flicker of light. The tables were meticulously arranged to leave the broad central aisle open, creating a clear and inviting path for the evening’s dancing and festivities. Around the bases of the columns, elaborate floral arrangements were wound, while grand vases brimming with blooms stood proudly at the center of each table. The air was infused with the sweet fragrance of fresh flowers, mingling with the rich aroma of beeswax candles and the scent of the lavish feast.

To the right, set apart by a respectful distance, the King and Queen’s table partook in the celebration. The table exuded a grandeur that was both understated and unmistakable. Adorned with regal silver and rich velvet, it commanded a view of the entire room. Strategically positioned, it provided a vantage point over the celebrations while maintaining a dignified separation from the bridal table. The elegance of the table mirrored the room’s overall splendor, ensuring that even in their distinct placement, they remained central to the evening’s events.

A sudden, resounding clank pierced through the hum of music and conversation, drawing every eye in the room. The Hand of the King had risen from his seat at the King’s table, a cup of wine in hand. He discarded the knife he had drummed against the cup before stepping away from the table. The music came to an abrupt halt, the lively chatter of the crowd faded into a hushed silence as Otto Hightower commanded the room’s full attention. 

Clearing his throat, Otto began, his voice carrying the weight of formality and authority. “Upon his deathbed, King Viserys had two final wishes…” His gaze swept over the assembled guests before settling on Aegon, who lounged comfortably in his chair, offering a nod and a faint, satisfied smile. Otto continued, “The foremost being that his firstborn son to succeed him on the Iron Throne.” He paused briefly, allowing the significance of the statement to resonate. “And secondly, that his beloved granddaughter, the princess, should marry the man she loves.”

The room remained silent, the solemnity of the Hand’s words hanging in the air as the crowd awaited the continuation of the speech. 

Aemond caught a soft exhalation from his blind side–a delicate, faint sound that seemed to drift across the space between them, sending a chill down his spine. He turned his head just enough to observe her, noting that the porcelain mask of her composure was still perfectly in place, concealing the steel beneath. Her eyes were fixed intently on Otto, her back straight as a sword, and though her lips curved into a gentle smile, Aemond saw the strain behind it. 

Otto’s voice cut through the silence once more, commanding attention with its authoritative tone. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the union between the second-born son of King Viserys, Aemond, and his firstborn granddaughter, Daenera.” He turned slightly towards the bridal table, his voice rising to emphasize the narrative he was crafting. “Much has been said about this union, but allow me to clarify the truth of it.”

With a deliberate sweep of his gaze across the crowd, Otto continued, “Upon the princess’s return to King’s Landing, she and Aemond grew close–as they once were in their childhood. When her mother learned of their friendship, she forbade it…” He paused, allowing the words to echo in the silence. “The princess was commanded to wed Lord Boris Baratheon, and being the dutiful daughter she is, she married her first betrothed.”

Aemond’s thoughts drifted as he idly traced the rim of his cup of wine, a smirk playing on his lips despite the falsehoods unfolding before him. The tale being spun held morsels of truth to it, but it was far from the whole truth. When Daenera had returned to King’s Landing, he had harbored no intentions of welcoming her back. Instead, he had aimed to send her fleeing back to Dragonstone once more. 

He recalled vividly the day she had arrived–recalled it as clearly as the curses he uttered at her return. His focus had solely been on the blade coming at him, which he had parried with skilled precision. It was only when he had caught a glimpse of her entering the Red Keep that his concentration had wavered. Her gaze had been fixed on the towering walls before her, a subtle frown marring her features as she had taken in the sight of what had once been home. 

A sudden jolt of recognition and something far more unsettling had rippled down his spine and settled somewhere low in his stomach. As he had glared at her, the familiar pang of irritation had flared within his chest. His attention had then snapped back to his opponent as he had swung his word at him. It was only after he had made away with his opponent's sword that he had returned his gaze to her. 

Their eyes had met then, and he had felt that uncomfortable twist in his gut–a sensation that festered within him. It had felt as though she had been intruding where she was neither welcome nor wanted. 

The last time Aemond had seen her before her return was at Driftmark; she had been standing on a balcony as he soared overhead on Vhagar. She had looked different back then–her face round and childish,  marked by a bruise on her apple cheek from when he had defended himself. Her return to King’s Landing had only intensified the resentment he had harbored towards her. 

Now, seeing her grown and almost strikingly beautiful, his old grudges were stoked anew. He resented her presence more than ever–resented the feeling of something molten and heavy in the pit of his stomach whenever he had looked upon her.

Aemond clenched his wine cup tightly, lifting it to his lips and taking a long draught of the overly sweet wine. As he set the cup back on the table, his fingers lingered on the rim, twisting it restlessly between his fingers. He brooded over the thought: had Daenera never returned to King’s Landing, her poison wouldn’t have seeped into him so deeply. She would not have ensnared him, worming her way into his bloodstream and, more troublingly, into his heart. Yet, despite his attempts to remain detached, impenetrable, she had managed to do just that. 

Somehow, in their game of cat and mouse, they had managed to pierce through each other’s defenses–prying beneath the armor they each carried to bury a blade into the other, planting a seed that had since blossomed into the twisted flower of their love. 

Despite setting out to destroy her, to dismantle her very being and ruin her so completely that there was no coming back from it, he had never succeeded in doing so. He had been armed with every advantage, every opportunity, yet he had refrained. The only explanation, he mused, was the insidious nature of his own desires–the poison on her lips, a poison he had grown dependent on. 

He admitted, with a pang of bitterness, that jealousy had stirred within him upon hearing of her betrothal to Lord Boris Baratheon, the man he considered a fat-headed fool. At the time, he had been unaware of the true nature of his emotions; all he had known was an overwhelming urge for her return, a yearning for more of the bitter-sweet poison on her lips. 

“After the tragic passing of her first husband, she was bereft with grief. Aemond was a source of comfort to her, soothing her aching heart,” Otto’s voice rang out, furthering the narrative that was far from the truth. “In the solace he provided, an affection blossomed–growing into love…”

In his own mind, Aemond reflected on the nature of their relationship. It had begun as lust, raw and unfiltered. Yet, he mused, love had subtly entwined itself within their connection–emerging long before either of them fully acknowledged it, even before the murder of her husband. 

How could it have been anything else? Only love could compel him to forsake all reason and rationality–forsake his honor and decency. 

“They married in a small, private ceremony, witnessed only by a handful of her servants,” He stated, skillfully intertwining falsehood with truth. They framed these imaginary witnesses as her deceased servants, ensuring they could not challenge the truth of the tale. The dead, after all, held no voice, and their secrets were buried with them. “They hid their union from her mother, fearing her wrath. And no more than a day before his death, they sought the blessing of King Viserys for their marriage…” 

Aemond’s gaze was fixed on the table before him, his eye unfocused as he clenched his jaw. Memories of that night needled at him–standing in the shadows at his father’s bedside, a small figure permission to marry the woman he loved. He had felt like a boy then, cloaked in desperation, finally understanding what he felt was love now that he stood to lose it. He had only ever asked his father for two things: for justice, and for Daenera. 

Yet, his father’s response had been one of sheer disappointment, a refusal that stung with its finality. He had approached him, heart laid bare, only to be met with scorn and disdain.

‘You have ruined her,’ his father had said, ‘Your heart is even blacker than I thought. You are a plague sent to destroy me.’

Aemond pursed his lips, a wave of bitterness flooding his senses. He felt as though he were drowning in it, consumed by the realization of his own actions. He had indeed ruined her–ruined her honor, laid waste to her heart, and betrayed her trust. His own heart, he acknowledged with grim acceptance, was as blackened and corrupted as his father had claimed. 

Otto’s voice rang out, cutting through the low murmur. “And so, here we stand to witness a forbidden love brought into the light of day, as King Viserys wished–blessed by the gods and the realm alike.” 

He raised his cup of wine high, his gesture mirrored by the assembled court. The guests rose from their seats, eyes turned to the newlyweds. “To the happy couple, may your marriage be long and fruitful!” 

“To the happy couple!” The crowd echoed, their voices a chorus of cheer as they raised their own cups in celebration. 

Aemond and Daenera, seated at the head of the room, raised their own cups in a gesture of acknowledgement. Aemond’s gaze swept over the room with practiced composure, the sweetness of the wine doing little to remove the bitterness that lingered on his tongue. He took a long drink, finishing the wine in one go before settling the empty cup down on the table with a muted thud.

As the music resumed, its lively strains wove through the lull of the room, soon to be filled with the hum of conversation as guests returned to their seats and resumed their meals. Otto’s eyes briefly met Aemond’s before he turned and settled back into his place at the King’s table. Aegon, lounging comfortably in his seat, playfully tossed something at his son, a broad grin reaping across his face despite their mother’s disapproving reproach. Alicent chided at him as Helaena, having turned away from her husband, was fully absorbed in watching the children. Her attention was focused on their lively chatter and animated eating, while Jaehaerys, in response to his father’s teasing, cheekily stuck out his tongue. 

Daenera’s voice, sweet and lilting, cut through the din of celebration, pulling Aemond’s attention back to her. Her words carried a deliberate sting–like that of the dragonglass biting into his palm. “Would you care for some wine, husband?”

The question cut through him like a blade, its edge sharp and unrelenting. It was a reminder cloaked in seeming innocence, twisting into his heart with the precision of a lover's strike—deceptively tender yet cruelly calculated. The way she inflicted this pain was intimately cruel, as if she knew exactly where to wound him to inflict the deepest hurt. Husband. Husband. Husband…

Aemond’s gaze followed her with wary–curious–intensity as she extended her slender fingers to grasp his empty cup. His eyes traveled up her arm, lingering on her face, which was poised with an unnervingly calm grace. Her lips, a soft shade of red, curved into a gentle smile that barely masked the sharpness in her eyes. 

“You would do well to consider,” she said, her voice smooth and measured, as her other hand reached for the pitcher of wine. The rich red liquid sloshed around as she lifted it, “that it was during the feast of my first wedding that I began to poison my husband…”

Aemond’s gaze narrowed slightly as he leaned back in his seat, the back of his head resting against the high cushion. He watched her with curiosity, finding amusement in the contrast between the clear, sweet tone of her voice and the subtle threat lurking beneath it. Were he a different man, he might have felt a shiver of fear at her casual confession, but he was not a different man–he knew her darkness.

Her gaze remained focused on the task at hand as she carefully set the heavy glass pitcher before her. She continued, her voice a musing drawl, “I simply added it to his wine.” Shifting her hold on the pitcher, she lifted it again. “It was surprisingly easy–he was already deep in his cups, and his attention was elsewhere.”

She lifted the pitcher once more, tilting it gently as the rich wine inched towards the glass’s rum, beginning to pour with a slow, deliberate stream “The poison rendered him more vulnerable to the effects of the wine,” she explained, her voice smooth and matter-of-fact. The soft splash of liquid hitting the bottom of the glass chimed between them, a fleeting sound lost amidst the swirling music and lively chatter that filled the room.

Aemond’s gaze drifted from her face to her hands. He watched as one hand deftly steadied the glass, her middle finger and thumb cradling it, while the other hand gripped the handle of the pitcher. The golden rings on her fingers were delicate, each set with pearls and small jewels. None appeared large enough to contain a chamber of poison, or so he thought. His thumb absently traced the underside of his own band, feeling the subtle ridge of the hidden lever that concealed the needle.

Her gaze remained focused on the task at hand as she spoke, a soft smile playing on her lips. “He drank so much that night,” she continued, her tone conversational, almost reflective. The dark liquid swirled inside, catching the candlelight with each subtle movement. “I properly didn’t even need the poison at all–he was so deep in his cups. But… I used it to make sure he wouldn’t be…” Her voice faltered slightly, as if searching for the right words. Her lips curled further in amusement, head tilting slightly as she finished, “able to perform that night. And then a little more to ensure he slept soundly and would not bother me.”

A low chuckle bubbled up from Aemond’s chest, a dark mirth that spilled out into the air around him. The amused smirk he had worn widened into something more–a genuine smile of merriment. The memory of that wretched day, watching Daenera marry the pompous, routed stag, brought him a grim sense of pleasure. His satisfaction was not merely in the act of poisoning her husband, but the knowledge that Daenera had decided upon it long before. 

Even then, she had shown herself to be a master of deception–poisoning her husband to evade the marriage bed, and inflicting a cut on her inner thigh to feign the loss of her maidenhead. The irony was not lost on him; it was a deception that concealed the truth of the bedchamber, where Aemond himself had taken her maidenhead. 

As the cup filled, she righted the pitcher with practiced ease. “I became quite skilled at slipping poison into his drinks without detection during my marriage.” 

For the first time since the sept, she turned her gaze fully upon him. Her eyes held a challenge–a dark amusement that played within the deep, unyielding blue. Her head tilted slightly as she watched him. “The poison I used on my first husband intended to be lethal,” she said, her tone laced with a hint of satisfaction that made the hairs at the back of his neck prickle. “Not at that moment, at least. If I had wanted to end his life, I would have chosen something more potent, like wolfsbane.”

Her fingers traced the delicate pattern etched into the glass–a dragon winding its way up the stem, its wings nearly encircling the base, and though he should keep his attention on her hands, he couldn’t help but be drawn to her face–to that wry amusement in her expression. “Wolfsbane, you see, has a profound effect on the body. It depresses the blood flow and hampers bodily functions,  and finally it halts the heart–but not without inflicting considerable agony first,” she continued, her voice steady and measured. “In smaller quantities, it’s less fatal but still intense, causing paralysis while making it feel as though one’s veins are filled with fire.”

Their eyes remained locked, neither of them relenting. Anticipation prickled beneath his skin, his heartbeat a discordant rhythm that was both jarring and oddly familiar. He relished the way she regarded him–amused, knowing, and dangerously alluring, no longer were her gaze filled with cold resentment, for now at least. The fire in her gaze was one he recognized all too well, and one he was willing to let consume him. Tilting his head slightly, he watched her with a blend of curiosity and wariness. 

“Then there’s nightshade,” she said, “which acts quite swiftly. It begins with an irregular heartbeat and a headache, accompanied by an aversion to light. Vision soon blurs, sweat breaks out, and speech becomes incoherent. This is followed by confusion, delirium, hallucinations, convulsions, and, in the end, death of course.”

The casual manner in which she discussed her poisons, the nonchalance with which she threatened him, seemed to seep under Aemond’s skin, sending a thrill coursing down his pine and settling in the pit of his stomach. There was a strangely arousing quality to her words–the lilt of her voice deadly yet captivating. Perhaps it was the sheer rarity of her speaking to him these days that made her words resonate so profoundly with him. He was indifferent to the threat itself; it was the connection, the way she held his gaze that captivated him most.

His eyes dropped to the soft curve of her mouth, and he felt the familiar urge stir within him–an itch at his fingertips to teach out and touch her, to trace her lips with his thumb, to taste their sweetness. 

“Hemlock,” she continued, with a slow, deliberate murmur, “begins with stomach pains and vomiting. It progresses to tremors, muscle weakness, and a gradual loss of coordination. Paralysis then creeps through the body, eventually reaching the lungs. The victim remains conscious for much of this torment, helpless as their ability to breathe is choked off.”

Her fingers traced the rim of the cup, following its delicate curve with a languid grace. Her gaze remained locked with his. “Equally deadly but less known is white baneberry. The berries are highly toxic–just a handful can be fatal to a child, and a few more will do for an adult. It’s one of the gentler deaths; it acts by slowing the heart until it ceases entirely.”

The lively strains of music filled the air, mingling with the animated chatter of guests and the rhythmic steps of dancers on the floor. Despite the exuberance that surrounded them, Aemond’s gaze remained fixed solely on Daenera, his fingers absently tapping a quiet rhythm against the surface of the table.

“Crab’s eye is another poisonous berry. Its effects are more gradual. It induces nausea, vomiting, and convulsions, eventually leading to the failure of the liver. Death comes only after several agonizing days…” She trailed off and drew in a deep breath, her hand caressing down the sides of the glass as it came to rest at its base. The motion briefly caught Aemond’s attention, a subtle shit in her posture that drew him in closer. 

“Then there’s moonflower,” she said, her tone taking on a darker edge. “It’s perhaps the most torturous. It begins with intense thirst and an unrelenting chill, leaving you unable to stay warm. Severe delirium soon follows; vision blurs, you grow incoherent, and often, you’ll experience violent outbursts. Death can linger, from a few hours to days, marked by a slow, excruciating decline.”

At last, Daenera broke their gazes, her eyes drawing to the cup of wine she had poured for him. With deliberate slowness, she slid the glass across the table, her lashes fluttering briefly before she met his gaze once more. 

Aemond pursed his lips in measured curiosity. His eye followed the movement of the cup, the dark liquid within swirling gently against the glass. Though he knew she had every reason to want him dead and could very well have poisoned the wine, he found it hard to believe she would actually do such a thing–let alone risk such an act in plain view, where suspicion would be immediately cast upon her alone.

A groom poisoned by his bride at their wedding feast was the kind of tale that would undoubtedly etch itself into history. Yet, as much as she might harbor resentment, Aemond knew she was not foolish enough to commit such an act. The consequences would be immediate and severe–she would be detained and swiftly executed for murder. Moreover, she would become a kinslayer, just like him, a fate he knew she was determined to avoid–if only to spite him.

If she truly desired his end, it would not be at her own hand, not directly. Aemond still remembered the cold press of the blade against his throat, its ghostly touch still lingering. He fought to suppress a shudder. She had hesitated then, unable to deliver the final blow–a hesitation that told him she could not do it now either.  

What was a little more of her poison, Aemond mused, reaching for the cup. His fingers curled around the cool glass, lifting it from the table. His gaze met Daenera’s as he brought the cup to his lips, silently accepting her unspoken challenge–trusting, perhaps foolheartedly, that she had not poisoned it, at least with something deadly. 

After the first gulp of the sweet wine, he almost choked on it–the taste was wrong, strangely salty. Overpoweringly so. Yet, he had already taken the second mouthful before he realized it, and he refused to show any sign of weakness. The wine's sickening saltiness clawed at his tongue and slid down his throat with a nauseating cloying quality. He nearly choked on the vile concoction, but he forced himself to swallow, his resolve unwavering even as the repulsive taste clung to his palate. 

With a sense of grim satisfaction–and nausea–he finished the wine, his mouth prickled with the persistent taste of salt and his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. 

Aemond forced his expression into a mask of composure, suppressing any sign of revolution as he set the empty cup back on the table. His tongue flicked out, sweeping the salty residue from his lips, before his eye found Daenera once more. Her eyes were alight with amusement, her lips curved into an almost mocking smile–wholly self-satisfied with what she had done. 

Without further comment, she turned her attention back to the feast, leaving Aemond with a burning throat and roiling stomach. Amidst the unsettling awareness of how effortlessly she had introduced the salt into his wine–how easily it might have been poison, or perhaps there was poison and the salt merely serving to mask it–Aemond couldn’t shake the strange thrill. While he didn’t truly think she had poisoned him, the possibility added a dangerous edge to their interaction, sparking a peculiar excitement within him at the thought of her sheer audacity. 

Daenera returned to her plate, deftly splitting open a pomegranate and carefully selecting the seeds. As she brought each seed to her lips, savoring the burst of juice with slowness, Aemond felt a shift in the uneasy churn of his stomach. The sight of her delicate fingers and the soft, almost intimate act of tasting the fruit stirred something within him, shifting his discomfort from the wine into a keen sense of longing. 

A warm sensation began to unfurl within him, spreading through his veins like a wildfire and igniting a smolder of desire that he found increasingly difficult to ignore. The deliberate act of her eating, her lips parting for another seed, seemed almost intimate. He couldn’t help but think how sweet those lips looked–red like the fruit itself, as sweet and sinful as temptation incarnate. He wanted nothing more than to taste that sweetness, to claim it for himself, to feel it linger on his tongue like forbidden nectar. 

Her tongue darted out to like the curve of her thumb before slipping it between her lips, sucking away the pomegranate juice that had trickled down. The gesture was simple yet maddening. His stomach fluttered, the heat intensifying, and he swallowed thickly. She continued, seemingly oblivious to the weight of his gaze, to how the sight of her consuming the fruit seeped beneath his skin and made home there, unsettling and irresistible all at once. 

After the sixth seed disappeared between her lips, Aemond forced himself to look away, though it felt like wrenching a blade from the flesh–leaving behind a sharp, lingering sting. Every movement she made seemed to pull at him, his gaze clinging to her like a shadow, reluctant to part from the delicate, sensual way she enjoyed the fruit.

With a slow, deliberate breath, he reached for a nearby cup–not the one from which he had tasted the sickening salt earlier–and poured himself a glass of water. The coolness of the liquid promised a momentary relief, an escape from the taste that still clung stubbornly to his tongue, though he knew it was far more than the salt he sought to wash away. As the water hit his throat, he felt his heartbeat gradually steady, but the heat she had stirred within him still simmered, refusing to be so easily quenched.

The silence that lingered between them, though less hostile than before, still pricked at him with its relentless presence. As the moments passed, it felt as though the chasm between them widened, deepening with the persistent quiet. Yet, the conversation had given him a semblance of hope–even if threads had been weaved into the very fabric of it. He would endure a thousand more salty cups of wine just for her to look at him again. 

Driven by a desperate need to keep the conversation alive and stave off the creeping chill of her disregard, Aemond reached for a topic that might engage her–a rare venture into the nuances of poisons, a subject he seldom favored compared to the directness of steel and combat. How wretchedly pathetic he had become in his yearning for her attention. 

“What of Widow’s Blood?” He asked, recalling the name he had come across once in his studies. 

Daenera’s gaze shifted from the pomegranate to him, her eyes narrowing with guarded wariness as if weighing whether to indulge his curiosity. Aemond felt a familiar flutter in his chest whenever she looked upon him. He felt her gaze prickle over his face, searching his expression–seeking to pry beneath the mask he wore. He tilted his head slightly, meeting her gaze with his own steady scrutiny, his eyes tracing the motion of her thumb as she brought it to her lips to lick away the pomegranate juice. 

“Widow’s Blood,” she began, her voice smooth and measured, “is a thick, cloying substance that resembles blood–hence the name.” She punctuated her explanation by dragging her pointed finger to her lips, savoring the last traces of juice. “It causes the bladder and bowls to cease functioning, leading to death by the body’s own poison. It’s a particularly ugly way to die.”

Her description, delivered with a casualness that belied its morbid content, revealed not only her knowledge of poisons but also a detachment that intrigued and unnerved Aemond in equal measure.

“The Strangler?” 

Daenera’s brow arched slightly, her gaze unwavering as she assessed him. “The Strangler is a rarer poison, appearing as dark purple crystals, similar to black amethysts. It must be dissolved in wine or water to become effective. Once ingested, it closes the throat tighter than a fist,” she explained, pausing to lick her middle finger thoughtfully. “The victim's face turns a deep purple, and their eyes swell with blood as they struggle for air–or so it is said.”

She casually returned to cleansing her thumb, ensuring no trace of pomegranate remained. “Procuring Strangler is slow and costly, but considering the results, it seems a small price to pay for liberation from one's husband.”

The ease with which she spoke of poison and death intrigued Aemond, a flicker of something dark and thrilling igniting within him. Her nonchalant threats seemed to send a strange flutter through his stomach, a reaction he couldn’t quite ignore. The corners of his lips almost widened into a full-blown smile, but he managed to suppress it, maintaining only a wry, amused curl to his lips. 

He watched as she discarded the remnants of the pomegranate onto her plate, reaching instead for her cup. She took a deliberate gulp of water, then placed the cup back down on the table with composed grace. 

“And you can make this poison?”

Daenera’s brows arched slightly, a fleeting hint of a smile tugging at her lips before she quickly masked it. Her expression shifted, the corners of her mouth falling into a more serious line as her brow furrowed. Within the depths of her blue eyes, a spark of something dark and unsettling flickered–something tinged with sadness and deep melancholy. Nevertheless, she answered, “I can.” 

Her tone was measured and even as she continued, “Though the ingredients are rare and difficult to acquire, and the process is both lengthy and costly.” She paused, her gaze becoming steely. “If I were to invest the time and resources, I would acquire Tears of Lys instead. It is more subtle–clear, tasteless, and odorless, leaving no trace to be found. It eats away at the stomach and bowls, and appears to be a disease of the organs once the body is opened up… unfortunately it is not within the realm of my abilities to make–only the alchemists in Lys possess the knowledge to create it.”

Aemond considered the implications of such a rare and potent poison. Its elusive nature and the cost associated with it led him to a grim sort of gratitude. He looked at Daenera, a wry twist to his lips as he said, “I suppose I should count myself fortunate that you cannot make it.”

Daenera’s eyes held a sharp, unyielding glint as she responded coolly. “I had no need for costly poisons to deal with my first husband. I needn’t the Tears of Lys to rid myself of my second.”

Aemond’s gaze remained with Daenera’s as the celebration swirled around them, their intense exchange echoing darkly amidst the jubilant festivities.

Around them, the dance floor had come alive with more guests joining in. Their movements created a lively tapestry of colors and fabrics, twirling and swaying to the cheerful strains of music. The dancers wove around each other, their steps following the music in a vibrant display of joy and celebration.

Ser Tyland Lannister approached the dias, his burgundy doublet contrasting sharply with the heavy golden chain of office that swung from his shoulders. As he bowed respectfully, the chain swayed before him, the head of a lion gleaming in the candlelight. His demeanor was warm but formal as he rose again. “My prince, congratulations on your wedding.”

Ser Tyland continued to speak, attempting to weave a tapestry of congeniality that hung uneasily in the air. “Princess, you look truly radiant–just as your mother did when she graced this hall. My brother was one of your mother’s suitors, to think he could have been your father, and I, your uncle…” Ser Tyland’s voice held a nervous chuckle, his eyes darting as he clumsily shifted his cup between his hands–if he was this anxious he shouldn’t have approached them. “He-he had hoped to unite our houses, and become…” 

Aemond’s gaze narrowed sharply, unamused by the implication.

His voice faltered as he nearly slipped into dangerous territory–almost lending credence to Rhaenyra’s claim by suggesting that his brother would have become King  Consort. He paused, coughing slightly as if to expel the inadvertent implication. 

“Please,” he continued, adopting a more somber tone, “you have my condolences for your recent loss…”

Irritation flickered within his chest as Aemond glared pointedly at the Master of Coin. This was no place or time for condolences. He was about to voice as much when Daenera, her voice soft and controlled, interjected, “Thank you, Ser Tyland. That is very kind of you. However, let us not ruin this joyous occasion with talk of war and loss.”

The smile on Daenera’s face was tight and unconvincing, though it maintained the veneer of courtly grace, her eyes betraying a cold detachment. Aemond’s irritation at this simmered just beneath the surface, twisting within him as he gritted his teeth. He desperately wanted this event to be a joyful celebration for her, to be something she wished for as well–but he knew that wasn't the case. The pretense that it was hung heavily inside him, a weight like lead settling in his stomach.

Ser Tyland, seemingly oblivious to the tension around them, continued with an unwitting bluster. “Ah, of course, Princess,” he said, his tone slightly pompous. “As my brother would have said, had he been here, we shouldn’t burden the delicate sensibilities of the fairer sex with such grim topics. After all, war is a grim affair, best kept away from the gentle hearts of women.” 

“Yes, my lord,” Daenera answered pointedly. “However, the ravages of war do not spare women on the basis of their sex. They are often grieving mothers, the wives of soldiers, and women who must confront those soldiers as their fields are trampled and their homes invaded…” 

Ser Tyland shifted on his feet, his smile faltering as he attempted to ease the palpable tension with a hesitant chuckle. “Indeed, it’s a regrettable aspect of war, and it speaks to your kind heart, Princess, that you show such concern for these matters. But perhaps your energies would be better spent on more suitable pursuits–needlework, or the noble duty of birthing sons. I am sure you will find yourself quite occupied soon enough…”

Tyland fidgeted with his cup, his eyes darting towards Aemond. He seemed to seek approval or reassurance from Aemond, but finding none, his confidence visibly waned. Aemond remained unmoved, his lips curved in the familiar, sharp expression that always seemed to unsettle the Master of Coin.

Daenera’s head tilted as she scrutinized him. “Have you ever seen war?”

Ser Tyland’s smile waned, his brow knitting into a frown as he blinked, shifting his gaze nervously between Aemond and Daenera. His discomfort only seemed to grow as Aemond returned his gaze, staring at him expectantly, relishing in his unease. He leaned back in his seat, finding quiet satisfaction in the unfolding interaction, content to observe how it would play out.

“The reign of our late King Viserys was a peaceful one–”

“And what of any battle experience?” Daenera pressed further, brows lifting in scrutiny. “Have you won any tournaments perhaps? Or dealt with raiders and poachers?”

Tyland shifted uneasily, his expression revealing more than his words might. “We have people who handle such matters…”

The smile Daenera offered was not gentle; it was scythe’s edge, calculated and sharp, ready to cut down the weed that grew before them. She let out a soft, dismissive hum. “Then perhaps you would be more suited to join my needlepoint circle, since it seems our experience in matters of war is quite comparable.” Her head tilted to the side, her gaze fixed intently on him, offering him a leg up after having cut him down. “Or should I be making room for your brother instead, if these opinions are his and not yours?”

Though Aemond considered Tyland Lannister somewhat bearable compared to his arrogant brother–a man inflated with an unwarranted sense of self-importance in his opinion–he still found him a blustering fool. Appointed to the position of Master of Coin largely due to his house’s influence and wealth, he seemed intelligent enough to keep the position on his own. 

At this moment, Tyland displayed a surprising degree of this lesser-seen acumen as he nodded respectfully towards Daenera, a flicker of respect and amusement in his gaze. 

“I fear my brother would fail with the needle,” Tyland remarked with a wry smile. And given the match to Golden Tooth, he is like to see battle soon enough.”

Daenera’s smile was gentle, yet beneath its softness lay a steel edge. “Nevertheless, I shall reserve a seat for either of you in my circle.”

Aemond’s gaze tracked Tyland Lannister as he nodded with a begrudging air of deference, the faintest hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth in response to Daenera’s barbed remark. With a final, somewhat resigned glance at the newlyweds, the Master of Coin retreated from the table and made his way down from the dais.

Just as Tyland’s foot touched the ground, a loud clank pierced through the throng of celebration. The sudden noise cut through the crowd, halting the dancers in their steps. Women’s skirts, which had been in motion, fluttered momentarily before coming to a rest, and the lively music tapered off into silence, drawing the attention of all present towards the source of the disturbance. 

Aegon, rising from his seat with his wine goblet in hand, discarded the fork he had been using to rhythmically beat against the metal cup on the table. With an air of grandeur befitting the occasion, he turned to address the court. 

“My lords and ladies,” he proclaimed, his voice echoing through the now-quiet hall, “let us raise our cups in honor of the newlyweds–my brother Aemond and my cherished niece, now his wife, Daenera!”

The court obediently rose to their feet, their cups lifted in a collective gesture of salute. The air was briefly filled with the scraping of chairs and the murmur of movement as the nobles shifted positions.

A broad grin stretched across Aegon’s face, his expression radiating a dark delight. With an exaggerated flourish, he continued, “The two of them are upholding the grand traditions of our house–nieces marrying uncles…” His eyes sparkled with a familiar, mischievous amusement that Aemond had learned to dread. “How strange to think that if Mother had accepted my dear half-sister’s offer years ago, the bride would have been by my side today–”

He pushed his chair back with a bit too much force, stumbling slightly as his foot caught on an unseen obstruction. Regaining his balance with a swift adjustment, he moved around the King’s table, narrowing avoiding their mother’s outstretched hand as she tried to halt his antics. Ignoring her silent plea for decorum, Aegon continued, his voice rising over the room’s growing tension. “Daenera would have worn a queen's crown, and perhaps we might have avoided the ravages of war. But alas, she graces my brother's side as his wife…”

As Aegon ascended the dias with bounding steps with an almost reckless exuberance, Aemond’s hand tightened into a fist as it rested atop the table, his solitary eye burning with a sharp intensity that tracked his brother’s every move. Though irritation seethed within him like a fire, he maintained his composure, his expression carved into an impenetrable mask, only his gaze betraying his anger. 

His brother’s voice dripped with a saccharine veneer of politeness as he spoke, the corners of his lips curling into a mocking smile. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on Aemond with a glint of malice in his eyes. “I wish them both the utmost happiness in this war–marriage,” he corrected with a deliberate pause, the misstep in his words presented as if it were a mere trifling matter. The truth of his sincerity was as thin as a razor’s edge, his words balancing precariously between genuine and feigned–falling to neither side.

“It’s not often one witnesses a love so resilient that it endures the death of a brother,” Aegon continued, his voice laced with mocking reverence. “Truly, it is moving. A love so rare and profound that it deserves its own place in the annals of history, wouldn’t you agree?”  His eyes narrowed with a glimmer of cruel satisfaction, the biting commentary wrapped in a guise of false admiration, as if he were bestowing a grand compliment rather than delivering a stinging rebuke.

Aegon held himself as though on a stage, seemingly reveling in being the center of the court's attention. He performed for the guests with a theatrical flair, drawing out each word for dramatic effect. The court, however, appeared unsure–divided with some courtiers watching with veiled amusement, their lips curling into knowing smirks, while others exchanged uneasy glances, their discomfort evident as the King mocked and belittled his own brother. The air thickened with a tangible tension, unsure whether to cheer on Aegon’s audacious display or remain quiet.

Aegon’s voice carried an almost mocking cheerfulness as he continued, “Daenera Velaryon–though perhaps I should say Baratheon? No, that doesn’t quite suit her,” His voice rose, dismissive of their mother’s low warning to temper his speech. “Daenera Strong might be a better choice,” he paused, seemingly savoring the way the name sounded, his eyes moving past Aemond to Daenera, his head tilting slightly. “Yet even that name seems inadequate now that you have, at last, become a true Targaryen.”

Aemond tore his gaze away from his brother, momentarily focusing on the green velvet of the table in front of him. As he shifted his attention to the side, he noted the stillness on Daenera’s face. She resembled a porcelain doll, her expression eerily serene, but her eyes were a different story–they smoldered with a fierce intensity, set firmly on Aegon as though they could incinerate him with their gaze alone.

His hand clenched tighter into a white-knuckled fist, his bones protesting under the pressure. The skin stretched tight across his knuckles, and he could feel the intense heat of his fury searing through his chest. The impulse to seize his brother by the collar, drag him through the throne room, and hurl him into the dirt outside was a sharp, almost tangible sensation at his fingertips. He bit down hard on his tongue, the bitter taste of suppressed anger filling his mouth as he fought to keep the scathing words trapped behind his teeth. He remained mute, enduring the sting of his brother’s derision with a tense, painful silence. 

Across the table, Aegon leaned in with a smirk, his hand planted on its surface. “The only thing you’re missing to become a true Targaryen,” he taunted, his gaze filled with a condescending satisfaction, “is a dragon to ride. But then again, it seems you’ve already claimed my brother for that role, haven’t you?”

A ripple of polite and uneasy laughter swept through the crowd, the tension growing, becoming thick and suffocating. Aemond’s gaze swept across the assembly, sharp and penetrating, locking eyes with those who dared meet his stare. He could feel the weight of their judgment pressing against his skin, a prickling sensation that made his blood simmer beneath the surface. Their expressions betrayed what words would not–disdain, pity, and a loathing barely masked by the forced decorum of the occasion.

He knew, without a doubt, that there was no love for him here. Not truly. Not now. Not with the blood that stained his hands. Not with the title of ‘Kinslayer’ following his name like a curse, turning even the faintest flickers of respect into something twisted and bitter. What they felt for him was not respect, but fear and disgust. He saw it clearly in their eyes, the way they recoiled slightly when his gaze met theirs, the scorn etched into their faces despite their attempts to hide it. The whispers, the glances–everything confirmed what he already knew: he was an outsider in his own home, a monster in their midst.

Yet, amidst the disdain, Aemond detected a flicker of pity in their eyes–not for him, but for Daenera, who endured the same public humiliation. Aemond dismissed their scorn with cold indifference, but the sharp sting of humiliation was harder to ignore. It burrowed beneath his skin, a familiar ache that gnawed at his composure. The sensation itched along his nerves, a persistent irritation that threatened to unravel the fragile threads of his restraint, pushing his patience to its limit.

“Moonflower,” Daenera murmured, her voice so soft it barely reached Aemond’s ears. Yet, in that single whispered word, he found an unexpected comfort, a dark solace that cut through the tension–even as it carried a threat towards his own brother. 

“Widow’s Blood,” Aemond replied, his tone equally hushed, matching her grim indulgence in this shared fantasy. The words hung between them, tying them together in animosity. In his mind, he could almost see it–Aegon’s body swelling grotesquely, the poison turning his own flesh against him, letting his bowels fill with shit until they ruptured, his blood slowly turning black as his insides festered. The thought brought a twisted satisfaction, a brief respite from the humiliation his brother aimed at him.

“Quite a climb, wouldn’t you say?” Aegon tilted his head slightly, his eyes meeting Daenera’s with a malevolent gleam. “From Strong to Targaryen–just a small leap across a sea of blood. Ah, the things we do for love…”

He straightened to his full height, a mischievous grin spreading wider as he lifted a finger to scratch thoughtfully at the corner of his mouth, as if debating whether to push his jest further. The gleam in his eyes suggested he had already decided. 

“This isn’t the princess’s first marriage, as most of you are well aware,” he continued. “You were all here for her first wedding, after all. Let’s hope this one lasts longer.”

As Aegon moved around the table, Aemond leaned back in his seat, his gaze never wavering from his brother’s every step. His jaw clenched so tightly he feared his teeth might shatter under the pressure. When his brother reached him, he patted him on the shoulder in mockery of brotherly affection, humming softly. “I hope you won’t be disappointed with your wedding night, brother…Though, you shouldn’t be too disappointed about not claiming her maidenhead this evening–you only have yourself to blame for that. And her late husband, well, he didn't seem to mind just how well she has taken to dragon-riding.” He offered a half-hearted shrug, his face twisting in a grimace of amusement. “As the Lord Hand mentioned, the two of them grew rather close after her return to King’s Landing… And following the unfortunate passing of her husband, he became a great comfort to her. He often took her riding on his dragon, and she took to it like a true Targaryen–just like her mother before her!”

The insinuation hung heavy in the air between them, thick and suffocating like the charged silence before a thunderstorm. Aemond’s glare sharpened as he looked up at his brother, his thumb idly grazing the band on his ring, fingers tracing the hidden lever that concealed the needle within–prickly but not poisoned. The tension between them crackled, a silent threat simmering just beneath the surface. 

Aegon never knew when to stop. 

As the Lord Hand rose from his seat, the scraping of the chair legs against the floor seemed to thunder through the room, the sound echoing off the stone walls. He strode toward Aegon and the bridal table, his face marked by a deep furrow–a clear expression of exasperation mixed with his growing caution. Each deliberate step he took seemed to carry the weight of his reproach.

“One might’ve mistake her for the Maiden herself on her first wedding day, but looks can be deceiving, and my brother finds himself at a disadvantage…” He leaned in closer, his breath carrying the cloying scent of wine as he murmured, “Perhaps there are other ways for your bride to bleed for you, brother. Other places your cock has not yet breached.” 

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as agitation simmered just beneath his skin. He uncurled his fist, irritably tapping two fingers against the table in a vain attempt to restrain the impulse to throttle his own brother.

Meanwhile, Otto Hightower ascended the dias with a grave purpose, a weary and exasperated expression on his face. It was clear  he intended to prevent one grandson from ending his reign prematurely and the other from becoming a kinslayer twice over. His hand settled firmly on Aegon’s shoulders, steering him away from the seething Aemond–just far enough that their exchange was out of earshot. 

Aemond heard his brother inhale deeply, the sound heavy with annoyed resignation, before he reluctantly returned to the front of the dias. Otto descended the steps and quietly returned to the King’s table, his presence a cautioning influence that sought to avoid further conflict. 

Now back in his place, Aegon pulled a face at the crowd, lifting his goblet of wine high to brush off the tension with a forced display of merriment. “My lords and ladies, let us raise our cups to the newlyweds and wish them a long and joyful life together! May their love flourish in the light and may they fulfill their heart’s every desire!” He raised the cup higher still, declaring, “To the bride and groom!”

“To the bride and groom!” Echoed the court, as everyone raised their cups in unison before indulging in a hearty drink–a gesture that Aemond found bitterly fitting after such a speech. He poured himself a cup of wine, seeking to soothe the seething anger and humiliation that churned within him. Beside him, Daenera did the same, albeit with a cup of water. 

Just as Aemond hoped the spectacle might be drawing to a close, Aegon slammed his now-empty cup onto the table with a definitive thud, a wide, mischievous grin spreading across his face as he declared for all to hear, “Let the presentation of gifts commence!” 

As the crowd stirred with anticipation, Aegon leaned over the table again, a wide grin spreading across his face as he murmured in a tone brimming with mischief, “You are going to love this, brother.”

Aemond felt no comfort at his brother’s words; instead, a heavy sense of apprehension settled in his gut. He knew all too well the nature of Aegon’s so-called gifts, having been the recipient of a venture to a brothel for his thirteenth name day, as well as a few unsavory gifts he had no taste for. The memories did nothing to ease his growing unease. 

His suspicions were quickly confirmed when servants entered, carrying a large, ornate book. It was wider than most, its cover crafted from creamy silk, embossed with gold, and adorned with rich blue and purple paints. The book was carefully placed before Aemond and Daenera, with the servants swiftly removing the plates of food to make room for it. 

As the book was turned towards them, its golden clasps–set with pearls and sapphires–were unfastened, and the cover was gently opened to reveal the first page. The page was decorated with a gilded frame and intricately painted leaves and vines curling around the frame, the text within written in common tongue; A Flowers Bloom.

Aegon leaned casually on the table, his amusement evident in the gleam of his eyes as he watched them closely. “This one, brother, I think you’ll find quite enjoyable–”

With practiced ease, Aegon flipped through the pages of the book, as if intimately familiar with its contents–an assumption Aemond had no trouble believing. The page settled on a particularly lewd illustration: a man, his face buried in the bosom of a woman, suckling at her teat, while her hand gripped his erect cock. His legs were spread wide, revealing an object inserted into another orifice. The image was as explicit as it was vulgar, a grotesque display meant to provoke. 

“Given the stick so firmly lodged in your…” Aegon finished, letting his voice trail off as Aemond glared at him with such intensity that it seemed to stifle what words remained. His jaw tightened as he stared angrily at his brother, the weight of humiliation once again bearing down on him, but he refused to give Aegon any other reaction. 

Aegon merely half-shrugged, his smirk never faltering as he continued, “Though, my favorite is this one.” He gave them no time to dwell on the previous obscene illustration before casually flipping to another page. “A bit of stretching might serve you well before attempting this one–it's demanding on the thighs…”

The illustration Aegon revealed next was more shocking still. It depicted a woman completely upside down, her weight resting on her neck and shoulders, arms bracing as she held her lower half vertically in the air. Her ankles were positioned by her ears, her toes making a precarious effort to prevent her from tipping over. Directly above her, a man loomed, his knees slightly bent as he engaged with her from above, his gaze intent and downward.

Aemond’s gaze narrowed as he took in the image, the absurdity of the position only deepening his disdain. Outrage and humiliation surged through him, burning up his throat like a wildfire rapidly spreading. The intense emotions threatened to overwhelm him as he struggled to maintain his composure in the face of such blatant provocation.

As Aegon circled the table, he came to a stop beside Daenera, one hand resting casually on the back of her chair while the other pressed firmly against the table’s edge. Leaning down toward her, his posture exuding a predatory ease, His gaze, however, traveled beyond her, locking with Aemond's, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His voice dropped to a low murmur, just loud enough for her–and Aemond–to hear, the intimacy of the gesture adding a layer of provocation that bristled in the air. “You know, brother, I can’t help but wonder… With all these positions, I do hope you’re up to the challenge. A woman like our sweet niece–well, she’ll need more than just your brooding one-eyed stares to be satisfied.”

He let his gaze drift over Daenera, who shifted uncomfortably away from him, then back to Aemond, amusement flickering in his eyes as he continued, “Of course, if you find any of it too… uncomfortable or lacking in taste, I’d be more than happy to step in and show her the finer points. I’ve got plenty of experience in these matters, after all.” Aegon’s smirk widened as he casually flipped through the book, landing on another obscene image. “Our poor niece has already endured one unsatisfying marriage, brother. It would truly be a tragedy for her to suffer through another.” His voice remained low and steady, his eyes never wavering from Aemond’s. “We both know she deserves more than to be left wanting–”

Aemond’s fist slammed onto the table with such force the cutlery rattled, the sharp clatter echoing throughout the hall. The lingering tremor seemed to heighten the tension as he rose from his seat, venomous words already forming on his tongue, fueled by the blaze of rage searing through his chest. His knuckles flushed red and bore the fresh sting of skin split open from the blow. He flexed his hand, ignoring the throbbing pain that now pulsed in time with his heartbeat. 

Without a second thought, he seized his goblet, the grip so tight it was a wonder the cup didn’t crack under the strain. His gaze, cold and unyielding, turned upon his brother. The smug smile that had danced on Aegon’s lips wavered at last, though his posture remained almost mocking, one hand still resting lazily on Daenera’s chair while the other hovered near the table. 

“A toast,” Aemond announced, his voice as sharp as steel drawn from its sheath, slicing through the air with brutal clarity. The soft hum of conversation and the delicate strains of music faltered into silence, all eyes turning towards the bridal table. “To my brother, the King.”

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken tension, the weight of his words hanging ominously between them. Even the musicians, hesitant to resume, left their instruments in uneasy pause as the scene played out.

Aemond turned slowly towards his brother, his single eye gleaming with a dangerous light. “Though you bear the name of the Conqueror himself and wear his crown,” he began, his tone deceptively calm, each word veiled with simmering contempt, “you remain ever our father’s son.”

He let the sentence linger in the air for a moment, a soft hum escaping his lips as his head tilted slightly. 

“Our father,” Aemond continued, taking on a faint edge of mockery, “ruled with a gentle hand, beloved by the realm for his kindness and patience. His was a reign of peace.” The faintest smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, his expression coldly calculated–mocking. “He knew his limitations well and deferred to the judgment of his council…”Viserys had been weak and pliable, a puppet in the hands of anyone seeking to pluck his strings–and Aegon stood to be no different, Aemond thought. “It was through his… amiable nature that he upheld his peaceful reign.”

The hall seemed to hold its breath, every ear straining to catch the edges of his words, the tension rippling through the guests like a silent current. Aemond’s gaze hardened as he contemplated the consequences of their father’s indecision–his weakness. If he had not been so hesitant to displace Rhaenyra once he had finally secured the son he desired, perhaps the realm would not have to descend into the chaos and war that it now teetered on.

“But the times have changed,” Aemond declared, his lips pursing into a smug expression. “War descends upon us, as our half-sister seeks to claim your throne, and war demands more than mere amiability.”

He emitted a low, contemplative hum, the sound tinged with anticipation as he savored the words he left unspoken. They lingered in the air between them, silent but present; It requires strength, brother, and I am that strength. 

“While you sit the throne as our father once did,” Aemond continued, each word carefully chosen. “With Vhagar, the largest and fiercest dragon in the world, I will secure our victory and ensure your rule remains unchallenged…” 

Aemond subtly flicked his finger across the hidden lever in the band of his ring, engaging the concealed needle as he circled around his wife's chair toward his brother. Aegon's eyes narrowed, watching his approach with growing suspicion. With a feigned casualness, Aemond bumped against Aegon's arm in a gesture of brotherly warmth, then clapped his hand firmly on his brother's arm, ensuring the needle made its mark. 

“So, let us drink to your rule,” Aemond said, raising his cup higher with his other hand, giving his brother’s arm a squeeze, “and may you reign as our father did–while I see to it that our enemies are crushed and your throne remains intact.” 

He turned his gaze to the crowd, his voice ringing clear, “To Aegon the Magnanimous!” 

“To the King!” The crowd responded, their voices merging into a chorus that filled the hall. They lifted their cups high, the light glinting off the raised goblets before they drank deeply. Yet, despite the enthusiasm of the moment, the cheering carried a tense, uneasy undertone. Many in the crowd exchanged uneasy glances, their laughter forced, betraying their uncertainty about the implications of the toast. 

Aemond’s lips remained in a sharp smirk as he watched his brother’s gaze narrow slightly. He then plastered a strained smile across his face, nodding to the crowd as they cheered for him. Through gritted teeth and a forced grin, he muttered, “Well done, you little twat.”

As the servants removed the obscene book from the table, making space for any future gifts, Aegon turned back to his brother, his expression shifting into something resembling a begrudging amusement. The familiar upside-down smile appeared on his face, head tilting slightly–a sign that he was impressed, albeit unwillingly.  

Without warning, Aegon’s hand shot out to grip Aemond’s shoulder, both brother’s locking eyes as they held onto one another, a brief and tense connection. “Come now, brother, lighten up. It was only a jest…”

He gave a half-shrug under Aemond’s steady hole, his head tilting further as his gaze flickered briefly to Daenera, a sly glint in his eye as he seemingly couldn’t help himself, adding, “Unless, of course, she takes me up on the offer.”

Daenera rolled her eyes, the faintest flush coloring her cheeks from the ordeal unfolding around her. She remained silent, her expression a blend of quiet exasperation and discomfort, letting the brothers’ exchange continue without interruption as she dismissed them by turning back to the feast.

Music had begun to play again, the murmur of voices rising as people returned to their conversations. The dancers began again, the steps adding a low shuffle to the air as they followed the tune of the music. 

The sting of humiliations still burned in his chest, a familiar ache that carved itself into him over the years. Aemond’s expression remained stony, his eye cold and sharp. “There's a fine line between teasing and mockery, one you cross all too often–”

Aegon waved off Aemond’s retort with an exaggerated flick of his hand, dismissing his brother’s irritation. “Oh, please,” he scoffed, brushing Aemond’s hand from his shoulder with casual indifference, his fingers gingerly touching upon the spot on his arm where the needle had pricked him, his brows knitting further together as he continued, “You’ve always been so easily offended–one would think you’d learn to grow thicker skin over the years.” His tone took on a mocking lightness, as if Aemond’s frustration was something trivial to be laughed away. 

“Be happy, brother,” Aegon continued, gesturing towards Daenera, who seemed to catch the movement out of the corner of her eye as a scowl grew on her face. “You’ve got a beautiful and loyal wife at your side–one you choose for yourself, mind you. That’s more than some of us ever got. And,” he added with grimace, “yours has all her senses. I think it’s time you loosen up a little.”

He gave Aemond another playful shake, a gesture that only deepened the simmering tension between them. Aegon’s words, meant to placate, only served to underscore the insult buried beneath his brotherly act, the mocking jabs hidden in plain sight. Aemond stood rigid, his composure fraying, but held in place by years of restraint and the weight of duty.

Aemond sharply brushed Aegon’s hand away, his glare cutting through his brother’s amused smile. “You should be more careful with your words, brother,” he said, his voice low and cold. “Vhagar is the greatest asset we have in this war. Without me–and my dragon–Rhaenyra would already be sitting on your throne. I think that alone should earn me your respect–”

Aegon’s smile faded slightly, his brows rising in sharp retort. “If it weren’t for you, there might not have been a war.” 

“You know as well as I do that war was inevitable,” Aemond replied, his tone hardening. “You should be grateful I brought you back. Without me, you’d either be rotting in a gutter outside some brothel or with your head mounted on a spike outside Dragonstone. You’re king now, Aegon, by sheer luck of being born first–try and make yourself worthy of it.”

Aegon’s expression shifted, his earlier amusement draining away as a nerve was struck. “I am trying. And I will not be weak like our father.”

The crack in his confidence was clear, and Aemond knew he had hit a sore spot.

“Good,” Aemond answered coolly, “because he would have lost this war.” His words hung in the air as he looked at Aegon with a mixture of challenge and cold expectation. 

Aegon grimaced with a half-shrug, turning on his heels. With a mischievous grin, he snatched a grape from a nearby plate and propped it into his mouth with exaggerated delight as he gave Daenera a teasing glance, quickly winking at her. He stepped down from the dias and was welcomed into the midst of revelry by his friends. Aemond watched him for a moment, his annoyance simmering just beneath the surface. 

Daenera caught his eye briefly, her expression meticulously neutral but her eyes sharp with unspoken words. Her gaze flicked away swiftly, refocusing on the reviving festivities as the tension in the air slowly began to dissipate. 

Returning to his seat, Aemond murmured under his breath, “Hemlock.”

The silence stretched between them for a long moment before she responded, “Slowed manticore venom.”

“What does that do?”

“It kills you slowly.”

Aemond sank into his seat with a weary sigh, his gaze flickering toward his mother as she approached, her lady-in-waiting, Talya, trailing closely behind. He rested his hand on the table, fingers drumming lightly against the surface as he leaned back. Though outwardly composed, the simmering irritation still lingered beneath his skin, slow to fade. His jaw remained tense, and his eyes, though calm, held a flicker of the frustration that had not yet fully dissipated.

Ascending the steps to the dias with her hands clasped together in front of her, Alicent came to stand before the table. Behind her, Lady Talya carefully placed three ornate totems on the table before them, each one thicker than the others. One of the books had a leather cover, with the seven-pointed star delicately embossed in gold leaf, gleaming under the dim light. The other two were bound in rich green cloth, their covers adorned with pearls carefully stitched into the fabric, adding a touch of elegance to the simple design. 

“It is my hope,” Alicent began, her voice soft but firm, as she unclasped her hands to rest one gently atop the stack of books before her, “that the two of you will find guidance in these.” Her eyes shifted between them, the weight of her words carrying a deeper meaning. “They were given to me on the occasion of my own wedding and helped me find my place in the new role as a wife. It is my prayer that they will guide you as well–and offer a path of atonement for the sins we each carry.”

“Thank you, mother,” Aemond said, his tone polite but distant, his eye briefly flickering over the books before shifting away. He had little interest in whatever atonement they promised–neither the books nor the gods could grant him the absolution he sought. It was a different kind of atonement that weighed on his soul, one far beyond what the seven-pointed star and its gods could offer. 

Alicent regarded Daenera with dark, scrutinizing eyes, her expression carefully measured as she seemed to note something amiss. “Your necklace…” she remarked, her tone laced with a subtle undertone, as though the absence of jewelry meant more than it seemed. 

Shifting his gaze to Daenera, Aemond caught the slight flicker in her demeanor as her hand rose instinctively to her chest. Her fingers brushed the exposed skin just below her collarboes, as if searching for the absent necklace. Her smile, though poised, was stiff and brittle, like a finely honed blade.

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed,” she responded lightly, her voice carrying an edge of feigned innocence. “I must have lost it–what a shame…”

The statement hung in the air for a moment, and Aemond could feel the tension simmering just beneath the surface. His mother’s eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion brewing between them, but she said nothing further. Instead, she smoothed her hands over her skirts with practiced grace, the movement calm yet telling of her thoughts left unspoken. 

His mother turned and descended from the dias. 

Daenera smiled faintly, her face betraying none of the disdain he knew she held for the seven-pointed star. As his mother retreated and the books were whisked away, Daenera spoke lowly, an edge to her voice, “If those books cross the threshold of our chambers, I will shave off your hair while you sleep. You will be the bald, one-eyed kinslayer.”

Aemond’s lips twisted into a brief, amused smirk at her remark. He had no reason to doubt her threat. The memory of her petty nature was still fresh–he recalled the time she had slipped dye into his bath oils after a long day of training. He had sat in the bath, unaware, until the bottom of his hair had turned an unfortunate shade, costing him a few precious inches. Thankfully, he hadn’t sunk fully beneath the water, sparing the rest of his hair, though the stray hairs on his body had turned a vivid pink. He had swiftly dealt with the issue, removing any trace to avoid the embarrassment of discovery.

Aemond also knew Daenera was entirely capable of making good on her current threat–cutting his hair as he slept. With that in mind, he subtly waved over a servant, leaning in to quietly instruct them. “See that the books are brought to my chambers.” 

The Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, was next to present his gifts. For Aemond, a warhorse–a black stallion bred and trained specifically for battle–was promised, currently on the way from Oldtown. It was said that it was a magnificent beast, fit for a prince. Daenera, on the other hand, received two large chests filled with brocade and rich fabrics, most in shades of green. 

Both gifts were accepted courteously, though Aemond thought he had little need for another horse. He only needed the one to get to Vhagar. The stallion was impressive, but when it came to war, he had Vhagar–no other mount could compare to a dragon. 

Next, Ser Tyland Lannister stepped forward, offering an ornate golden dagger set with gleaming emeralds for Aemond, as well as a chest brimming with gold bars from House Lannisters vast coffers. Daenera was given an array of fine jewelry and precious gems, each piece more extravagant than the last. Lord Jasper Wylde followed, offering them more fabrics–rich and finely woven–while Lord Larys Strong presented a book chronicling the history and legends of Harrenhal, paired with a tapestry depicting a serene forest teeming with woodland creatures. 

Aemond watched silently as his sister approached with her children. Jaehaera was perched on her hip, while Jaehaerys clutched her hand, his small legs working hard to keep up. They ascended the dias together, a nursemaid following close behind, carefully placing a neatly tied bundle of fabric on the table. Helaena’s smile was soft and gentle as she spoke, her gaze meeting Daenera’s “To bring you comfort… it is a blanket.” 

Jaehaera, with her wide, beaming smile, caught sight of Daenera and waved excitedly with childish pride, declaring, “I had three lemoncakes!”

“Three!” Daenera chuckled, leaning in slightly as her tone brightened. “That is a lot of lemoncakes.”

“I would have had more if I had been allowed,” Jaehaera pouted, burying her face against her mother’s neck, her earlier excitement fading into disappointment. 

Helaena gently chided her daughter, a soft smile playing on her lips. “Had you been allowed more, you would have gotten sick, sweet one.”

“No, I wouldn’t!” Jaehaera shot back, her small face scrunched into a determined scowl, pulling away from her mother to make her protest. “I wouldn’t!”

Aemond felt a feeling of softness pass over him as he watched his niece and nephew interact with his wife, though his face remained impassive. The warmth of moments like this was a rarity to him, and he struggled to engage, even as the lightheartedness of the exchange echoed faintly within him–he didn’t want to spoil it and instead sat back. 

“Aunty Dae!” Jaehaerys interjected, his small fingers gripping the edge of the table as he stood on his tiptoes, attempting to peer over the tall surface–his nose just about reached over the edge, eyes blinking at them from across the table. “I have a gift for you too!”

His balance wavered, a slight frown crossing his face as he teetered. Without warning, he bent his knees and peeked under the curtain of the tablecloth, his expression suddenly mischievous–the same gleam in his eyes as his father often got. Much to the nursemaid’s dismay, she called out sharply, trying to draw him back as he disappeared beneath the table, crawling along the floor of the dias. 

A dull thud followed from under the table, accompanied by a displeased, “Ow!”

The tablecloth shifted again as Jaehaerys reemerged on the other side, now beside Daenera. Quickly standing, he brushed his long hair out of his flushed face, doing his best to regain his composure despite the obvious embarrassment painting his cheeks. 

Daenera laughed, her laughter soft and genuine, the sound lifting the atmosphere around her. It slipped beneath Aemond’s skin, twisting around his heart and making it ache in a way he hadn’t expected. It had been so long since he had heard her laugh like that, and he found himself watching her quietly, captivated by the rare moment of joy.

Daenera twisted in her seat, her gaze warm as she reached out, brushing her hand gently over Jaehaerys’ head. “Are you hurt?”

“No…” Jaehaerys replied, standing up straighter, his small chest puffed out with determination as he held up the gift in his hand. “Here.” His face scrunched into a slight frown as he hesitated, the earlier embarrassment still burning brightly on his cheeks. “I… it’s–did you really claim a dragon?”

Daenera blinked in confusion, head tilting. “No?”

Jaehaerys’s frown deepened, his brow furrowing as he looked between her and his mother. “But father said you had… he said you had claimed one to ride!”

“Oh… I…” Daenera stammered, her eyes widening slightly as a laugh bubbled up, soft and warm. She shook her head in disbelief, amusement dancing across her features, even as she attempted to compose herself for the boy whose frown only grew. “No, Jaehaerys. I have not claimed a dragon. Your father meant that your uncle has taken me flying on Vhagar.”

“Oh,” Jaehaerys murmured, a hint of disappointment creeping into his voice. He furrowed his brow, clearly unsatisfied with Daenera’s answer. “Will you claim one?”

Before Daenera could respond, Helaena gently interjected, her soft voice carrying a quiet authority as she called her son back to her side. “Jaehaerys,” she said, her tone calm but firm, reminding him to mind his manners.

The boy hesitated for a moment, his curiosity still evident in his eyes, remaining at her side.

“Maybe one day,” Daenera answered. She accepted the small wooden dragon, her delicate fingers tracing the grooves carved into its surface. A soft smile played on her lips as she carefully placed it on the table before her. The toy, worn with age and clearly cherished, had once been one of Jaehaerys’ prized possessions, something he had clung to when he was younger. Now, it seemed, he was ready to part with it–though he undoubtedly had many others to take its place. 

“Jaehaerys, it is time for bed. Come,” Helaena called softly from the other side of the table, her voice gentle but firm. Jaehaera rested sleepily against her mother’s collarbone, her small hand inching towards her mouth until her thumb found its way between her lips. She began to suck on it absentmindedly, her eyelids drooping.

Jaehaerys, full of energy despite the late hour, held up his hand expectantly towards Daenera. When she placed hers in his small grasp, he brought it gallantly to his lips, pressing a knightly kiss to her knuckles with all the seriousness of a boy his age could muster. Then, with a dramatic flourish, he stepped back and gave her a deep bow, mimicking the courtly gestures he had seen countless times. 

Before anyone could stop him, he glanced towards the table again, clearly intent on repeating his earlier adventure by crawling beneath it. Both Helaena and Daenera quickly chided him, their soft voices stopping him in his tracks. 

Reluctantly, the boy abandoned his plan and instead walked around the table as instructed, his head held high. 

When he reached the other side, Helaena took his hand and led him down the steps, her movements calm and measured as they made their way towards the quieter edges of the hall, where the revelry was less overwhelming. 

Aemond’s gaze drifted across the grand hall, taking in the whirl of festivities around him. The room was alive with motion and color–nobles and courtiers mingled, their laughter blending with the clingking of goblets and the soft rustle of silk gowns. The lively tunes of minstrels filled the air as more gifts were presented–small chests brimming with silver, gold, glittering jewels, and delicate ornaments. Some contained sheer fabrics from distant lands, their origins puzzling giving the ongoing blockade. He couldn’t help but wonder how such rare items had slipped through. Each offering was either sent to the vault for safekeeping or delivered to their chambers. 

His gaze eventually settled on Aegon, who stood leaning against a table, a goblet lazily balanced in his hand. Surrounding him were his usual friends, the ever-present lickspittles who laughed heartily at his every jest–though their attention seemed more focused on Ser Martyn Reyne at the moment, who had seemingly become the latest target of their mockery. Eddard Waters, the bastard, had his arm draped casually around Ser Martyn’s neck, whispering something that looked like advice, judging by the exaggerated gestures. Aegon’s eyes flicked briefly towards Aemond and Daenera, where there was a moment of unspoken mischief between him and his group. 

A rose was shoved into Ser Martyn’s hands, and with a rough push from his companions, he stumbled forward, clearly meant to approach the dias. Aemond’s eye narrowed slightly as he watched the awkward display unfold, but before Ser Martyn could reach them, another knight stepped forward, cutting off his advance. 

Tension simmered beneath Aemond’s skin as he observed the antics unfolding across the hall, a suspicion growing that it was yet another deliberate attempt to provoke him–if not outright mock him. Though he had long grown accustomed to being the target of Aegon's jests, the old irritation still sparked within him, tightening his chest with the familiar pang of annoyance.

His attention was soon drawn to Ser Gwayne Hightower as the knight approached with a casual grace, a subtle smile tugging at his uncle’s thin lips. His pale blue eyes flicked from Daenera to Aemond, a glint of amusement dancing in them. He stopped before them, offering a courteous nod. 

“Congratulations, nephew,” he said, his tone smooth and measured. His gaze then shifted to Daenera. “Princess…” 

“Ser Gwayne,” Daenera greeted politely, her tone measured but pleasant. 

“You make a beautiful bride,” Gwayne continued, his voice soft and almost too smooth, the curve of his lips teetering on the edge of a smirk–one that only seemed to sharpen the gleam in his eyes. Aemond always thought there was something fox-like about his uncle, sly and clever, never fully revealing his intentions. 

“And as such,” he went on, producing a golden flower from behind his back, “I thought you deserved something just as remarkable in beauty–a flower for a flower.”

He extended the shimmering blossom towards Daenera with a flourish, his words drenched in flattery as his gaze lingered on her, perhaps longer than Aemond would have liked. Daenera reached across the table, the beads of her long sleeve scratching against the table’s edge as she took the delicate gift with a soft smile. Her eyes lingered appreciatively on the finely crafted petals, her fingers delicately tracing their intricate edges–each petal shimmered as though touched by the sun itself.

Something bitter twisted in Aemond’s gut, a surge of possessiveness and irritation rising within him. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to remain impassive, though every instinct urged him to show his displeasure.

“And I thought you might be tired of receiving roses,” Gwayne said with a soft smile on his lips. “You deserve something more enduring, something that will not wither in time.”

Behind Gwayne, unbeknownst to him, Ser Martyn reyne floundered awkwardly, clutching a simple rose in his grasp–a flower stolen from one of the many arrangements scattered throughout the hall. His gaze dropped to the common flower and without a word, shuffled back from the dias, his intentions seemingly crumbling under the weight of Gwayne’s more lavish offering. His retreat was met with loud jeering from Aegon’s circle, but Martyn took it in stride, smiling sheepishly as he rejoined the group. 

Aemond felt a brief flicker of amusement at the scene, watching Ser Martyn’s failed attempt. Yet that amusement quickly faded, withering away as Gwayne placed two books upon the table, his hand resting atop the leather bound parchment.

“How fares my brother?” Aemond inquired, diverting Gwayne’s attention from Daenera with a deliberately casual demeanor. His smile was restrained as he leaned forward slightly, interest flickering in his gaze–even as Daenera’s eyes remained on the book before her.

“He is thriving,” Gwayne responded, his tone softening and carrying a hint of pride. “He’s becoming quite the swordsman, as his older brother is.” His eyes gleamed with amusement as he continued, “And he’s equally dedicated to his studies and music–he plays well, better than I ever could. Though, as he’s grown older, he has begun to draw quite a bit of attention from the ladies. I suspect he’ll leave quite a few hearts in disarray when he marries the Baratheon girl.”

Aemond nodded as he considered his younger brother, whom he hadn’t seen since childhood. He had been ten and his brother just six when he had been sent to Oldtown, and the distance had only grown with the years. He had missed him deeply, the only brother with whom he shared any sense of kinship, the one he had wanted to be a better brother for–to protect him as his own older brother hadn’t. 

A memory flickered in his mind, a moment when he had been confined to his bed, his body wracked with fever. His eye had been cut open again, maggots feeding on the festering edges of the wound after the maesters had removed additional tissue. In the delirium of fever and pain, he had wondered how different things might have been if he had been sent to Oldtown in his brother’s place–if he could have escaped the scorn and suffering that had shaped him into the weapon he had become. 

“I brought these with me from Oldtown,” Gwayne began, shifting his attention back to Daenera, his voice steady and confident, “they might serve as fitting wedding gifts.” His hand brushed off the book, laying them side by side. “They’re translated copies of The Nature of the Body by Maridos Irroran of Qarth, and The secrets of the Earth by Taenolla Vynaar of Qohor–”

Before he could continue, Daenera stood abruptly from her seat, her excitement palpable. She left the gilded sunflower behind, resting it next to the small wooden dragon Jaehaerys had gifted her earlier. Her fingers momentarily clenched the fabric of her skirts as she pushed herself from the chair, the pearls and beads adorning her gown rustling softly, brushing against the floor of the dais with a faint scratching. 

With more enthusiasm that she had shown for any of the other gifts, Daenera quickly made her way around the table to stand beside Gwayne, her eyes bright with anticipation as she approached. 

Aemond watched with a tightening within his chest as a wide, genuine smile spread across Daenera’s face, her eyes alight with excitement. Her delicate fingers traced the cover of the book with reverence, her love for its contents unmistakable. She looked up at Gwayne, her expression full of curiosity and gratitude. 

“Do you know what these are?” She asked, her voice brimming with enthusiasm. “These books hold wisdom on assorted medicinal practices prevalent across the Free Cities, alongside practical uses of herbs upon the flesh.”

“I would scarcely believe the Free Cities might hold any wisdom not already known to us,” Gwayne remarked, a brow lifting in skepticism.

“Though the customs of the Free Cities differ from ours, Ser Gwayne, their wisdom is not to be overlooked,” Daenera answered, “For instance, they describe a procedure where they drill open the skull to relieve pressure, or use fine needles to ease pain, reduce tension, and improve general health. I do not wish to limit myself.” Her fingers caressed a page, eyes flicking over the parchment before rising to meet Gwayne’s. “How did you find these? How–how did you know?”

Gwayne shifted slightly, his smile deepening, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes as he glanced towards Aemond. “In truth, the idea wasn’t mine. A few months ago, my nephew wrote to his brother, requesting that he visit the Citadel and have these works translated and compiled. I never imagined they would become wedding gifts, but… here we are.”

Aemond had seldom taken to the pen in recent years to write to his brother–let alone his uncle. But when he had learned that Daenera had been searching for certain rare books at the library, pestering every maester in King’s Landing to no avail, he had taken to the pen to send a letter to Daeron, asking if he could procure the copies she sought. It appeared his brother had succeeded in finding them and had sent them along with their uncle. 

As Daenera’s fingers traced the spine of the book and flipped through the pages, her smile faltered.. Her gaze, usually sharp and intent, softened as she glanced at the scribbled pages, her brow furrowing slightly with a note of sadness.

“I will have to write to him and thank him for this,” she murmured softly, her voice measured, restrained. Shen then glanced up at Gwayne, offering a polite nod of acknowledgement. “And you as well, thank you, Ser.”

“You’re very welcome, princess,” Gwayne replied smoothly, turning his attention towards Aemond. There was a slight bow of his head, a gesture of respect that felt rehearsed, as if to appease both Aemond’s title and temperament–and only served to agitate him further. “May I have the honor of a dance with your wife?”

Aemond’s gaze flickered to Daenera, her expression unreadable as she closed the book gently, the tension in her fingers almost imperceptible. A slight scowl tugged at her brows at the request, undoubtedly because it was directed to him rather than her. His eye narrowed in response, the request hanging in the air between them like a blade. The thought of his wife–his wife–dancing with another man, his uncle no less, gnawed at him. His lips curved into a smirk, masking the simmering annoyance that threatened to rise to the surface.

Before he could respond, Daenera’s voice cut through the moment like a knife.

“You needn’t ask my husband, I would be honored to dance with you,” she said sharply, her tone holding a quiet edge as her gaze met his in defiance. There was a flicker of challenge in her eyes, one that Aemond recognized all too well. “A bride should dance at her own wedding, should she not? I've grown weary of sitting.”

The smirk on Aemond’s lips tightened ever so slightly as he felt Daenera’s words push between his ribs like a subtle, finely honed blade. Restless agitation stirred beneath his skin, itching at his fingertips and needling at his bones. Yet, he remained as still as a stone, gripping his composure with such force that it alone threatened to crack beneath the composure. 

He clenched his jaw, the sharpness of his thoughts twisting deeper as he watched her closely. She was playing her part, as expected–but the way she held his gaze, the way she took control of the moment, stirred something deeper within him. It tightened in his gut, made his blood simmer, but he said nothing. Instead, he remained still, his smirk slipping back into place. 

Aemond’s eye slid from Daenera to Gwayne, lingering on his uncle with a simmering edge–remembering his mother’s words–before he forced out a deceptively soft, “But of course…”

Gwayne, seemingly ever the gallant, extended his hand, and with her gaze still fixed on Aemond, Daenera took it. Her gown whispered against the steps as she descended with Gwayne, the fabric trailing behind her like a pale shadow as they approached the dance floor. The delicate train of her sleeves barely skimmed the stone, while the green of her cloak, abandoned on the chair beside Aemond, was left behind like he was.

Aemond’s eye followed them, sharp and unyielding, the agitation deeping in his chest. She moved with grace, and the crowd’s murmurs faded into the background as she took her place on the floor with Gwayne. His fingers curled tightly around the armrests of his chair, and though he kept his expression neutral–indifferent–there was no mistaking the possessiveness that burned within him. 

Aemond’s eye remained locked on her, the space between them feeling like a chasm, immeasurable and vast. The wood creaked faintly under his hold as he watched her take her place before Gwayne. Her hand rested in his uncle’s, the other poised on his shoulder, while Gwayne’s hand settled at her waist. 

A fierce spark ignited beneath Aemond’s skin, a heat that was both possessive and volatile, threatening to spill over. 

A new tune bega, so did the dance. Aemond sat back, dragging his blunt nails over the edge of the chair, his movements slow and measured, though the tension coiled within him like a tight spring. The sight of his wife in the arms of another man, gracefully moving across the floor, sent an ugly twist through his chest. He watched, silently seething, as the fabric of her gown flowed behind her, and her hair caught the light as they spun–a star burning through the colors of dusk.

He wished it was him–wished to feel her under his hand, to lead her across the floor. But he knew that if he asked, she would refuse. And even if she didn’t, it would be out of obligation, not desire. That was a truth he could not bear to confront tonight. So he remained in his seat, the air around him sharp and brittle, the desire to claim what was his warring with the restraint that held him back.

His gaze flickered down to the cloak left behind on her chair, the symbol of their union cast aside so easily. It pricked at him like a thorn, digging into his pride and fueling the possessive fire that burned in his veins. She might dance with Gwayne now, might let another man place his hand on her waist, but in the end, it was him to whom she was bound.

The gods had never granted Aemond anything–everything he possessed was something he had seized with his own hands. He had claimed Daenera as his wife, as he had claimed Vhagar, yet now, as he watched her dance, a genuine smile lighting her face, a thought gnawed at him. He had her, she bore his name, wore his cloak, but still, she was not truly his. She may be his wife, bound to him in the eyes of the realm, but her smiles, her laughter, her heart–they eluded him, slipping through his fingers like sand.

She was his. The thought echoed in his mind, but did little to soothe the ache deep within his chest. He had her, yes, but he wanted her in ways that went beyond mere possession. He craved her tough, her affection, her love–things he could not take by force, no matter how skilled he was at wielding a blade, things he had lost when he had chased her brother through the storm. The thought left him restless, the sharp edges of longing cutting through him. 

The boy stood there–Lucerys.

Still and unnatural, he stood a ghost amidst the living. The colors of the dancers–rich greens, shimmering golds, soft purples, and vibrant reds–whirled around him. The dancers, absorbed in the merriment and music, were oblivious to the pale figure in their midst. His presence was like a chill shadow cutting through the warm hues of the throne room–water dripping from his dark curls as if freshly pulled from the depths of the storm. His skin was ashen, lips blue and silent as death itself–and his eyes, blue hidden beneath a veil of white, staring right at him. 

His blood had felt no different from the rain when it had splattered against his face. 

Daenera spun past Lucerys, her gown flowing as she twirled to the tune of the music. She danced past the ghost of her brother without a second glance, unaware of the haunting presence that clung to the air around them. She danced on, moving past the dead boy, past the lingering chill and blood-soaked memories that pricked at the back of Aemond’s mind. 

Aemond’s eye followed Daenera’s every movement, his heart thudding heavily within his chest. The weight of his sins pressed against him like an iron vice. His love for her, his desperation to keep her, were tangled with the horrors of his deeds. And though she danced, beautiful and serene, he could not escape the creeping terror that her smile, like the ghost in their midst, would one day vanish into the cold silence that followed Lucery’s death. 

Aemond’s desire for Daenera was both pathetic and desperate. She belonged to him, yet the intensity of his yearning felt like a hollow victory. As he watched her, the realization that she was truly his wife, and yet he was left longing for her.

Yet, perhaps more dreadfully, he was hers.

That truth, though unspoken, pressed upon him with a weight he could not shake. It was as if she had claimed him just as surely as he had claimed her, though not with the same brutal finality. She had burrowed into his heart, the poison of her presence spreading through his veins, making him weak, vulnerable. He resented it as much as he craved it. Even now, watching her glide across the dance floor, he could feel the twisted seed of his desire for her growing, tangling around his soul.

Aemond clenched his jaw, his gaze burning with intensity as he followed her movements. She was his, and yet, not entirely. He had taken her as his wife, but what he wanted–the parts of her that were not just bound by duty–remained distant. And that truth, bitter and maddening, settled deep within him.

It was a fitting punishment for a monster, wasn’t it?

[etherealdiva]

Astro Observations: Solar Returns

Source: Predictive Astrology the eagle and the lark by Bernadette Brady

Aspect Edition: 2022

☀️Neptune- ascendant: changing your personality from how you’re seen from the outside perspective. This happens usually by an unfortunate event or when traveling to escape. Ending the image that you present to the world.

-how it manifested for me: my mom passed away this year and I feel I lost my identity and am just dissolving my upbeat positive personality that everyone saw me as happy go lucky. I feel my humor is darker and I just resonate more with despair and darkness even though in general I’m still a positive person. It’s like life is whooping my ass but I’m still smiling lol.

☀️Neptune- sun: confused about your role in life, wanting to escape and travel.

- how it manifested for me: I feel absolutely lost in life because of everything I’ve lost this year (my full time job as well) and I had identified myself as that role. I’m sometimes conflicted with my role in the astrology world as well. Anything in the esoteric because I feel I’m living a life in the 3D and then another life somewhere else (online actually). I don’t feel I fit in anywhere with people but I can mesh well with others. Also, I’m dying to travel and start a new life. I wanna travel internationally.

☀️Uranus- MC: expect a sudden change in your job/career and your social status. For better or worse.

- how it manifested for me: my company laid me and 109 employees off 🙃 I guess I’m not suppose to be there 😅

☀️Saturn- Uranus: frustrated because achieving your goals is a slow progress.

- how it manifested for me: I’m so impatient cause it feels like everything is so damn slow. I have goals I wanna reach but it feels like I have to work even harder. Normally with my fitness goals I’ve had great luck and maybe it’s because I’m not as strict as I was before. I still think for the most part I look good with my body but I was at my fittest in 2019. I was also frustrated cause I worked hard and I wanted a raise and then we all got laid off so now I gotta start over.

☀️Saturn- moon: feeling of loneliness and wanting to isolate. Feeling like no one supports you.

- how it manifested for me: I moved to another state all by myself. Despite it being a busy and social city, I felt alone and wanting to isolate myself. I felt like I met people but couldn’t make connections 🥲

☀️Saturn- ascendant: being seen as more responsible and mature. Being as an authority.

- How it manifested for me: despite my Leo rising mannerisms and how I get along very well the youngins, I feel my piscean old soul def came out more. Also much more responsible especially since I lived on my own.

☀️Uranus- moon: events occurring so fast that you don’t have time to process them or react. Being free of your emotions.

- How it manifested for me: so much happened this year that I don’t think I processed my moms death, losing my job, being dumped and also moving away. I know it happened but like I think I reacted for a bit and then moved on to distract. I’m in therapy which is nice but yeah. Also could be that my moon is in Taurus in the 12th house so I feel much more emotionally stable but also repressed cause I still don’t believe it or I do but I’m like idk…it happened?? Weird?? I’m dreaming right?

☀️Uranus- sun: wanting to be free and re-classify yourself

- how it manifested for me: literally moved away because I felt trapped at home. I was more open about my love for astrology in my new city than I am in my hometown.

☀️Neptune- North Node: finding your spiritual path and a group/your “tribe” that’s in the category of the healing arts and esoteric. Diving into the metaphysical which pushes forward the person into a new life direction

- how it manifested for me: met you all in the Astro tumblr community 🥹🥺❤️ also dug deeper into astrology! I’ve studied it since 2018 but I went 💯 on it this gear. I also have a 9th house stellium in Aquarius in my SR.

☀️Pluto-Venus: intense fated connection with an intimate relationship or an emotional ending of one.

Note: Pluto represents mother figures and family members and people connected with death & dying.

- how it manifested for me: I did meet a man and he has a Gemini rising and Taurus moon in the 12th in his natal. My SR is Gemini rising and Taurus moon in the 12th. He impacted me greatly and how I viewed men. He was great and I’m grateful for him 💛

2021: significant events

☀️Neptune- Venus: illusions in romantic relationships. Love life could be wonderful or will leave you to deal with the harsh truth after it’s ended. Could possibly be conned.

- how it manifested for me: met a guy who is an Aquarius rising (my ascendant sign was Aquarius that year also) and when we dated I felt happy when being with him. But he ghosted (then he came back again and ghosted again) and I had to face the harsh reality of that. I’m sadly still recovering but I’ve made a lot of healing progress! I just know better now.

☀️Uranus- ascendant: changes to a persons life such as name and physical body. A huge drive for change/freedom.

- how it manifested for me: I got cosmetic surgery 😅 but I love it 🥰

I love astrology 💛 enjoy!