#i never did this one because if someone else had done it before then i didn't do it

[eowynstwin]

professor price

professor price x reader. age gap. older man/younger woman. pining. pre-relationship. jealousy. angst. guilt. voyeurism. mvp alejandro. lightly explicit. - A Christmas gift to my friend @guyfieriii, centered around her own Professor Price au from all the way back in early 2023. I have linked each fic of hers that I reference in this work—highly recommend you check them out.

The first day of class you’re in the front row—center seat.

Old instincts never really retire even if the body leaves the field; a moment’s evaluation opens you like a book. Pencil pouch on your desk, set parallel to the edge. Syllabus in the middle, creased at the stapled corner but otherwise pristine. Water bottle at the corner, solid blue.

You: hair neat. Wearing clean slacks and a knitted sweater like a uniform, ankles crossed, buckled straps of your Mary-Janes intersecting in an obtuse V. Like a flock of birds in formation, flying southwards for the winter. There’s a curated look to you, a careful arrangement of details meant to declare the essence of who you are and what you’re about.

It’s clear immediately; from only a glance.

You’re a good girl.

The eager-to-please kind. The five A-levels kind. The kind who does her bonus assignments because they’re available, not because she needs them. Prim, polished, ironed at the creases.

Straight from a 90s teen drama, or porn of an equal vintage.

You meet his eyes—

And Price knows how it goes.

Boredom and professional stagnancy are the bane of active men. Men with egos. Men who long to fix things. Men who have reached the heights of every achievement now looking for the next peak to summit.

It’s the curse of middle age’s collision with machismo. How does a man prove his masculinity when there’s no proving left to be done? When the panopticon has finally turned its eyes away, satisfied at his self-regulation enough not to constantly surveil it?

Suddenly the performance can end, if he wants it to. Only, if it ends, how does the actor not disappear, when the role is the only identity he’s ever had?

In academia, the answer is—of course—simple:

Fuck a student.

And oh. It’s right there, in those wide, sweet eyes, looking up at him with the reflexive veneration of a star student.

You’re begging to be fucked.

Fucked right. Fucked by someone who knows what he’s doing. Fucked so good that it upends every clean line of you, like breaking furniture, like smashing crystal. Fucked crying, whimpering, groaning beyond recognizable language, sweaty and gross until it’s impossible to tell whether or not his body and yours have begun to fuse.

Fucked the way no snot-nosed twenty-something twat, the age-appropriate kind that sleeps in the back of his lecture hall and then emails him at the end of every semester begging for extra credit to fix his grade, could possibly fuck you.

He holds your gaze for too long. You smile at him, shyly, and he gives you a brusque nod before distracting himself with the papers on his lectern.

You’re too young for him.

Not that it matters.

Price is all about lines. Stark delineations between will and won’t. Before his untimely retirement, the lines had meant everything. They separated the kind of man he was from the kind of man he did not want to be, and they kept those men separate, even when the distance from one to the other narrowed so sharply that the differences between them were a matter of context rather than consequence.

The important one now is the one that splits his lectern off from the rest of the lecture hall. Students are allowed to cross it, of course, or else he would be neglecting his duty to them as their instructor. But they must inevitably leave, and his feet must remain planted squarely on his side of it.

It’s not even a line he drew himself, although he would have if need be. No—professors, at the beginning of their tenure, are warned. Students will construct feelings of intimacy with their teachers, interpreting their passion for academics as passion for the conduit thereof. Close relationships between mentor and mentee, to be sure, can be deeply beneficial for the young scholar’s development—

But they must remain impersonal. The work must be the lens through which student and teacher look at each other. That barrier must never be lifted.

So it doesn’t matter how old you are or aren’t, or that you’re a second-year grad student, or that every time you walk into the classroom Price wants to drag his desk chair over to yours because you’re the only one who seems like she gives a damn about what he teaches.

He may draw his lines, but he never crosses them.

He’s seen it before. Never done it himself. Phillip Graves has a reputation for it.

Of course, as the Americans like to say, innocent until proven guilty, but it’s hard to argue with the pretty girls Graves always seems to have floating around him every semester. Undergrads, even, though to his credit they seem usually to be the older ones.

Price doesn’t think that even Dean Shepherd’s lapdog could get away with fucking freshly legal coeds—mostly because, if Graves tried to pull something like that, Price might actually take matters into his own hands and kill the bastard himself.

As it is, he can’t actually prove that his colleague is sleeping with anyone he shouldn’t be. He’s not in the army anymore; he has no desire to lose sleep over staking out the man’s house.

The only consolation is that no one besides his students and the Dean seem to like Graves—something the man doesn’t seem concerned to rectify, if he even notices. Though Price can’t imagine that he hasn’t noticed. He’s always sitting alone at staff meetings if Shepherd isn’t present, and if he does try to talk to anyone, it’s usually the adjuncts, young women just beginning their careers in higher academia who know the drill by now and merely humor him.

So it shouldn’t surprise Price when, one day, he catches Graves chatting you up.

“Hey, congrats on the election, kid,” he hears him say to you, referencing your recent appointment as president to the student association of his department. Graves smiles, dimpling, all that American charm amped up to the maximum.

And Price sees red.

“Thank you, Professor Graves,” you say politely. You have your arms crossed over your binder, held to your chest, as if a makeshift shield.

“I’d have voted for you if I could’ve,” the other man says. “And hey, I know you Brits like your formalities, but it’s just Phil with me.”

“Erm…”

“There you are,” Price announces from the other end of the hallway.

You turn, and give look you shoot him is so relieved that, almost immediately, it clears the haze from his eyes, like a cool breeze moving through the hottest part of a summer day. Relief of his own floods him, washing the jealousy he’d barely had time to confront completely away.

“Hello, Professor,” you say, “I was just on my way to your office!”

“Good,” says Price, approaching. “Wanted to talk about your last paper. Had some issues with your secondary sources.”

You blanch, and he immediately feels guilty for the lie.

“Ah, go easy on the kid,” says Graves. “I keep telling you, John, no one likes a hardass.”

For some reason, there are two men in the department that Phillip Graves makes a consistent effort to interact with, and Price has the misfortune of being one of them. He’s not sure why—he thinks he’s made his distaste for the man very clear. It’s probably some dick-measuring contest for him; Price’s standing in the department, even despite Shepherd’s favoritism, is secure.

Whether it’s secure enough to withstand this…thing happening between you and him has yet to be seen.

“I hold my students to a higher standard, Graves,” Price says shortly. Then, to you, “Come along, and we’ll talk about it.”

He turns and leaves, and as he hears you hurry after him, an ugly kind of gratification begins purring behind his sternum. The two of you walk for a ways in silence.

“Was it the interviews?” you finally ask him, sounding genuinely upset. “I thought they would be okay, given that they were original transcriptions…”

“Your sources were fine,” Price soothes, unable to take it. “Just needed to give you a good out, didn’t I?”

You falter beside him, but quickly catch up. “Oh no, was I that obvious?”

He looks to you as he walks, catching the anxious expression on your face, and smiles, amused. “Don’t worry, promise you he couldn’t tell.”

Then you laugh. It enter’s Price’s bloodstream and pumps through his veins, all the way to the arteries in his neck. It fills the lobes of his brain, rapidly bringing the world into sharper focus.

“I’ll hold you to that, professor,” you say, and it’s a tether he welcomes, a sting of pleasure as its hook lodges in his ribs.

Price looks over his shoulder, and finds Graves watching the two of you walk away. He doesn’t like the expression on the other man’s face. It’s…knowing. Understanding, in the way of a man having competed for something and lost to the better opponent.

He catches the Graves’ eye, scowling at him; he means for the expression to be disapproving. For Graves to know that Price knows what he’s about, and has no intention of humoring it.

But he knows how it actually comes across.

Back off. She’s mine.

Price’s colleague and friend Alejandro Vargas is the only other man in the department that Graves cares to know, and, luckily for Price, Alejandro shares his dislike.

“He is too young to be acting the way he does,” he says one evening after work. He and Price share a pint at a pub nearby campus on a regular basis.

“Too young?” Price repeats. “What is he, thirty-five? Forty?”

“Who cares,” Alejandro says. “Anyone chasing after his students the way he does should at least be fifty. That way a midlife crisis can at least be a valid excuse.”

Price’s stomach turns. His forty-sixth birthday has already come and gone.

“So you’re sayin’—”

“Man his age can get his ego boost somewhere else,” Alejandro mutters into his tankard. He has a strange way of looking at things, sometimes; as if he were a much older man himself, and not in his prime at thirty-eight. “Don’t they make apps for that nowadays?”

“No excuse for messing with students,” Price agrees, although he tastes the bitter note of hypocrisy in the back of his throat as he thinks of you, and that rainy afternoon.

Driving you home was a mistake, although he can’t think of anything else he would’ve respected himself for doing. He clings to that excuse like a buoy in the ocean—no matter his feelings for you, leaving you on campus to wait until the storm passed, no umbrella, no coat, would have been unforgivable.

He’d played it off as simply doing a favor for his favorite student. A willingness to go beyond his usual responsibilities to you, since you excel beyond what even his high standards demand of you.

Something the two of you should keep between yourselves, for professionalism’s sake, because he has an obligation to treat every student equally.

I can be discreet, you’d said, the tone of your voice playful and also…not.

The way one says something that they mean, while framing it as a joke, just in case it’s taken the wrong way.

Mitigation.

Something he could’ve brushed off, if your hand hadn’t moved toward his.

Good girl. He’d moved his away. Focused on the line. Accepted your apology with grace, determined not to embarrass you for feelings that are only natural—

That are reciprocated, even though they shouldn’t be.

“That is less the problem to me,” Alejandro muses.

“What?” Price exclaims. “Mate, we have a responsibility to these kids. We can’t go treating classrooms like bloody Love Island.”

“It is about the man,” says his colleague. “If a man shows respect in his relationships, then it is not so important where they happen. Graves, he is not a respectful man.”

“No one his age should be with girls that much younger than him,” Price growls.

Alejandro fixes him with an intense look, a serious expression tightening the sharp lines of his face.

“This is what I mean by respect,” he says evenly. Purposefully. “Knowing who is right and wrong to be with. Girls that young? No. They do not know themselves, and Graves will try to tell them who they are. But not every girl is that young.”

Price shifts uncomfortably on his barstool, remembering one late afternoon—when Alejandro had stopped by his office, to find you sitting on the small couch there, studying, as Price finished grading essays.

Innocent, he’d thought. A mentor and his student, sharing space, making room for scholarship to flow between them.

He realizes now, chagrined, that Alejandro has always been too perceptive to accept what he merely observes.

“Mate,” Price says, measured, “It isn’t like that.”

“No,” Alejandro agrees, “it isn’t. That does not mean it can’t be.”

“Alejandro—”

“You are not your father, hermano,” his colleague says, knowing exactly where to strike. “That is the end of what I will say.”

And he sips his beer while leaving Price to seethe.

You’re seeing one of the twats.

Price convinced himself the first couple of times you walked out with him—Will—that you were taking on a charity case. You’re a student leader, after all. Helping a classmate with their ailing grades falls under your purview. You’ve hosted tutoring sessions before, and the pride of it had nestled glowing in his chest so warmly that he couldn’t help bragging about your academic promise to his colleagues.

Even outside of the ache for you that sits in his gut every time he sees you, Price could not be prouder. The students’ Historical Society’s fundraiser last month had gone off beautifully thanks to you, and everyone who had attended was still talking about it: from the brilliant idea for a fifties dress code, to the truly impressive array of antiques you’d convinced donors to contribute to the silent auction.

You’d looked so beautiful in your little red dress, too. The sharp lines of your burgundy lipstick had made your smile so bright all evening that he’d fallen asleep thinking about it.

His student. His protege, really. Of course you’d notice someone struggling, and make an effort to help.

Except, Price has never been very good at fooling himself. The truth is too valuable an asset for him to disregard.

The first time you leave with Will, he feels it clench around something in his gut. He has to remind himself he has no right to feel anything about it at all.

The second time, it starts burrowing deeper. Gnawing a hole in his stomach. The look on the twat’s face, as he follows you out like a lost puppy, is too smitten to allow Price his illusions.

Then one day, you take that twat’s hand in yours at the end of class, slotting your fingers between his.

It descends again. That film of red over his eyes. He stares at the two of you as you make your way to the door—and you throw Price a look, Price, aimed straight for his center.

You’re his. His.

And what has he done about it?

The accusation is in your eyes. It’s honed by everything he’s done—and hasn’t. The late-night chips after fundraiser planning. The cigars between classes, and the scotch in his office he pours every time you stop by to discuss your thesis.

The cufflinks he wears for every single class you’re in, and the box you wrapped them in sitting open on his beside table. Like a conduit for bringing the warmth of your touch into his home.

The same warmth, in his weakest moments, that he imagines wrapped around his cock. As his fingers find the soft give of your cleft. As his tongue meets yours, and tastes the liquor he now only drinks in your company.

Imagines, but never pursues.

Why had he believed you wouldn’t search for the same elsewhere?

The anniversary comes up faster than Price would have liked, despite the fact that the calendar isn’t missing any days.

He goes to the cemetery alone. Bouquet of English roses clutched in the vice of one hand. It feels like a day it should be raining, but the sky betrays him, the gray covering of clouds thin enough to let the dyed sunlight through.

He buried his mother in the plot she’d bought for herself and his father, Price the elder, according to her wishes. He’d buried his father beside her against Price the younger’s own.

It had happened within a year of each other. The chemotherapy hadn’t worked, after years of fighting it, and the last months of Mrs. Price’s life happened far sooner than it was fair. She hadn’t left any regrets behind, she promised in her will, but young John Price knew it for a lie.

He remembers sitting with her in the mornings as a boy, flipping through old issues of National Geographic. His mum would ooh and aah over exotic pictures of the American west—the Russian steppe—colorful bird’s eye shots of the Taj Mahal or Burj Khalifa.

“We’re gonna go there someday,”she would enthuse, squeezing him around his toddler-belly with one arm as he perched in her lap.

Even then he’d known it was a dream, and not a goal. All he had to do was look around at the yellow tint of their kitchen with its laminate countertops, the scuffs on the corners of its scratch-and-dent fridge, the mismatch of cookware hanging on a smoke-stained wall. Peeling wallpaper they didn’t have the right to tear off, because they needed their deposit back very badly when they moved out.

His father was a tradesman—they could barely afford to visit Wales.

And his mother, at the elder Price’s insistence, did not work.

It’s in a nice place, the grave. Far back away from the entrance, where it can’t be trivialized by passing cars or dog walkers. Price can stand at the end of it and reckon with death without having to think of life going inexorably on right behind him.

Except, it’s the years to the right of the dash that he stares at, not the left. Even as a boy, he’d always noticed the disparity between his mother and father. How, before the younger even turned fourteen, grey streaked Price the elder’s temples, scars of age furrowing deep from the corners of his nostrils— while the decades his mum still had left to face radiated from her so brightly that sometimes people took her for his father’s eldest, and not the baby she bounced on her hip.

Decades she never even got to see.

Price rounds to his mother’s side and lays the bouquet beneath her epitaph—Loving Wife and Mother. He’s almost as old now as she was, in her last year, and he feels the epicenter of it sit somewhere between his heart and lungs. It burns, furious, indignant.

“Got tenured this year, Mum,” he murmurs to her. “Probably pay off the house next.”

He hears birdsong in the tree line beyond the border fence. Tries to feel her fingers running through his hair in the breeze, and fails. It’s just wind.

His father—who he sees in the mirror too often lately—he does not address.

He makes the mistake all men eventually do—

He calls his ex.

“Hallo?” Ada says, after picking up on the second ring. She’s one of the few people he knows to keep a house phone these days. She’d explained she enjoys the novelty, and the surprise on the rare occasions it actually rings.

“Hi, darlin,’” says Price.

“John, hi! How you doin’?”

“I’m alright. How’s the new place?”

He hears a shift in the background, like she’s thrown herself at a haphazard angle into a chair. She’s always been like that; she moves through any space she occupies unafraid of what she might bump into.

“Tidy!” she enthuses. “Got a view of the sea down the hill. And there’s a market on Saturdays! I got the loveliest Gruyère from one of the stalls, says he ages it himself. Can’t wait to put it in a sauce.”

“Sounds nice,” Price says, meaning it.

“Yeah, it is,” Ada replies. He pictures her twirling the cord between her fingers. “Heard about your promotion, by the way, congratulations—you earned it, John.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Have you settled in okay there? Students giving you trouble?”

“Not at all! Bit touch and go at the start of the semester, but you know me,” she laughs. “That’s how I thrive.”

“I know.”

A pause. Long enough for Price’s regret over dialing her to make itself a part of the conversation.

She sounds good. She sounds better than good—she sounds great. Happy with where she is in life, and where she’s going.

Nothing like she did when she lived with him.

“So…” Ada trails. “I know you didn’t just call to chat, John. Not that I don’t appreciate it.”

“That obvious, am I?”

He can hear the sympathetic smile in her voice when she replies, “I can look at a calendar too.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just—just wanted to hear your voice. Hope that’s alright.”

“Yeah, it’s alright,” she says. “Didn’t stop caring just because I left, you know.”

He hears the unsaid: just because you didn’t follow.

“I know,” he replies. He leaves the me neither unsaid as well. “Ada, do you—do you regret it, at all?”

“Regret…what?” The tone of her voice edges toward the defensive.

“Being with me.”

“What? John, of course not!” She laughs, tension evaporating. “We had some bad times, sure, but we had some good ones too. I’m grateful for all of them.”

“Even the bad times?” he asks, frowning.

“Yeah, John, even those. They showed me who you were. And I liked that person, a lot. If you had—”

She cuts herself off from the what if John knows had been coming. The speculation about what their relationship might have looked like, if he’d made a different decision. It would only hurt both of them more to think about it.

“If you’d been a worse man I’d have left a lot sooner,” she amends. “But like I said. No regrets. It’s over now, and I’m sad about that. But I’m glad it happened.”

Something happens behind Price’s ribs—something hard, trying to claw its way upward, that he has to draw his lips between his teeth and sniff hard to foil its escape.

“Thanks, darlin,’” he says, hearing the tremor in his own voice, and, for once, not hating himself for it with her listening. “I feel the same way too.”

He catches you with the twat in the library. It doesn’t surprise him—he hadn’t expected anything else. You hadn’t even looked at him this time as you’d pulled Will out of the lecture hall, nor had you noticed him following at a remove behind.

So when he opens the door to the sound of smacking flesh, it doesn’t shock him in the slightest.

You’re on a reading table with your skirt flipped upward, underwear dangling from one ankle as you curl your legs around the twat’s hips. The boy’s arse quivers and clenches as he jackhammers into you with neither art nor precision.

The look on your face is one of concentration. Focus. Like whatever pleasure you could derive from this is something you must actively keep hold of, otherwise you’ll lose it.

Your eyes land on him then, and for a split second—a fraction of a heartbeat—you seem relieved. Pleasure radiates from you, and you begin to roll your hips as you hold him in your gaze—and then, suddenly, horror overtakes it. Your eyes widen. You raise a hand to grab Will—

Price shakes his head.

You freeze. Your chest heaves. (The twat is oblivious.)

He stares you down. Leans against the bookshelf with his hands in his pockets, unblinking.

His.

His.

The thing about lines is that they can be redrawn.

You run your tongue along your parted lips, hands coming up to rest on the twat’s back. Price looks down at the place Will’s body hides yours from his gaze, then back up.

He inclines his head. Go on, then.

And again, you move. Right as his command. Pull the body between your legs closer, brows creasing together, undulating into each thrust as you let Price’s eyes cage yours. You draw up higher and higher, the pitch of your breath thinning as your climax stretches taut inside you—you beg him with your eyes—

He nods.

You seize on the desk, throwing your head back, jaw dropping open. No sound escapes you—he sees the muscles in your throat work to contain it.

What will you sound like when he gets his hands on you?

By the look on the twat’s face next class, you’ve ended it. Price hardly cares. His phone is hot in his pocket, a grenade with its pin nearly out.

In case your memory fails when you find yourself thinking of me.

And, in the center of the photo, the exact thing the twat’s hips had been hiding away.

You’re there, in the front row. Every time his gaze falls on you, you shiver. The same skirt from before leaves the soft expanses of your thighs bare, for him, this time.

His. You know it now, too. It intersects the line, perfect in its perpendicularity.

You have lessons to learn. You’re already a good student; the despondent expression on Will’s face, even now, as he gazes at you like a lovelorn puppy from the back of the hall, proves it.

But you’re not there yet. You’re only just now catching up, after all. And only Price has the duty—the right—to teach you.

You’re too young for him—

Not that it matters.

a/n: If this seems disjointed or missing context, it's because a few things I reference are no longer available on the internet. Ash, I mourn daily what you have withdrawn from us.

Thank you for reading!

[madamabelladonna]

𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐧 𝐈𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐲

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Young Lady Dayne knew survival in the Red Keep required more than caution—it demanded influence. After keeping her distance from Jacaerys, she finally accepted his apology, truly forgiving him. But as he left, she realized it might be long before she saw him again. In his place, a prince in green awaited. 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: Rumors, Blood, Fighting, Doubt, Childbirth, Abuse (from Alicent) 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The Red Keep had grown colder with every passing day, as though the very stone absorbed the chill in the air. Each morning, you found yourself adding another layer to your attire, cloaking yourself in wool and velvet, though it did little to chase away the creeping frost.

Soon, winter would truly set in, and you wondered if snow would come to Kingslanding. You had never seen it before. The maesters described it in books as being soft and delicate, like sand, but cold—bitingly cold.

You sat perched on the windowsill, a heavy tome balanced on your knees, its worn pages brittle beneath your fingers. Outside, the sky was a dull grey, the sea of clouds casting a pale light into your chamber. The fire crackled weakly in the hearth, its warmth failing to reach the stone walls.

Isla entered quietly, her footsteps barely a whisper on the cold floor. “I’ve informed Prince Jacaerys that you were not feeling well,” Her words stirred the stillness of the room. You hadn’t spoken to Jacaerys since his eighth name day. Not out of anger, not even resentment, though there was a heaviness to it all.

Ever since that day, you had distanced yourself from him and his family—not because of Jacaerys, nor Rhaenyra, nor the persistent whispers of a potential marriage between you and the prince. It wasn’t even the fact that he had donned House Dayne’s colors at the feast, a gesture meant to honor you, but one that felt like a chain tightening around your neck.

No, what bothered you was the feeling of being maneuvered like a piece on a cyvasse board. Rhaenyra had planted Sienna, to watch over you, to report back every detail of your life. You knew it. Everyone knew it. And that knowledge gnawed at you, made your every step feel heavy, your every action scrutinized.

You had no doubt that by the next feast, both you and Merek would be dressed in purple. You were a pawn, and the nobles were watching, eyes glinting with judgment, already speculating which side you favored—Black or Green.

But you were not here to choose sides. You were an emissary of Dorne. You were here to maintain neutrality, to ensure that Dorne did not get caught in the bloody conflict to come.

The Seven Kingdoms may burn in the fires of civil war, but Dorne would not.

Peering over the edge of the book, you gave Isla a curt nod. “Thank you.” This wasn’t done out of anger, but out of necessity. You had to remain detached.

“May I get you anything else, my lady?” Isla asked, her tone laced with quiet concern. You glanced at her, noting the pity in her eyes, a softness you had once appreciated but now found suffocating. She had been in your service since your birth, but even she could see the change in you.

The Red Keep had already begun to erode the warmth of the Lady Dayne she once knew, leaving in its place someone colder, someone more guarded. You sighed. “Yes, you can start by wiping that expression off your face.” The words slipped out sharper than you intended, a bitter edge that caught you by surprise.

You hadn’t meant to be cruel, but you could not bear the pity—not from Isla, not from anyone. Isla lowered her head quickly, bowing once again. “Of course, my lady.” She moved to stand at her usual post, silent but ready, should you change your mind.

The fire cracked again, spitting sparks, but its warmth felt distant, as did everything else in this cold, foreign place.

‘Influence: the capacity to have an effect on the character, development, or behavior of someone or something, or the effect itself.’

You stared at the word, etched in bold on the worn page of the book, fingers gripping the spine tightly as if holding on to some hidden truth. The furrow in your brow deepened, teeth gnawing at your lower gum as you tried to comprehend what you had always known deep down.

It was a simple word, but in the Red Keep, it meant everything. Influence was the key to survival here. Without it, you were nothing.

Outside, the wind howled against the thick walls, rattling the iron window frames. The cold air seeped in despite the heavy drapes, reminding you of how vulnerable you truly were in this place. You pulled the book closer to your chest as if it could shield you from the political storm swirling around you.

The Red Keep was a battlefield in its own right, but not the kind fought with swords and shields. Men may dominate the courts and council chambers for now, but you knew the winds were changing. Soon, Princess Rhaenyra would ascend the throne and challenge the patriarchal grip on power. But standing in her way was Queen Alicent Hightower and her Green faction, poised and ready to strike.

The true power in the realm rested between these two women. Rhaenyra, the heir, and Alicent, the Queen Consort, both wielding influence over the men who fancied themselves rulers.

While the lords squabbled over titles and fought bloody wars, the real battle was being waged in the subtle smiles, the whispered promises, and the veiled threats exchanged between the highborn women. The weapons here weren’t made of steel but of charm and cunning.

You were young, far younger than most in this court, but you understood one thing clearly: if you were to survive, you needed influence. You couldn’t afford to be seen as a pawn to be played by either the Greens or the Blacks. Neutrality was your goal, but neutrality without power was a dangerous stance.

And so, your mind raced. How could you, a mere emissary of Dorne, so young and inexperienced, gain what these women had in abundance? You could ally yourself with another neutral house, but the reality of the Red Keep hit hard—there were no neutral houses left. Everyone had picked a side, whether openly or in whispers, and trust was a rare currency here.

No, you needed to do something bold, something that would force the hand of those in power to notice you. You needed to carve your own path in this treacherous court, and soon enough, the opportunity would come.

It was only a few days later when fate, as if hearing your silent plea, knocked at your door.

Literally.

The sound of knuckles rapping on the wood startled you from your reverie. It had been a week since you last spoke to Jacaerys or helped Lucerys with his studies, and the silence had been blissful. In that time, you and Merek had kept mostly to yourselves, enjoying quiet moments of respite amidst the storm.

This afternoon, the two of you were seated by the fire, a tray of freshly baked sweets between you. The warm scent of pastries filled the room, mingling with the faint smell of the crackling firewood. You savored the strawberry tart, its sweetness melting on your tongue, the perfect balance to the delicate white tea you sipped slowly.

Merek sat across from you, smirking as he picked at a slice of fruit pie. “Careful, sister. Should you keep at it, you’ll lose a tooth,” he teased, his blue eyes glinting with amusement.

You shot him a pointed look, wiping your mouth with a napkin. “Not before another knight plants a facer on you,” you retorted with a sly grin, recalling the last brawl he had found himself in. Your words hung between you like a challenge, but the warmth in the room softened the edge of your banter.

Before he could reply, the knock at the door came again, louder this time, and both of you turned your heads toward the sound. Merek raised an eyebrow, a question forming on his lips, but you were already rising from your seat, curiosity pulling you forward.

The door creaked open, revealing a messenger, his breath clouding in the cold air. He bowed, not meeting your gaze, as he handed you a sealed parchment.

You glanced at Merek, a silent understanding passing between you, “What brings you here?” inquired Merek, he held a scrutinizing gaze at the messenger. The man, likely intimidated by Merek's standing tensed for a brief moment, “There is a visitor for the Lady Dayne…”

Believing it to be Jacaerys or Lucerys, “If it is either one of the princes, please do tell them that I’m feeling unwell.” you instructed, but the man shook his head. He rose up, “It is neither the princes, my lady. But rather a…” he trailed off looking back at the door.

“A woman of… peculiar standing…” he finished. 

You frowned, already scrutinizing his choice of words. It couldn’t be Rhaenyra; those who might describe her as peculiar—Alicent, or perhaps Ser Criston—would have chosen sharper words, laced with venom, not this tepid uncertainty.

“Send her in,” you ordered.

Merek’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “Sister, are you certain?” he asked, his voice edged with concern. He’d seen you fooled before, seen you lower your guard, and it had cost you. The scars of that lesson were as much his burden as yours.

You met his gaze with a firm nod. “I am.” Still doubtful, he hesitated, then gave a resigned sigh. Stepping aside, he gestured to the guards. The heavy door groaned on its hinges, letting in a gust of cool air—and a figure cloaked in twilight hues.

The woman entered with a deliberate stride, her auburn hair streaked with gray and her face weathered but commanding. She paused just within the threshold, brushing the dust from her travel-worn cloak and straightening her skirts. Her hands, you noticed, bore the marks of labor—calluses and scars hidden beneath jeweled rings.

Merek’s hand hovered near Dawn’s pommel, the greatsword resting against his chair. Its polished edge caught the light, a subtle warning. The woman’s sharp eyes darted toward the blade, her lips twitching in acknowledgment.

“Lady Dayne,” she greeted, her voice a curious blend of cheer and steel. She stepped forward, only for Merek to rise, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. His grip on Dawn tightened.

The woman stopped, palms raised in mock surrender. “Peace, ser. I come unarmed.” Her smile, thin, turned to you. “Lady Dayne, I thank you for this audience.”

You studied her closely. The lines of her face, the way she held herself—this was a woman shaped by survival. She had the look of someone who bartered in shadows, dealing truths and lies in equal measure.

“What brings a woman of your ilk here?” you asked, your voice cool and unyielding.

The woman’s smile deepened, her eyes gleaming with something almost playful. “Ah, straight to the heart of it. I admire that.” She clasped her hands before her, the motion practiced, almost theatrical.

“I am but a humble tailor from the Westerlands,” she began, her tone light, almost flippant. “Entrusted by the Lannisters themselves to craft their finest garments.”

At the mention of Lannisters, your jaw tightened. The West’s intrigues were an unending web, and you had no desire to tangle yourself in them.

“It was at Prince Jacaerys’ nameday,” she continued, her voice gaining momentum, “amidst the grandeur and gilded halls, that I beheld your dress. Her gaze grew fervent, her words charged with reverence.

“A work of art, my lady. The fabric, the cut, the embroidery— Inspirational!”

You said nothing, letting her reveal her true aim. “Speak plainly,” you said at last. “What is it you truly want?”

She stopped short, blinking, then nodded hastily. “Of course, my lady. Forgive my ramblings. I’ve come to offer my services.” She covered her mouth to stifle a cough, then cleared her throat. “Never have I seen such silks, and I dare say none in the Seven Kingdoms could rival them.”

Her voice grew more impassioned, her gestures sweeping. “With your beauty and my craft, we could create garments to rival the stars themselves. I have a roof of girls—nimble fingers and eager minds—ready to bring our vision to life. Dornish fabrics, embroidery fit for queens. Imagine the court, my lady, whispering your name—not for your lineage, but your radiance.”

The room fell silent, her words hanging heavy in the still air. Merek’s stance stiffened beside you, his grip firm on Dawn’s hilt. His eyes spoke the warning he didn’t voice: A trap? A scheme? The woman’s fervor could be genuine, but deception often wore the mask of sincerity.

You leaned forward slightly, “And what would you ask in return?” fingers steepling beneath your chin.

“That you become my muse!”

She declared, the words bursting from her like a caged bird set free.

Both you and Merek exchanged startled glances, caught off-guard by the audacity of her proposition. She pressed on before either of you could respond.

“All I ask is that you consider my offer, my lady,” she said, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Should you agree, my greatest works—my life’s masterpiece—shall be yours and yours alone.”

Merek’s grimace deepened, his skepticism evident. “How are we to trust the word of a seamstress who serves the Lannisters?” His tone was sharp, probing for weakness.

The woman turned to face him fully, her posture unfaltering despite the blade’s looming presence. “Because,” she said, her voice cool but edged with a peculiar fire, “for all the riches the Lannisters possess, for all their gold and splendor, their hair gleaming like the veins of their mines, they fail in one regard.”

She turned back to you, her eyes bright and unyielding, her words deliberate. “They fail to inspire the greatest of flames.”

The room seemed to darken, the shadows lengthening with the weight of her statement. Her gaze locked with yours, her meaning sharp as a dagger. The challenge she posed was clear: to light a fire so brilliant it could blind even the lions of Casterly Rock.

‘Influence: the capacity to have an effect on the character, development, or behavior of someone or something, or the effect itself.’

In Kingslanding, influence was not merely a tool; it was the lifeblood of survival, the unseen force driving every whisper, every subtle nod, and every blade thrust in the dark. To endure the unrelenting tug-of-war between Green and Black, you would need it in abundance.

As an emissary of Dorne and the daughter of Lord Julius Dayne, you could not afford to openly align yourself with either faction—at least, not yet. The sands of time had to shift before that decision could be made.

Here, neutrality was an illusion. No house stood untouched by the tides of war. Yet, who was to say that influence could only flow from the highborn?

The common folk were a vast and often overlooked reservoir of power. Their whispers could build legends or tear them apart. If you accepted this woman’s offer, you could weave a web of connections that stretched far beyond the halls of the Red Keep.

You might be eight, but even a child could recognize the value of a golden goose flying within reach. Dorne’s legacy rested on your small shoulders, and if this woman could aid you in building something greater, why not seize the opportunity?

“What name shall I call my partner?” you asked, your voice calm yet commanding. She hadn’t introduced herself, skipping straight to her breathless ramblings about that fateful night and the dress your father had sent.

The woman paused, then dipped into a bow so deep her shoulder nearly met the height of your head. “Alora,” she said, her voice soft but unwavering.

“Just Alora.”

You turned the hair comb over in your hands, its delicate craftsmanship catching the light. Alora had chosen silver inlaid with small, polished stones of varying hues—amber, onyx, and a pale blue that reminded you of the Dornish skies before a storm.

Her note accompanying it had been brief, as always, but the message was clear: For the Lady Dayne, a star that outshines the rest.

Alora had returned to the Westerlands to gather her girls and materials, promising to establish her work in King’s Landing within a moon’s turn. True to her word, she sent a stream of accessories—hairpins, necklaces, even small embroidered ribbons—to expand your already burgeoning wardrobe.

To call it growth was an understatement; your collection had transformed into a display of opulence rivaling that of the Queen herself. Each piece was another string added to the web of influence you quietly wove.

The plan was simple, if ambitious: Alora would come to the capital, her girls in tow, and set up a boutique. Yet her insistence on working within the city walls puzzled you. It wasn’t as though Kingslanding held any particular charm beyond its political gravity.

The reek of unwashed bodies, rotting refuse, and stagnant water greeted all who approached long before the city gates came into view. For a seat of power, the stench was almost a warning—a reminder of what rot often festered beneath Red Keep’s facades.

You placed the comb on the polished surface of your vanity and rose, stepping to the window. The midday sun bathed the city in a harsh, revealing light. Smoke curled lazily from countless chimneys, mingling with the haze of life below.

Somewhere out there, Alora and her caravan would arrive, bringing with them not just fabrics and needles, but the means to shift your standing in a court fraught with deadly alliances and dangerous ambitions.

You didn’t fully trust her, of course. Trust was a luxury few could afford in King’s Landing. But you didn’t need trust to see the value of what she offered. Influence was sewn into every stitch of silk she brought, every jewel she set into gold.

Perhaps one day you would come to trust her fully. Alora had already proven herself a visionary in ways few could understand. She had made her own mark, and in time, she might do the same for you.

To guide you in this, you sought counsel from Rupert, who had been your mentor since your arrival in King's Landing. Though he was far away, in Starfall, the letters exchanged between you were frequent and full of wisdom.

Every word he sent was calculated, advising patience, caution, and occasionally urging you to strike when the moment felt right. And despite the distance, he was always watching, always providing direction, a guiding hand from afar.

You had also written to your father, requesting not only his advice but his support—funds for Alora and her girls to secure a place in the capital swiftly. House Dayne may not have possessed the deep coffers of the Yronwoods, but that did not mean the coffers on your island were shallow.

The Dayne wealth, though less public, ran deep, and your father, ever proud of your initiative, had sent you more gold than you had actually requested. His reply had been quick, with a note of approval tucked between the coins.

He was pleased that his daughter had taken the initiative to reach out, considering you rarely wrote to him compared to your mother and Rupert—especially after sending you and Merek off to the capital.

And then there was Merek. His silent support had been invaluable. He had kept his watch over you, allowing Alora to come and go without interference, though he or Ser Cassian had never been far.

Merek, ever the shadow to your light, understood the ways of protection. He knew, as well as anyone, that not all shields were made of steel. If this was your way of safeguarding yourself, he would stand by it.

The thought of your brother, your father, and your own careful maneuvering brought a sharp sense of pride—and yet, a deeper understanding of the politics you were now wading through. King’s Landing was a city of wolves, and you were learning to dance among them.

You handed the bejeweled hair comb to Isla, watching as her face lit up with the sight of the intricate piece. "Could you please put this in my hair?" you requested.

She nodded, her smile soft and respectful. "Of course, my lady." She guided you to the stool before her, and you sat down, feeling the cool touch of her hands as she worked over your tresses.

Isla was gentle but skilled, each movement precise as she set the comb delicately in place, arranging your hair in a way that both highlighted the beauty of the comb and kept the look dignified.

The comb gleamed against your locks, the jewels catching the light, a reminder of the alliances you were carefully nurturing. You studied your reflection in the mirror, seeing not just the girl you were, but the woman you were becoming.

You still weren’t speaking to Jace or Luke, and their attempts to reconnect with you had dwindled to near nothing. The strain between you and them felt like an aching wound you couldn't quite heal.

You missed them, truly, but after Jacaerys’ nameday—the implied marriage—it had all become too much to bear. The casual gestures of friendship from them now seemed tainted by something darker, something that made every interaction feel suffocating.

You had noticed how both Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra regarded you, their eyes sharper when you danced with the former’s sons, the smiles forced or thin-lipped. It wasn’t subtle—the undercurrent of tension, the unspoken judgment in their glances.

You were aware of the game being played, and though you weren’t about to start a war, you certainly weren’t going to make it any easier for them. This was not your fight—not yet.

With your avoidance of Rhaenyra’s sons, your presence in the capital had become increasingly solitary. The walls of your chambers felt more like a prison than a place of rest, and it was growing more difficult to find solace in the same monotonous routine.

Days bled into nights, and the only thing that changed was the flicker of candlelight. You could no longer ignore the dull ache of confinement.

‘A visit to the royal library.’ you thought. There, you could lose yourself in texts, perhaps find a distraction—anything to escape the growing sense of stagnation. It was a place of knowledge, where words could silence the rest of the world, if only for a while.

Once Isla had finished pinning the comb into your hair—her fingers gentle and steady, the delicate ornament resting in place as though it had always belonged there—you stood, shaking off the lingering weariness that seemed to settle in your bones.

You had no time to waste on it. You needed a change of scenery, even if it meant facing the sprawling halls of the Red Keep once more.

With a nod to Isla, who followed dutifully behind you, you exited your chambers. The cool stone floors beneath your feet were familiar, but today they felt different—less confining, more like a path leading you away from the staleness of your isolation.

As you walked through the corridors, your mind continued to whirl with the thought of the royal library, an oasis of knowledge that might offer you a brief respite from the tension that had settled over the capital.

You needed a moment to breathe, to think outside the confines of your chambers and the invisible walls of the court's incessant drama. The library, you told yourself, would be the perfect escape—away from the watchful eyes and the heavy silence that clung to your every move.

But the world had other plans.

As you moved through the grand hall, something shifted in the air. The usual murmur of court chatter began to fade, and the people around you seemed to press themselves against the stone walls, creating a narrow path down the middle of the corridor. The movement was subtle, but unmistakable.

“My lady–.”

Isla’s hands were suddenly on your shoulders, pulling you back, snapping you out of your reverie. You stumbled, the interruption jarring as you looked up, confusion clouding your expression.

A trail of blood lay ahead, dark and stark against the pale stone. Your gaze followed it, heart quickening as you realized it led up the stairs.

Staggering with difficulty, Rhaenyra ascended, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. Ser Laenor was at her side, his arm around her waist, helping her move with hesitant steps.

But it was the blood—rich, crimson—that stole your breath. It pooled at her feet and trickled down beneath her dress, the fabric stained, telling a story you didn’t yet understand. A story that made your stomach tighten with unease.

You took a step back, your instincts pulling you closer to Isla, your protector in this sea of uncertainty. “Isla… w-what’s happening?” Your voice barely rose above a whisper, a soft tremor betraying your youth.

Isla’s grip on your shoulders softened, her fingers beginning to rub small, soothing circles against the tense muscles there. Her eyes, filled with an empathy that was almost too deep for someone so young, met yours.

She didn’t offer answers, only understanding—a quiet acknowledgment of your confusion. “We women have our own battles to endure.” Her words were heavy, pregnant with meaning.

You didn’t fully understand them yet, but there was a knowing in her voice, a wisdom borne from experience. The bloodied trail that led to Rhaenyra spoke of something that you could not name, not yet, but something that every woman in the room recognized instinctively.

Childbirth, some say it is the greatest joy and the greatest loss. You were still too young to know the full depth of what Isla meant, but the reality of what you had just witnessed began to sink in.

A woman’s worth in the eyes of the world, of the court, was often determined by her ability to bear children. A working womb was a currency in the marriage market, and yet, it was also a battleground—one where victory could bring joy, but defeat could claim everything.

You took a shaky breath, the lingering tension from what you had just witnessed still prickling at the back of your mind.

Isla’s hands, gentle and reassuring, massaged the tightness from your shoulders, but it wasn’t enough to calm the storm of emotions swirling inside you. “Let us make haste.” It was time to get away, to think—to regain some semblance of control.

Turning on your heel, you decided to take the longer route. Perhaps it would give you more time to collect your thoughts, to sort through the whirlwind of guilt, confusion, and fear that had crept into your chest.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

As you moved through the corridor, your heart skipped a beat. Ahead of you, walking with casual ease, were the very two princes you had been avoiding for weeks: Jacaerys and Lucerys.

They were talking animatedly, one of them holding a dragon egg in hand, its delicate shell gleaming in the light. Ser Harwin, ever the vigilant protector, accompanied them.

Lucerys, the younger of the two, reached out eagerly toward the egg. “Let me hold it, Jace!” His hands made a grabbing motion, the excitement clear on his face.

Jacaerys, ever the responsible elder brother, shook his head, clutching the egg closer to his chest. “No! You’ll drop it,” he replied with a teasing but firm tone.

He had already allowed Lucerys the honor of choosing the egg for their younger brother, but the responsibility of holding it seemed to remain with him.

Then, just as you were trying to gather your composure, Jacaerys’ gaze shifted from his younger brother and landed squarely on you. His steps faltered.

The quiet stillness between you seemed to stretch for an eternity, the air thick with unspoken words. Lucerys and Ser Harwin halted behind him, both sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere.

It had been weeks since Jacaerys had last seen you, and now, in the empty corridor, the world seemed to pause around the two of you. Ser Harwin stood motionless by their side, his gaze flicking between you and Jacaerys with a knowing look, though he said nothing.

Lucerys, always quick to react, followed his brother’s gaze. When his eyes landed on you, they lit up with recognition, and his face brightened with a childlike excitement.

“Wren!” he exclaimed, the name falling from his lips with such warmth that it made your chest tighten. His desire to hold the dragon egg seemed to vanish in an instant as he turned toward you, eager to close the distance.

You froze, panic surging through you. Your heart raced as you heard the unmistakable sound of Lucerys’ footsteps starting toward you.

‘No,’ you thought desperately, your mind screaming at you to escape, to turn away. ‘I can’t look at them.’

Not after what you had seen—after witnessing their mother in such a fragile state, bleeding and broken, a reminder of the pain that came with bearing children, with being a woman in a world that demanded so much of you.

You could not bear the thought of facing them now, of seeing their faces after your silence, after the distance you had placed between yourself and them.

You gulped audibly, your breath catching in your throat. It felt like you were suffocating in that moment, the weight of guilt pressing down on your chest.

The distance you had put between yourself and them—was it right?

You had been avoiding them, avoiding this connection, but for what?

For your own safety?

For your peace of mind?

Or had it been something more selfish?

Just as Lucerys was about to rush forward, his eyes wide with hope, you took a small, deliberate step back. Your heart ached as you looked at him, and then at Jacaerys, who stood frozen, staring at you with a mixture of longing and confusion in his gaze.

You felt torn in that instant—torn between the desire to turn toward them and the overwhelming urge to run, to escape the uncertainty and pain of reconnecting. But you could not allow yourself to be swept away by emotions now.

Not yet.

Without a word, you turned abruptly, forcing yourself to push forward. Your steps quickened as you distanced yourself from them, your mind spinning with guilt and frustration. You couldn’t bring yourself to face them—not like this. Not after what had happened.

And yet, in the silence that followed your hasty retreat, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something inside you had broken just a little more.

You turned the corner without thinking, your steps quickening into a near-run, driven by the frantic need to escape, to outrun the ghosts of what you had just left behind.

Isla’s voice called out behind you, “M-My Lady?” but you didn’t slow down. The sound of her footsteps grew fainter as you pushed forward, focusing only on putting distance between you and the princes who had been chasing you down.

But then, just as you thought you might have lost them, you heard it—the unmistakable pounding of feet from the hall behind. Jacaerys and Lucerys were running after you, their voices just audible above the noise of your pulse thundering in your ears.

They weren’t giving up. You could feel the dread crawling under your skin, making it impossible to move with any sort of calm.

What would you do if they caught up to you? What could you say? Your throat tightened, and you forced yourself to push harder.

Your thoughts became a blur, consumed by guilt, fear, and confusion, until suddenly, you collided with someone.

“Oof!”

You both stumbled, the impact shocking your body and forcing you to steady yourself. You blinked in a daze, your breath coming quick as your eyes tried to focus on the person before you. When they cleared, your gaze was met with cold violet eyes.

Prince Aemond.

Of course it had to be him.

Aemond’s posture remained stiff, his presence like a wall in the narrow corridor. His expression was unreadable, a carefully composed mask, but there was something in the way his violet eyes softened just enough to cut through the fog of your panic.

It was an odd mixture of frustration and something else—something you couldn’t quite place.

His silver hair, so much like his siblings', was neatly slicked back, his sharp features accentuated by the tension that clung to him. For a moment, his gaze held steady on you, but then it flickered briefly toward the hall from which you’d come.

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he took in the sight of Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Ser Harwin still standing just behind you and your maid. The princes were closing in, and Aemond noticed it—perhaps more keenly than anyone else.

The brief silence that followed was heavy, but Aemond was the first to break it, his voice cutting through the stillness with a quiet, almost bored tone. “Off to go to the library?” his gaze shifting back to you with an odd sort of intensity.

You didn’t respond with words, only offering him a small, quick nod. It was enough. He didn’t need to hear your voice, for it was clear that you were attempting to flee the very strain that had hung in the air for too long. Your movement was telling him everything he needed to know.

Aemond seemed satisfied with the silence between you both, a subtle tension in his shoulders easing as he nodded once. "Good," his words clipped but steady. "I was just heading there as well."

It was odd to hear that, coming from him. Aemond, had been visiting the library frequently—though, in truth, it was less about books and more about finding you, about catching a glimpse of you.

Since Jacaerys' nameday, you had become something of a shadow in the halls, evading both the princes and the whispers that followed you like a second skin.

His mother had mentioned something in passing, a careless remark about Rhaenyra's actions, and how your retreat was tied to that infamous day—the one where Jacaerys had dared to wear your house colors in front of the lords and ladies of Westeros, a blatant challenge to the status quo.

Rhaenyra’s brazen display of defiance hadn’t helped matters, and perhaps it had scared you off, just as his mother had suspected.

Aemond shot a smug glance over his shoulder at his nephews, his lips twitching into a barely-there smirk as he subtly asserted his presence. He had seen his mother use this particular tactic when she wanted something—a mix of charm and cold politeness that was as smooth as it was calculated.

He extended his arm toward you with a hint of courteousness, his voice carrying an air of unexpected warmth. “Let’s go together?” he offered, a polite suggestion, his manner like a polished blade, sharp but dressed in velvet.

You hesitated only a heartbeat, then accepted his offer with a stiff nod. “Thank you, Prince Aemond,” You placed your hand on his arm. You didn’t look back, not once, at Jacaerys or Lucerys, though you could feel their gazes on your back.

Aemond glanced over his shoulder, his eyes catching Jacaerys’ fiery gaze. There was a darkness in it, a simmering intensity that made it clear this was no idle glance—it was a challenge.

The storm in Jacaerys' eyes was something raw, something dangerous, and it set Aemond's lips curling in satisfaction. Jacaerys' expression revealed everything—a storm of confusion, frustration, and hurt.

Unlike a Velaryon, unlike a Targaryen, his gaze was deep and brooding, as if his heart had been cracked open and left exposed to the world. It wasn’t the look of someone who had simply been ignored; it was the look of someone whose very soul had been put to the test, and failed.

As you walked away, Aemond’s gaze lingered on the princes for a moment longer, relishing in the silent tension that had built between you and them. He could almost hear Jacaerys’ thoughts—a cacophony of silent pleas to explain, to make sense of your sudden coldness.

The boy didn't understand, and perhaps he never would.

Jacaerys, still rooted to the spot, clenched his fists at his sides. All he wanted was to talk to you, to ask why, to beg you to tell him what had happened. He wasn’t the one who had betrayed you, wasn’t the one who had caused you to shut him out.

He couldn’t understand what had changed between the two of you,  “Wren… why are you doing this?” His voice was barely a whisper, as if speaking any louder would make the entire thing too real to bear. He thought back to that night—the night of Jacaerys' nameday, when everything seemed so clear.

What had he done wrong?

Had something happened between you and Aemond when they had danced?

Was that the moment you had decided to turn away from him?

No, he told himself. This wasn't supposed to be how things ended. You two were supposed to be friends.

Lucerys, who had been watching his brother with growing concern, tugged at Jacaerys' sleeve, his small frown deepening. “Is Wren mad at us?” he asked innocently, the nickname he had given you rolling off his tongue with childlike confusion.

“No…”

Aemond sat across from you in the quiet expanse of the royal library, his long fingers wrapped around the spine of a thick tome. The silence between you was broken only by the occasional rustle of parchment as he turned a page.

His eye scanned the High Valyrian text before him with ease, a faint frown of concentration etched onto his sharp features. The brazier at the far corner of the room cast flickering shadows across the carved wooden shelves, the dim light making the spines of the books glimmer faintly.

You, on the other hand, had been painstakingly working your way through a slim Dothraki text. Your brow furrowed as you traced a finger along the lines of unfamiliar script, quietly murmuring phrases to yourself.

Though your grasp of the language was progressing, your teacher had repeatedly urged you to slow down, to let each word settle before moving on.

Aemond had dismissed Isla earlier with a curt wave, a decision that still grated on you. “She doesn’t have permission to be here,” Aemond had said, leaving no room for protest.

Isla had hesitated, glancing at you for guidance, but you could do nothing but nod, Aemond’s status dwarfed your own. Reluctantly, she had left, her concern evident in the way her steps lingered before the heavy doors closed behind her.

Now, as you adjusted your seating on the cushioned bench, you couldn’t help but glance at Aemond from time to time. He seemed entirely absorbed in his book, but you knew better.

His stillness wasn’t a sign of distraction—it was a calculated presence, deliberate and ever-watchful. His eyes often flicked to you when he thought you weren’t looking.

“Dothraki is an interesting choice,” Aemond said suddenly, breaking the silence.

He didn’t look up from his book, “A tongue of raiders and savages, some would say. What drew you to it?” his tone measured as if commenting on the weather.

You paused, setting the text aside. “It’s not just the language of savages,” meeting his gaze briefly before looking away. “The Dothraki have their own poetry, their own songs. Their way of life is different, yes, but not without meaning.”

You gestured lightly to the book in front of you. “Understanding them means understanding another part of this world.”

Aemond closed his book with a quiet thud, leaning back slightly as he studied you. “Most in Kingslanding wouldn’t bother,” he said. “They see only what they wish to see—barbarians on horseback. But you… you look beyond that.” He tilted his head, his expression inscrutable.

“Interesting.”

The compliment, if it could be called that, made you shift uncomfortably. “It’s just a language,” you muttered, returning your focus to the text.

But you couldn’t help the warmth creeping up your neck at the intensity of his regard. “Prince Aemond—”

“Aemond,” he interrupted, his eye fixed on yours.

There was no hesitation in his tone, no trace of formality. The sharpness that usually laced his words seemed softened, almost inviting.

You blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“Please,” he said, leaning slightly forward, his hand resting atop yours on the table. His grip was light, yet firm enough to keep your attention. “Just call me Aemond.”

This wasn’t the first time a prince had asked you to dispense with titles. Jacaerys had said the same, not long after your arrival at court, his boyish grin making the request seem harmless. Lucerys had followed suit shortly after.

But Aemond was different. There was no playfulness in his request, no jesting smirk. His expression was serious, almost vulnerable, as though he were pleading for you to address him just as familiarly you did with his nephews.

You hesitated, studying his face. His features were sharp, his jaw set. And yet, there was a flicker of something in his gaze—a longing, a need for connection that you hadn’t expected.

It was a look you had seen before, fleetingly. Aemond, for all his icy composure, wore that same look now.

“Aemond,” you said, testing the name.

It felt strange on your tongue, like trying on a new garment, but you saw the way his posture eased, how a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

He nodded, “Better.” satisfied.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but rather heavy. Aemond didn’t remove his hand from yours immediately, and you didn’t pull away. The touch, fleeting as it was, seemed to seal an unspoken understanding between you.

“You must be lonely,” you said quietly, breaking the stillness. Your words caught him off guard. His grip on your hand tensed momentarily, but he didn’t pull away.

Lonely.

Aemond had no doubt you saw right through him. He was surrounded by his family yet isolated by their indifference or outright hostility.

His older brother, Aegon, was a disgrace—lacking both the discipline and the intelligence to wield power effectively. Aegon could barely string together a full sentence in High Valyrian, let alone inspire loyalty or fear.

Helaena, his sister, was sweet but distant, lost in her own world of dreams and murmured madness. And Daeron, the youngest, had been sent to Oldtown before Aemond even had the chance to know him.

He scoffed softly. “What gave me away?”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze. “The way you watch,” you said. “You observe everything, but you rarely speak unless it’s necessary. People who are content don’t do that.”

Aemond allowed himself a bitter smile. “Contentment is a luxury in this castle.” His eye flicked down to where your hands still touched. “Especially for second sons.” You saw a flicker of something deeper in him then—a yearning not for power but for recognition.

If only he had been born first. He would’ve been the ideal heir, the perfect prince to carry the weight of the crown. Instead, he was overshadowed by a sister he barely knew and a father who looked past him as though he didn’t exist.

He didn’t even have a dragon.

He was intelligent, disciplined, and watchful, traits honed not through indulgence but through necessity. In the Red Keep, survival was a game of shadows, and Aemond had mastered the art of moving unseen, his every word and action carefully thought out.

Much like his mother and grandfather, Otto Hightower, Aemond’s quiet demeanor masked a sharp mind and an even sharper sense of purpose.

The Hightowers were a family who preferred subtlety to brute force, preferring whispered plans over open conflict. They understood that power was best wielded from the shadows, where it could be neither anticipated nor countered.

And if there was one truth about a quiet Hightower, it was this: silence did not mean weakness. It meant calculation. It meant patience.

And, above all, it meant danger.

When Aemond first saw you stumble into the library, he was struck by a curiosity that bordered on fascination. You moved with a grace unfamiliar to him, your presence like a whisper of desert winds in a castle of cold stone.

You were Dornish, a rarity in the Red Keep, and in every way different from the rigid courtiers who filled its halls. While most moved like stiff wooden boards, you and your brother flowed like swaying curtains in a gentle breeze—fluid, unguarded, and, to Aemond’s eyes, utterly captivating.

He had watched you from the shadows at first, observing the way you poured over ancient tomes with a furrowed brow, your lips moving silently as you traced unfamiliar words.

There was a hunger for knowledge in you, a spark of inspiration that reminded him of his own long nights spent mastering High Valyrian or deciphering the histories of old Valyria.

But there was also a warmth, an openness, that he found foreign and intriguing. Unlike the courtiers who flattered and schemed, your intentions seemed unclouded.

You sought neither his favor nor his downfall. You were simply… you. And that, Aemond realized, was a rarity in the Red Keep—a place where even a child could wield a dagger with a smile.

You leaned back in your chair, a soft hum escaping your lips as you turned the page. Your eyes lingered on the words, but your mind was elsewhere, on the figure seated across from you.

There was something about Aemond, something deeper than the silvery sheen of his hair or the sharpness in his gaze.

"I suppose I’m quite lucky then," you mused, your voice low as you continued to study your book, though your thoughts were elsewhere. "I got to notice you before you become something great."

You didn’t look up immediately, but you could feel Aemond’s gaze shift towards you. His silence was telling, he had not anticipated such a response—no one ever had.

People saw him for his lineage, his title, his lack of dragon. But you? You saw something else, something he was still trying to decipher.

The room around you felt suddenly small, as if the weight of his presence was growing, expanding in the space between you. He leaned forward slightly, the soft rustle of pages the only sound breaking the stillness.

His fingers twitched at the edge of the book he was reading, but he didn’t turn it back. Instead, he regarded you, as though searching for any trace of jest, any hint of irony in your words.

But you were not smiling, not mocking him. Your words were simple, almost tender, and it unsettled him. How could someone like you—so young, so full of life—see anything in him?

He, who had spent his years buried in the shadows of his siblings, in the quiet corners of this vast, cold castle. He, who had no true allies, only enemies veiled in silken smiles.

Aemond’s hand lingered on the edge of his book, his fingers curling ever so slightly, and for the briefest of moments, the distance between you and him seemed to shrink. He could almost hear the thrum of his heartbeat in his chest, heavy and steady like the distant sound of war drums.

His eyes flickered to yours, a sharpness behind them that seemed to pierce through the layers of the conversation. "You have a strange way of looking at people.” Aemond murmured, though his words were not unkind.

You finally looked up, meeting his gaze directly. There was something different in the way he watched you now—something more than the distant prince, something that might have resembled… curiosity?

"Perhaps," you said with a slight tilt of your head. "Or perhaps I just see what others refuse to." Your voice softened.

Aemond said nothing at first, his lips pressed into a thin line. He wanted to argue, to dismiss the notion with a cold retort, but something in the air—something in the way you held his gaze—made him reconsider.

For a moment, he felt as though the very air around him had thickened, and he could not find a way to breathe through it. The words that once came easily to him now seemed distant, trapped somewhere deep in his chest.

Instead, he let out a small sigh and leaned back in his chair, looking away for the first time since your conversation began. His fingers drummed lightly against the surface of the table, as if trying to find some rhythm to settle his racing thoughts.

"You have a gift," he said after a long pause.

"To see things so clearly." He wasn’t sure what prompted the admission—whether it was the anomaly that was you or something else—but it slipped out before he could stop it.

You raised an eyebrow, "A gift? I thought that’s what you were going to say," a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "I suppose you’ll be the one to teach me how to use it, then?"

Aemond didn’t respond immediately, but the slight shift in his posture—his body relaxing, just a touch—spoke volumes. He didn’t have the answers, but there was something in you that intrigued him, something that felt both familiar and foreign, like an old riddle begging to be solved.

The silence between you two was no longer heavy, but rather companionable, as if each of you had made some unspoken agreement to just be in that moment.

No titles. No expectations. Just two children, alone in a room, sharing a space for reasons neither fully understood.

Aemond's brow arched, a flicker of curiosity crossing his sharp features. "Are you suggesting a friendship?" His voice held a hint of amusement.

You leaned back in your chair, a light giggle escaping your lips as you looked at him with something akin to fondness. “If you are seeking for a friend,” you replied, your words teasing but not without a measure of truth. "I could certainly offer you one."

“Very well then.”

You hadn’t quite understood what had compelled you to extend that offer of friendship to Aemond, but somehow, it felt right.

Aemond, the second son, sharp-eyed and distant, had a way about him that made the walls around him feel thicker, yet at the same time, he wore an almost imperceptible loneliness.

Friendship, with him? It had been an impulse—an instinct. And, perhaps, deep down, you knew he needed it.

Days passed, and what had begun as a small, uncertain conversation in the library turned into something more. You found yourself seeking the quiet comfort of the library with greater frequency, long after your lessons had ended.

Aemond was there, as he had been before, engrossed in his books, though now he was waiting for you too. In some strange way, the days seemed to slow when he was there, the two of you quietly reading or discussing matters in the peace of the rows upon rows of dusty tomes.

And, of course, there was Dothraki. Your lessons with your mentor had progressed steadily, much to your satisfaction. Conversations with your mentor now seemed like something natural, effortless even, as though you’d been speaking Dothraki for years.

Aemond had been intrigued when you first mentioned the progress you’d made. He had, without hesitation, offered his own assistance, his interest piqued by your desire to learn languages that spanned beyond the borders of Westeros.

He insisted that once you had fully mastered Dothraki, he would teach you High Valyrian. Aemond had shown you a few words already, though they were nothing too difficult—a few basic terms, such as Muña, Kepa, Hontes.

One day your lessons had ended early, leaving you with a few hours of unexpected freedom. As you gathered your things, Aemond approached you.

He didn’t waste time with pleasantries, instead simply extending an invitation. "Would you like to watch me train with Aegon and Ser Criston?" he asked, his tone casua.

You hesitated. The idea of seeing him wield a sword was new to you. Swordsmanship, after all, was a world that belonged to others—your brothers, men of honor and skill—but not you.

And not Aemond, not like this. Yet there was something about the invitation, the way he worded it, that made you pause.

"I don’t know..." You shifted on your feet, eyes flickering towards the window. "You train with Jacaerys and Lucerys, don’t you?" You were apprehensive at first, the thought of stepping into the training yard where Aemond, Jacaerys, and Lucerys practiced was daunting.

He nodded, his expression unreadable. "They do. But today, I wanted to invite you to watch. Aegon and I are sparring, and Ser Criston is overseeing."

There was an underlying tension in his words, something you didn’t quite understand. Perhaps it was a challenge—an invitation to see something personal, something only the few close to him would witness.

The clashing swords, the gruff commands of Criston Cole, and the intensity of their movements seemed worlds apart from the more tranquil, controlled environment you were accustomed to back in Starfall.

Still, Aemond had insisted, his quiet insistence leaving little room for argument. Perhaps it was his unspoken need for your company, or perhaps it was the thought of Merek that finally convinced you.

Merek would be there, sparring with Ser Cassian. He could neve go without sharpening his skill with the sword.

Back home in Starfall, you were no stranger to the sounds of the training grounds. You had grown up with the constant clink of swords, the clash of metal against metal, and the shouts of warriors practicing their craft.

But it had always been your brother, Merek, leading the charge. He was the Sword of the Morning, and you had often visited him on the training fields, watching as he sparred with his men.

You'd bring refreshments for the weary fighters, serving them cool water or wine after their training sessions. Those moments had been a quiet comfort, a reprieve from the often tense atmosphere of the castle.

When you finally arrived at the training yard, your eyes immediately scanned the area. Aemond was already there, sword in hand, his gaze focused and intense. His brother Aegon leaning against a training dummy, clearly intoxicated.

Jacaerys and Lucerys, stood a few paces away, the younger ones already sparring under the watchful eye of Ser Criston. You took a seat on one of the balconies overlooking the yard, the height offering you a perfect view of the scene below.

A small table had been set beside you, with tea and biscuits neatly arranged, though you found little interest in them now. Isla stood behind you, her watchful eyes scanning the yard with a quiet, almost maternal air.

It didn’t take long for Aemond to notice you. His gaze flicked toward the balcony, his eyes narrowing slightly as if appraising your presence.

Jacaerys, too, seemed to notice you almost immediately. He paused mid-strike, his wooden sword hanging loosely in his grip as his eyes sought yours.

For a brief moment, you saw the soft expression that had once been so familiar between you two—a connection that, in the last few weeks, had frayed at the edges.

Lucerys, followed his brother’s gaze and found you sitting on the balcony. He smiled, the warmth of his expression breaking through the intensity of the training.

"Look," Lucerys said, nudging Jacaerys with a grin. "It’s Wren."

Jacaerys blinked, and though he didn’t smile, his eyes softened. He hadn’t seen you in weeks, not since that fateful day. The distance between you was clear, yet the connection remained.

You didn’t move, your hands folded quietly in your lap. You could have waved back, smiled, or even called out to them, but something held you in place.

A part of you longed to reach out, to break through the walls that had been built between you, but you knew it was too late for that. Too much had changed since the day you were whisked away to King’s Landing, since the day your path had diverged from theirs.

And so you watched, silent and still, as the brothers continued their sparring. Aemond was focused, his every movement calculated and precise. There was an intensity in his demeanor, a stark contrast to the brashness of Aegon or younger two.

Yet, even in his calm, there was something unsettled about him—something that you had come to understand in the time you had spent together.

The training session continued, the sound of wood striking wood filling the air. You couldn’t help but notice how the focus seemed to shift. While Criston watched over Aemond and Aegon, his attention seemed to wane as it came to Jacaerys and Lucerys.

It wasn’t that their training lacked skill—it was just that it was clear they weren’t the ones being groomed for the throne. The unspoken favoritism was hard to ignore, and though you didn’t show it, it left a sour taste in your mouth.

Jacaerys, ever the eager student, practiced diligently. You could tell he was trying harder than ever to prove himself, though it was clear that the lack of attention from Criston stung.

Lucerys, more playful than his older brother, tried to match Jacaerys’s pace, but the lightheartedness in his movements belied the strain that simmered beneath.

Aemond, on the other hand, was a study in focus. His strikes were deliberate, each one calculated and sharp, and you could see in the way he moved that he was already thinking beyond the training grounds.

There was something about him, something that made it impossible to look away. You remained seated, caught in the moment, your mind drifting between the princes.

"My lady." Isla’s voice was a soft murmur, her breath barely making a sound against the backdrop of the clashing swords below.

You blinked in surprise, shifting your gaze toward her as you adjusted the lace of your sleeve. Her eyes were wide with a mix of concern and something else—perhaps an unspoken warning.

When your eyes followed the line of her gaze, you saw the servant standing a few feet away, waiting with the silent patience of someone used to being disregarded.

“The King has requested that you sit with him as you watch the princes,” Isla relayed, her tone still hushed as if speaking too loudly would disrupt the flow of events already in motion.

You hesitated, a slight fluttering in your chest, unease pulling at you like a tightening cord. Your eyes drifted across the training yard, where the princes continued their sparring, their wooden swords ringing out in sharp, staccato beats, only to fall upon the figure of King Viserys, seated at a distance with Lord Lyonel Strong by his side.

The King’s tired, weathered face was lined with years of responsibility, and the shadows of time seemed to burden him more heavily than any of his children could comprehend.

His gaze shifted toward you. A subtle acknowledgment, a soft smile that reached his eyes as he nodded in your direction. The small gesture was enough to remind you that his words were not to be denied.

You straightened, preparing yourself to comply with his request. There was little space left for refusal, and you knew that even if you wanted to, the King’s wishes were not easily ignored. "Very well," the words feeling almost foreign in your mouth.

Isla’s presence behind you was like a tether, her hands brushing over the folds of your gown in a small, comforting motion as you rose to your feet. It was as though her touch steadied you, anchoring you to this place.

You straightened the bodice of your dress and adjusted the fabric, the gown suddenly feeling more constricting than usual, as if the very fabric was aware of the expectations that came with being near royalty.

Taking one last glance over your shoulder at the princes, their blades flashing in the air as they dueled beneath the warm sunlight, you moved toward the King’s spot.

The air felt thicker here, the distance between the lively training grounds and the King’s place of observation laden with unspoken weight. The princes’ movements seemed more labored now, less like playful training and more like carefully controlled performances—no doubt part of the unspoken spectacle for the King’s eyes.

Aemond’s focus never wavered, his strikes sharp and deliberate, while Jacaerys and Lucerys tried their best to keep pace, though there was a strange energy in the air—a shifting current that set them apart, as though some silent tension had crept in.

As for Aegon… we won’t get into much detail about him.

As you neared, the unmistakable feeling of being watched clung to you. It wasn’t just the princes now, but the eyes of the entire courtyard, flicking to you and then just as quickly returning to their business.

King Viserys remained in his seat, the air around him one of reluctant authority, tinged with the exhaustion of a man who had long carried the burden of ruling and, in his heart, and his fractured family.

His frail body seemed as though it might crumble at any moment, but the strength in his eyes—sad, weary, yet still holding onto something precious—refused to bend.

Lyonel Strong stood beside him, his sharp eyes ever watchful, scanning the courtyard with the measured calm of someone who had seen far more than most could fathom. He was a man of integrity, and his presence beside the King spoke volumes.

His gaze turned to you as you neared, softening for just a moment before a nod of respectful acknowledgment followed. The briefest flicker of something—admiration or perhaps simple courtesy—passed between you, but there was a tension in the air even here, one that you couldn't shake.

As you came to stand before the King and Lord Lyonel, your gaze briefly met Viserys’s. His eyes were tired, but they searched yours with a quiet understanding, as if he could see the storm inside you.

For a brief second, the clamor of the training yard and the heavy gaze of the princes faded into the background, and it was just you and the King, the weight of years pressing down on him and a promise of something—perhaps even something close to care—hovering between the two of you.

Dipping into a low, respectful curtsy, you greeted them, "Your Grace, Lord Hand," your words polite, the formality of them hanging in the air with a softness that felt both familiar and distant.

The King’s smile faltered, the edges of his lips twitching in an almost painful motion, a sign of the effort it took for him to form any expression at all. His hands rested on the armrests, knuckles slightly pale from their grip. The shadows beneath his eyes were deeper than you had noticed before, and his breathing seemed a little more labored, though he held himself with the poise expected of a monarch.

"Lady Dayne," he said with a voice that cracked only slightly, "I thank you for humoring this old man with your presence." His gaze lingered on you for a moment, and the warmth that touched his words seemed to almost mask the weight of his sorrow.

It was as though every simple action required a great deal of fortitude on his part, and yet, here he was, attempting to ease the burden in small ways, by offering a kind smile, by speaking with you.

Lord Lyonel Strong gave a curt nod, his manner unchanged. He rarely revealed much of what passed behind his eyes, and today was no different.

His gaze remained firmly fixed on the training yard, observing the sparring princes with the practiced neutrality of a man who had long since learned the art of not letting his emotions govern his actions.

There was no favoritism in his look, no hint of preferential treatment for any of the boys. He was a Hand, first and foremost—dutiful, stoic, unshakable.

You returned the King’s gesture, sitting up a little straighter, feeling the weight of the occasion pressing down on your shoulders. "It is an honor, Your Majesty," your words are sincere but tempered by the soft melancholy that always accompanied moments like these.

Viserys’ gaze shifted to his sons and grandsons, eyes flickering between their movements, watching the way they clashed in the training yard.

His expression softened as he observed them, the line of his mouth tightening momentarily as if battling some private thought, some aching regret.

"How do you find them?" the question carried more than just curiosity. It was as if he were speaking not only to you, but perhaps to himself as well—seeking meaning, or perhaps confirmation, in the small moments, the fleeting displays of skill or rivalry that played out before him.

He spoke with the tiredness of a father who had seen too much, yet held on to whatever small hope remained.

You looked at the princes, the graceful yet brutal choreography of their movements—sword against sword, strength against strength.

Aemond’s precision was undeniable, each strike controlled, but there was a simmering anger behind it that you couldn’t ignore. Jacaerys, in contrast, was more passionate, his strikes less refined but brimming with raw energy.

As you watched, something caught your attention—a subtle bump of shoulders between Aemond and Jacaerys as they passed each other.

Your brows furrowed, uncertainty flashing across your face. ‘Had they had a fight?’

You turned to Viserys, the weight of your thoughts pressing down on you. "They are skilled," but your gaze darted between the princes. You could feel the undercurrent of something deeper, something unsaid, between them. "You must be so proud, Your Majesty."

You spoke carefully, the words laced with respect, but also with the knowledge of the quiet rift that seemed to be growing between the brothers. The King’s eyes softened further as he watched them, though his expression remained carefully neutral.

It was clear he had seen more than you could know. "Very," he replied quietly, his voice holding a weight of its own. It was a simple response, but it carried the sorrow of a man who had seen his family, his legacy, fray at the edges.

"They are my legacy."

There was a pause Viserys shifted slightly in his chair, and his gaze turned distant, as though he were looking back through the years at moments he could never change.

Criston Cole, donned his gloves, he lifted his wooden sword, his stance firm as Aegon and Aemond charged at him.

Neither prince's strikes even seemed to faze him, his reactions swift, his blocks firm. He thwarted their attacks effortlessly, never once breaking a sweat, his eyes sharp and calculating.

The sons of Rhaenyra watched from the sidelines, a mixture of frustration and resentment coloring their expressions. Jacaerys and Lucerys exchanged a look, their brows furrowed in disappointment.

Another training session, another dismissal. They were benched, once again, pushed aside in favor of Aegon and Aemond, who basked in Criston’s praise.

But then, as if the very ground beneath their feet had shifted, a new presence entered the yard. The strong, imposing figure of Ser Harwin Strong, the might of House Strong, strode onto the training ground with purpose.

His broad shoulders were squared, and his every movement exuded a quiet strength. The moment he donned his gloves, the younger princes lit up like fires catching the wind.

There was hope in their eyes—hope that they might finally be taken seriously. “Weapons up, boys,” Harwin instructed with a smirk, his voice filled with a quiet command that the younger princes obeyed without hesitation.

They adjusted their stances, ready to face any challenge, especially when it came from the most respected warrior in the realm. “Give your enemies no quarter.” His words carried an intensity that made them eager to learn, to prove themselves.

Criston Cole, still watching from the sidelines, couldn’t hide the grimace that spread across his face as he saw the two boys come to life under Harwin's watchful eye.

There was a sneer on his lips, a disdain that couldn’t be concealed. With a few strides, he approached the group, his posture stiff and challenging.

His eyes flickered between Harwin and the young princes. “It seems the younger boys could do better with a bit of your attention... Ser Criston,” Harwin’s voice was calm but laden with an underlying challenge.

His gaze met Criston’s. “Perhaps you could share your method of instruction with all your pupils.”

Criston’s lips twitched in amusement, “You question my method of instruction, ser?” his eyes narrowing with disdain. He had no love for Rhaenyra’s children, and certainly none for Harwin.

Harwin shook his head slowly, his expression calm but firm. “Oh, I merely suggest that method be applied to all your pupils,” he said, his words direct and resolute.

There was no mistaking his intent—he was calling Criston out for his lack of professionalism, for his bias. For ignoring the boys who, by blood and birthright, deserved the same attention as their older cousins.

There was a subtle shift in the air, a thickening of the space between them. Harwin wasn’t just standing up for the boys; he was standing up for his own, and everyone knew it.

His secret was an open one—his sons, Jacaerys and Lucerys, were the product of his union with the woman who had once been his lover, and no one dared to speak ill of the Commander of the City Watch and Heir to the Throne without consequences.

Jacaerys stood a little taller, his eyes narrowing in quiet pride. He wasn’t going to let this moment pass without proving himself. He couldn’t afford to be seen as weak, not when his very future was on the line. His gaze flickered toward you, a silent exchange passing between you both.

You sat perched on the balcony, eyes focused on the sparring princes. Your expression, though calm, held a flicker of worry. Jacaerys saw it, the concern in your eyes, and it made something shift within him.

The past weeks seemed to lift, if only slightly, as he caught your gaze. You offered him a slight smile, a small gesture, but to Jacaerys, it was like a lifeline. It was the first real interaction he’d had with you in weeks, and it filled him with hope.

Aemond’s gloating about spending time with you had gnawed at his insides, but now, perhaps, he was starting to believe that you weren’t angry with him. That you might finally forgive him for what had transpired.

But before he could dwell on the thought, his attention was pulled away with a force he hadn’t anticipated. Criston Cole, with a look of impatience, seized Jacaerys by the collar, his fingers digging into the fabric of his tunic.

“Jacaerys... come here.” His voice was tight, the command heavy with authority. He dragged the young prince toward the center of the yard, where Aegon awaited.

Aegon’s grin was wide, his eyes gleaming with a mischief that matched Aemond’s. They had no love for each other, but they found great joy in tormenting their nephews, if only for the thrill of seeing their discomfort.

Aegon’s smirk grew wider, a mix of challenge and amusement on his face as he readied his wooden sword. “You’ll spar with Aegon,”

Jacaerys’ heart sank. This wasn’t the fight he had expected, not the kind that would prove his worth. But he had no choice. He couldn’t back down now, not when his pride—and his mother’s legacy—was at stake.

“Eldest son against eldest son.”

The yard fell silent for a moment as he prepared himself, hands gripping the wooden sword. This would be another test of strength, but it wasn’t just about the battle. It was about proving, once and for all, that he could hold his own among the sons of the Queen Consort.

And, perhaps, to prove something to you too.

Harwin’s grunt echoed in the yard as he watched the sparring match with a growing sense of frustration. “It’s hardly a fair match,” he muttered, his voice low but filled with clear disapproval.

He knew better than anyone the kind of fighter Aegon was, despite the prince's lack of form. Aegon fought with a savage brutality that could strip the soul of a man, and Harwin knew that kind of ferocity would not be held back.

Criston Cole, as always, had no patience for Harwin’s objections. He tilted his head with a condescending air, eyes never leaving the sparring princes.

“I know you've never seen true battle, ser,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain, “but when steel is drawn, a fair match isn’t something anyone should expect.”

His gaze remained fixed on the boys, utterly unconcerned with Harwin’s comments. It was as if the very notion of fairness in combat was beneath him. "Blades up," Criston commanded, the words clipped and firm.

The princes, fueled by their egos and the cruel teachings of their trainer, raised their wooden blades in unison. The air seemed to grow thick with the sound of their footsteps as they charged forward.

Aegon, without hesitation, launched himself at Jacaerys with all the ferocity of a wild animal, attacking with reckless abandon. There was no room for mercy in his strikes, each one a clear message: he would not allow the boy to stand in his way.

Jacaerys struggled beneath Aegon’s relentless assault. He barely managed to block each blow, his arms shaking with the strain. Aegon’s strength was overpowering, and it wasn’t long before Jacaerys was pushed to the ground, unable to defend himself.

For a moment, it seemed as if Aegon might gloat, as if he would bask in his victory. But it was in that arrogance, that moment of carelessness, that Jacaerys found his opening.

Jacaerys rose to his feet, fury and pride fueling him as he struck back. His blows were harsh and precise, a mirror of Aegon’s own savage attacks. For a moment, there was a shift—a balance, however brief, between the two.

But Aegon, never one to accept anything less than dominance, came at him again. This time, he kicked Jacaerys to the ground with an almost practiced cruelty, and Criston Cole did nothing to stop it. 

He merely stood to the side, watching, his face impassive as Aegon continued his assault. Jacaerys was pinned once again, struggling beneath Aegon’s weight as the older prince swung down at him with renewed force.

“Stay on the attack!” Criston’s voice rang out, his words dripping with contempt.

You, sitting at the edge of your seat, clenched your fists tightly, the fabric of your dress now feeling like it might tear under the pressure. The helplessness in Jacaerys’ eyes made your heart ache, and you couldn’t help but feel the bile rise in your throat.

Harwin, his patience finally breaking, stormed across the yard, his massive frame cutting through the tension like a ship through a storm. He reached Aegon in an instant, grabbing him roughly by the shoulder and pushing him aside.

Aegon yelped in surprise, stumbling back, his face contorted in indignation. “You dare put hands on me?” Aegon screeched, his voice high and petulant. He was not accustomed to being treated so.

For a moment, it seemed as though his anger might reach a boiling point, but then Viserys’ voice rang out across the yard, causing everyone to pause in their tracks.

“Aegon!” The King’s voice, though weak with age, cut through the tension like a knife.

It was a command, not a suggestion, and it immediately caused Aegon to flinch. The prince fell silent, his chest heaving with the remnants of his tantrum as he glanced up at his father in surprise. The reality of his father’s presence seemed to settle in all at once, and for a brief moment, Aegon’s arrogance faltered.

Criston, ever the defender of the royal blood, stepped forward and shielded Aegon from Harwin’s wrath, his body a barrier between the two men.

“You forget yourself, Strong,” Criston sneered, his eyes narrowing. “That is the Prince.” His words were sharp, an attempt to remind everyone of the hierarchy that had been in place since birth.

Yet, the irony of his claim—coming from the same man who had allowed Aegon to pin his nephew to the ground—was not lost on anyone watching.

Harwin stood tall, his gaze unwavering as he glared at Criston. “This is what you teach, Cole?” He motioned toward the discarded wooden swords that lay forgotten in the dirt.

His voice was like ice as he spoke, filled with a quiet, simmering fury. “Cruelty to the weaker opponent?”

Criston’s eyes flicked over the fallen swords before he rolled his eyes, brushing off Harwin’s challenge as though it were nothing. “Our interest in the princeling’s training is quite unusual, Commander,” he remarked, his tone dripping with condescension.

“Most men would only have that kind of devotion toward a cousin...” His words hung in the air, a challenge in themselves. “Or a brother...” he continued, the smirk never leaving his lips.

“Or a son,”

Harwin surged forward, his hand cracking across Criston’s face with a force that made the crowd flinch. Criston staggered back, the shock of the blow registering on his face for a brief second before the smirk returned, though this time, it was tinged with something darker.

The sound of the slap echoed through the training yard, silencing the movements of the others. Even Aegon, his mouth agape in disbelief, fell still. The crowd stood frozen, their eyes wide, unsure of what to do next.

The chaos in the training yard spun out of control, the brutal violence between Harwin and Criston unfolding in front of your eyes like a scene of madness.

Jacaerys had rushed to his brother's side, wrapping his arms around Lucerys to shield him from the violence. His younger brother’s face was pale, his eyes wide with fear and confusion. The sight of blood streaming from Criston’s face was enough to make your stomach twist in horror.

sla, quick on her feet, reached for you, but you were already rising from your chair. Your breath caught in your throat as the crimson stain of Criston’s blood spread across the stone beneath him.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the horrific scene, and before Isla could protest, you leaned over the stone barrier of the balcony, calling out for your brother in a panic.

“Merek!” Your voice rang out across the training yard, a mixture of panic and urgency.

Merek, who had been sparring on the other side of the yard, heard your voice break through the tension. His head snapped up, eyes searching for you before landing on your frantic gestures.

The horror in your expression was enough to make him drop Dawn, his sword, and race toward the center of the chaos.

The ground trembled under his quick steps, his focus solely on the fight. “Harwin!” Merek shouted as he reached your father’s side, grabbing hold of the furious commander.

Harwin was a force of nature, the rage inside him impossible to tame, but Merek was determined. “Say it again! Say it again!” Harwin roared, throwing himself against Merek’s grip as if he could fight his own fury.

His chest heaved with the strain of his anger, blood still dripping from the bloodied fist he had landed on Criston.

Merek, his voice firm and controlled, tried his best to reason with the man. “Calm yourself, the prick is not worth it!” he said through gritted teeth, his voice barely audible over the noise of the surrounding knights.

The look in Merek’s eyes was one of cold intensity, as though he would not hesitate to take down any who dared cross him. “Step back!” Merek barked at the White Cloaks who had begun to approach.

“If you wish to suffer the same fate as Cole, I suggest you step back!” His words carried the weight of authority, of the Sword of the Morning commanding them to stand down. It was a standoff.

You stood frozen, your hands trembling as you clutched the edge of the balcony. The sight of blood, of the brawl unfolding below, made your stomach churn. You couldn’t stand to watch any longer, yet you couldn’t tear your eyes away.

“...Enough... enough!” You turned away, desperate to escape the chaos, only to find your eyes landing on the King, Viserys, sitting hunched over on the stone bench.

His breathing was erratic, his face pale and drawn, and his hands shook with visible strain. Lyonel was beside him, attempting to calm him, but it was clear that the King’s condition was deteriorating rapidly.

Viserys attempted to rise, his body trembling as he tried to stop the madness unfolding below. But he didn’t make it far. With a weak groan, he collapsed back onto the stone.

You quickly sprang into action, rushing toward him, your knees hitting the ground as you knelt beside him. “Your Grace!” you reached for his frail body, helping him sit upright as best you could.

His hand, shaking with age, gripped your wrist desperately, his eyes wide with confusion. His breath was shallow, his words disjointed and incoherent.

Lyonel, kneeling beside him, was just as alarmed. “Your Grace, are you alright?” His voice trembled, but the King did not answer. Instead, only the soft, unintelligible murmurs of his name escaped his lips.

“...Rhaenyra...” Viserys whispered, the name of his firstborn daughter slipping from his lips like a prayer, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Lord Hand, we mustn’t let the King lie down until the Maester comes,” you instructed, your words firm despite the panic flooding your chest.

You swiftly shed your coat, draping it over Viserys’ frail shoulders in an attempt to warm him. “The cold has seemed to affect him,” you added, noting how his breathing grew even more erratic.

Lyonel didn’t argue. He simply nodded and helped you keep the King upright, though he was clearly struggling with the weight of the moment.

Viserys continued to murmur incoherently, “Rhaenyra...” over and over again, the name echoing in the air like a painful reminder of everything that had been lost.

“Isla, quickly! Get the Maesters,” you ordered, your voice sharp with urgency. You turned to the guards who had been standing idly by, still watching the scene below, their expressions blank as if none of them had the courage to step forward.

“What are you all doing?!” you shouted at them. “Help your King to his chambers! Now!” Your words were a command, a fierce plea that echoed across the yard.

How you ended up at the bedside of the sickly king was beyond you.

One moment you were watching the princes sparring, the next you found yourself seated on a worn stool beside King Viserys’ bed. His labored breaths filled the dimly lit chamber, each one a reminder of how fragile his body had become.

Now, swathed in thick blankets, he slept soundly, his pale face softened in slumber. Despite his rest, his hand remained tightly clasped around your wrist.

In his delirium, he had mistaken you for Rhaenyra and refused to let you leave. You’d tried to explain, gently whispering that you were not his daughter, but the king’s fevered mind was deaf to reason.

He wouldn’t settle until your presence eased him, and so you stayed, his frail hand never faltering from his grip, even in sleep. You were only meant to remain until the true Princess arrived.

Rhaenyra, no doubt, was occupied with matters of the realm—likely filling her father’s absence in the Small Council, or so her maid had said when she brought word of the delay. You could hardly blame her; ruling even a single kingdom seemed a daunting task, let alone seven.

The room was suffused with the faint scent of medicinal herbs and the lingering warmth of the brazier by the bedside. You glanced around, noting the intricate carvings of the oak bedposts and the faded tapestries depicting scenes of conquest and unity—ironic, given the fractured state of the Targaryen family.

In the center was a miniature hand carved model, so detailed and pristine. A life’s work, one might say. Never in your wildest imaginings had you thought you’d set foot in the chambers of the king.

You’d only seen Viserys from afar in court, his crown gleaming under power and duty. He had conversed with a handful of times, often hinting at a prospect in marriage with Jacaerys.

Now, stripped of his royal regalia, he was just a man—frail, weary, and burdened by years of ruling a kingdom constantly at odds with itself.

Your gaze softened as you watched him shift in his sleep, murmuring unintelligible words that occasionally formed fragments of names. It was impossible not to feel sympathy for the man.

The Iron Throne had withered him, forcing him to bear the impossible burden of uniting a family that seemed destined to fall apart. He was a bridge between two factions, one that seemed ready to collapse under its own strain.

You exhaled softly, your free hand brushing over the linen draped over your lap. ‘What if he dies right now?’ The morbid thought seized you, and your stomach twisted.

If Viserys drew his last breath here, alone with you, the court would surely whisper of poison or treachery. They would say a Dornish snake struck in the dead of night.

The idea was absurd, truly. You were but a child, barely past your eighth nameday. Yet in Westeros, suspicion clung to the Dornish like the desert’s heat to a sunbaked stone. The highborn loved nothing more than tearing down those who stood apart.

And here you were—foreign, far from home, and unprotected by familiar faces. You swallowed hard, glancing at Viserys’ sunken face. His chest rose and fell in shallow but steady breaths, the only sign that life still clung to him.

Surely no one would think a child capable of such a crime. Surely.

And yet, the court was a den of vipers, ever eager to weave tales of betrayal. Your mind conjured the cruel sneers of Lady Redwyne, the cutting remarks of Lord Beesbury, and the veiled disdain of Alicent Hightower.

The Queen would not hesitate to seize upon such a scandal, not when her sons’ claims might be bolstered by it. You shook your head, banishing the thought. It was foolish, paranoid even.

Your mother and father would be deeply disappointed in you for entertaining such nonsense. They had raised you to hold your head high, to carry the honor of House Dayne like a blade at your side.

Still, being a foreigner in this place—a fragile bridge between two worlds—pressed heavily on your chest. Your gaze flicked back to the door, hoping to see the Princess stride in and relieve you of this strange vigil. But the corridor beyond was empty, and the only sound was the crackle of the brazier and the faint murmurs of the sleeping king.

You tightened your grip on the linen, forcing yourself to breathe evenly. You would stay until Rhaenyra came. That was your duty, no matter how uneasy you felt in the presence of the dying dragon.

His pale eyelids fluttered, and his grip on your wrist tightened, fragile but insistent. “Rhaenyra…” Viserys groaned, his voice a rasping whisper in the stillness of the chamber.

You hesitated before placing your free hand over his, a gesture meant to soothe. His skin was cold, paper-thin, the veins beneath a pale map of his frailty. “She’ll be here soon, Your Grace,” it felt as though speaking to a restless child. “Please, you must have patience.”

The old king’s head shifted slightly on the pillow, a faint wince creasing his brow. His breathing came in shallow gasps, but he clung to consciousness, as if his very being refused to surrender to the darkness creeping ever closer. 

“Patience,” he murmured, the word barely audible. “A cruel virtue… in this house of strife.”

You frowned, unsure whether he spoke to you or to some phantom of memory. His body was here, but his mind seemed adrift, carried by tides of grief and regret. The Targaryen legacy was etched into his every breath, a heavy burden made heavier still by the fractures within his family.

You wondered if, in his haze, he saw the throne he’d spent a lifetime defending or the ghosts of those who had already been lost to its cruel game.

“She’ll come,” you repeated firmly, as much for yourself as for him. You shifted slightly on the stool, careful not to disturb the frail king. “She loves you, Your Grace. You know she won’t tarry.”

Viserys’ lips trembled with a faint, humorless smile. “Love…” he muttered, his voice trailing into a cough. “A word… bent and broken… under the crowns.”

You glanced nervously at the door again, wishing Rhaenyra would appear and take your place. The room felt suffocating, heavy with the unspoken truths that lingered between the lines of his delirious murmurings.

Yet, for all your unease, you couldn’t help but feel pity for the man before you—a king whose strength had faded long before his time, and a father whose love could not bridge the chasm that divided his blood.

“Rest now,” shifting your hand to smooth the linen over his chest. “Save your strength for her.” Viserys’ breathing slowed, and his grip on your wrist loosened ever so slightly. Though he did not respond, his frail frame seemed to lax, as if your presence offered him some fleeting measure of comfort.

Still, the shadow of death loomed ever near, and you could only hope that Rhaenyra would arrive before the Stranger made his decision.

The doors creaked open, the sound echoing in the quiet chamber. You turned sharply, relief flooding your features as you saw Rhaenyra stride in, her silver hair gleaming even in the dim light.

“Your Highness…” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

She crossed the room in a few quick steps, her gaze sharp as it flicked from you to her father’s gaunt form on the bed. “How is he?” One hand rested lightly atop your head, smoothing back stray strands of hair, a gesture so tender it nearly undid you.

You swallowed thickly, trying to steady yourself. “The maester says his grace is stable… The cold has taken a toll on him, and—” Your voice faltered, words choked by the sudden onrush of tears. Your vision began to cloud, and you cursed yourself for their betrayal.

Why were you crying?

You shouldn’t be crying at all.

You were a terrible girl!

Making this about yourself while Jace and Luke—sweet, eager boys—were likely still shaken. You had ignored them, failed them, and yet here you were, wallowing in your own misery.

Ungrateful.

That’s what you were. After all that Rhaenyra had done for you—offering you her hospitality, treating you like family, ensuring you were safe and cared for since your arrival at King’s Landing—you had the audacity to cry?

You didn’t get to be sad.

You clenched your jaw, willing yourself to stop, but the tears kept coming, hot and silent. The ache in your chest grew heavier with each passing second.

It wasn’t just because of guilt; it was the longing, the homesickness, the feeling of being unmoored in a place that wasn’t truly yours. You felt lost, a wayward star drifting far from its constellation.

But the tears refused to be stopped, spilling over and blurring your vision. You tried to blink them away, but they kept falling, a silent betrayal of your emotions.

Rhaenyra crouched to your level, her hands firm but gentle as they settled on your shoulders. “Shh…” she soothed, drawing you into a warm embrace.

“All is well, sweetling.” Her voice was soft, carrying a maternal warmth that felt foreign yet comforting. You clung to her, trembling, the weight of homesickness and fear pressing heavily on your chest.

You wanted to be back at Starfall, where the summers were endless and the stars felt close enough to touch. You wanted your family—your mother, your father, your brothers, Isla.

Rhaenyra held you tighter, as though she could shield you from your turmoil. Her thoughts, however, drifted. She had longed for a daughter, a child she could cherish in ways the world wouldn’t allow for sons.

You buried your head into the crook of her shoulder, clinging to her as though she could shield you from the fears swirling in your chest. “I don’t want his grace to die,” you murmured, your words muffled but heavy with grief. 

The tears spilled freely now, soaking into her gown. For all the moments you had spent with King Viserys—the way he smiled through his weariness, how his humor laced even the gravest of conversations—you could never wish such a fate upon him.

Rhaenyra’s hand moved gently over your back, her touch steady as she drew small circles meant to soothe. “Nor do I, sweet girl,” her gaze fixed on her father’s frail form as he lay in his bed, his labored breaths filling the silence between you.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. The fire crackled in its hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room, the only sound to accompany the rhythmic rise and fall of Viserys’ chest.

Rhaenyra’s thoughts, were far from calm. How many times had she watched her father cling to life by the thinnest of threads? How many nights had she braced herself for the inevitable?

You clung to her more tightly, your tears dampening her gown. “He always smiled when he saw me,” you whispered between shaky breaths. “He’s kind, even when he’s in pain.”

Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That’s his way,” she said softly, brushing a strand of hair from your damp cheek. “He bears his burdens quietly, so others don’t have to. But it weighs on him, more than he’d ever admit.”

You sniffled, “He is so frail. It feels like he could break.” wiping at your face.

Rhaenyra sighed, her gaze flicking to the sleeping king, his labored breaths filling the chamber. “The years have not been kind to him,” she admitted, her tone heavy. “But he is stronger than he seems. He has endured more than most men could bear.”

You followed her gaze, the sight of him stirring a pang of guilt. “I shouldn’t be here,” you mumbled, looking down. “This is your place, not mine.”

Rhaenyra gently tilted your chin up, her violet eyes meeting yours. “You were here when he needed comfort, and for that, I am grateful.” She pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “You have done more than most would in your place.”

Her words offered little comfort, but you nodded, “Will he get better?” swallowing the lump in your throat.

Rhaenyra pressed her lips into a thin line. “He will fare just fine,” she replied softly, her thumb brushing against your cheek, wiping away the remnants of your tears.

You sniffled, hurriedly wiping your face. “I’m sorry, your highness. I shouldn’t have acted so crass,” lowering your gaze in shame.

Rhaenyra gently cupped your face, “You’ve done something few in this court could even comprehend,” lifting your chin so your eyes met hers. “You showed compassion. In King’s Landing, that is as rare as rain in the desert.”

Her words caught you off guard. You blinked up at her, unsure of how to respond. The court was a world of sharp smiles and veiled barbs, where vulnerability was a weapon waiting to be exploited.

Yet here she was, offering not rebuke but understanding. “The capital is full of men and women who mistake cruelty for strength,” she continued, her gaze unwavering. “They see kindness as weakness, and ignorance as virtue. But not you. Never you.”

Your lip trembled, but you bit down on it to steady yourself. “I only want to do what’s right,” you whispered.

Rhaenyra smiled, a small, almost wistful curve of her lips. “Then you’re already leagues ahead of most.” She pulled you close again, holding you in a way that reminded you of your mother’s embrace—a rare moment of warmth in a city so cold.

Long after Isla had tucked you into bed, the weight of the day’s events kept you awake, tossing and turning beneath the heavy covers. The chill of the stone beneath the bed crept into your bones, but it wasn’t enough to quiet the thoughts racing through your mind.

The events from earlier felt like a fever dream, spinning out of control, and you couldn’t shake the image of Viserys’s weak, trembling form or the cruel play between the knights.

From Merek, you had heard the news—Ser Lyonel and Ser Harwin had been dismissed from their positions as Hand of the King and Commander of the City Watch, their fates sealed with a return to Harrenhal.

The news struck you like a slap. It was too sudden, too sharp to be real. But that was the nature of this court, wasn’t it? A place where the strongest thrived and the most loyal were discarded without a second thought.

You stared up at the ceiling, the flickering light of the few candles in your room casting fleeting shadows across the stone. Despite the exhaustion, sleep evaded you. Your thoughts was too heavy, too consuming.

You thought of Jacaerys—his quiet gaze, the spark of hope in his eyes when you had caught his look across the training yard. You had wanted to give him the favor, the small token you had kept for him since the tourney.

It had been his wish, despite not being a part of the competition. But now, you were unsure. Had your coldness pushed him away? Your own actions had driven a wedge, hadn’t they? You had chosen silence over reconciliation.

Isla would no doubt scold you for this—if she knew what you planned. But the thought of facing her scolding felt like a trivial concern in comparison to the knot in your chest. With a resigned sigh, you threw off the covers and swung your legs over the side of the bed.

The cold stone beneath your bare feet sent a shiver up your spine as you slowly stood, eyes immediately drawn to the small bundle resting on the edge of your mattress.

The favor—made of purple larkspurs and ribbons, a delicate thing in the dim candlelight.

Without hesitation, you bent down and scooped it up, feeling its weight in your hand, as if it carried the weight of all your unsaid words and unmade decisions.

You slipped on your slippers and grabbed your cloak, the cool fabric swirling around your form as you made your way to the door. The halls of the Red Keep loomed dark and silent around you. The occasional flicker of candlelight from sconces mounted on the walls offered little warmth.

The castle, once familiar, now felt imposing in the quiet darkness. Every sound—every thud of through the stone your feet—seemed louder in the silence of the night. There was an unsettling quality to it all, as if the walls themselves whispered secrets and threats just beyond your reach.

Your steps echoed faintly as you moved through the corridors, careful not to wake anyone. The Red Keep felt like a labyrinth in the dark, twisting and sprawling with hallways that seemed to shift when you weren’t looking.

You passed the royal guard posted at the corners of the hall, their stony expressions unmoved by your passing. No one spoke, no one stirred. It was as if you were moving through a ghostly world of your own making.

Your destination was clear, though your heart beat faster with every step. Would he even want it now? Would he accept it? The question gnawed at you. You could turn back, you could return to your chambers and pretend this was a foolish thought you’d soon forget.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

The sound of your knuckles against the heavy wood echoed in the quiet corridor, too loud for your liking. You glanced behind you again, heart pounding, the shadows of the Red Keep making the space feel smaller and more suffocating with each second that passed.

You could hear the faint shuffle of distant footsteps, and you held your breath, praying they wouldn’t come any closer. "Jace!" Your hand tightened around the fabric of your cloak, the cool night air prickling against your skin.

You needed to see him, to explain, to do something, anything to erase the cold distance that had settled between you two.

After a long moment of silence, the sound of movement came from within the room, followed by the soft creak of the door. You exhaled in relief, though your heart still raced.

As the door swung open, Jacaerys stood in the doorway, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and wariness. 

“Wren?”

You swallowed hard. "I... I needed to see you," the words tumbling out before you could stop them. "I couldn’t wait until morning. I couldn’t—"

You stopped yourself, realizing that you had no clear explanation for what had driven you to come to him now, in the middle of the night.

It felt impulsive, reckless, but it was too late to turn back. Jacaerys stepped aside, the door opening wider. "Come in," he muttered, though there was still something in his tone that held him back, a wariness that made your chest tighten.

You hesitated for a heartbeat before stepping over the threshold, your slippered feet quiet on the stone floor. The room felt too large, too filled with silent tension as you moved toward the bed where Jacaerys had been resting not long ago.

He closed the door softly behind you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. You stood there in the center of the room, unsure what to say or where to start. 

he favor you had carried so carefully was still hidden within your cloak, clutched tightly in your hand.

Finally, Jacaerys broke the silence, his voice softer now, though his gaze remained steady. "What’s going on, really? Why are you here?" His eyes flicked down to your hand, where the favor was still clenched tightly in your grip.

You glanced down at the favor in your hands, fingers trembling slightly as you loosened your grip. The purple larkspurs and soft ribbons unraveled before his eyes, delicate in their simplicity.

It was small, fragile, but to you, it was everything—a fragile peace offering, a wordless apology. Something to span the gulf between you, a rift that had widened without either of you fully realizing it.

"I—" You stopped again, the words thick on your tongue, reluctant to leave your mouth. "I didn’t mean to shut you out," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I... I thought maybe you were using me." The confession hit you harder than you expected, a raw, bitter thing, but you couldn’t stop it now. "But I’ve been thinking, and I realized I was wrong. I was so wrong, Jace."

His gaze never wavered. Jacaerys stood unmoving, his eyes boring into you, trying to decipher the truth in your voice, in your every flinch.

Every flicker of your expression seemed to unravel something deep within him. His silence was a thing of its own, a quiet kind of understanding that stilled your breath.

Finally, Jacaerys exhaled, his shoulders sagging slightly, the sharp tension easing. His gaze softened, just enough to show you a sliver of something tender beneath the veneer of caution.

"I didn’t want you to shut me out," stepping forward, his arms coming around you in a tight embrace. "I just wanted... to not feel like you were slipping away."

You closed your eyes at his words, guilt rushing over you like an unforgiving tide, cold and unrelenting. "I didn’t mean to make you feel that way," you whispered into his shoulder, the words tasting like ashes. "The court, the politics, the pressure... I’m not used to this, Jace. I’m just not."

His arms tightened around you, his warmth seeping into your skin. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, his gaze steady, unwavering. "I understand," But beneath the calm, there was something, a hint of something deeper in his voice. "But shutting me out only makes it worse."

You nodded, a sob rising in your chest, the lump there thick and suffocating. "I know. I’m sorry," you choked out, your voice breaking. The silence stretched between you, thick with all the things you hadn’t said—hadn’t had the courage to voice until now.

Finally, Jacaerys reached out, his hand brushing over yours as he took the favor from your palm, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

His touch was warm, gentle, a silent apology of his own. "It’s a beautiful thing," he murmured, his voice soft as he examined the larkspurs and ribbons. "I thought you might have forgotten about it."

"I never did," you replied, your voice barely audible, as fragile as the flowers in his hands. "I just... didn’t know how to give it to you after everything that happened."

He smiled then, a soft, fleeting thing, a smile that held so much more than it seemed—comfort, reassurance, and a kind of promise. It was the smile that soothed the ache inside you, melting the last of the tension that had gripped your heart. "You don’t have to explain everything all at once," he said quietly.

His words settled over you like a balm, soothing the rawness between you, and for the first time in what felt like ages, you allowed yourself to believe it.

You could almost feel the distance between you shrinking, no longer an insurmountable wall but a gap that could be bridged. It wasn’t gone—no, not yet—but it was smaller now, more manageable.

Jacaerys turned toward the window, his gaze drifting out toward the sea. "Let’s go to the beach," The soft, endless dark of the horizon seemed to call to him, pulling at something deep within. 

You frowned, caught off guard by the suggestion. "But it’s still night," you protested, the very thought of leaving the warmth of the room for the cold, dark shore feeling absurd in the stillness of the moment.

Jacaerys’s smile widened, “The night doesn’t stop the waves, Wren," the corners of his lips tugging upward just slightly.

The castle seemed to breathe a quiet sigh as you and Jacaerys slipped through the shadows of the courtyard, the heavy wooden door closing softly behind you.

You moved swiftly, your cloaks drawn tight around you, the chill of the night still hanging in the air as you made your way down the familiar path leading toward Blackwater Bay.

The guards were oblivious, their attention elsewhere as you darted past them, feet light on the cobblestone streets. No words were exchanged between you.

The path to the beach was etched into memory—the same one you had taken when you became friends, the day that felt both like a lifetime ago and just yesterday.

The salt of the sea filled the air, the sound of distant waves crashing softly against the shore mingling with the quiet of the pre-dawn hours. The first light of morning began to creep across the sky, painting it in shades of purple and gold, the sun still just a glimmering promise on the horizon.

As you walked in step with Jacaerys, the cool sand slipping beneath your feet, the silhouettes of a few fishermen dotted the shoreline, their boats gently bobbing in the water.

They paid you no mind, as if two figures cloaked in the night were nothing unusual in these parts. The world seemed still, frozen in time, as though holding its breath in anticipation of the day to come.

"Mother has decided that we leave for Dragonstone," Jacaerys’s voice cut through the silence, soft but steady, as though he were testing the words himself.

You blinked, taken aback by his sudden revelation. The words seemed to reverberate through the quiet of the morning, “You’re leaving?” filling the empty space between you.

Jacaerys didn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed ahead, watching the waves as they rolled in and out, each one steady and rhythmic, much like his own thoughts. His expression was guarded, the lines of his face set in a way you couldn’t read.

He nodded—you could feel the distance growing, stretching out like the horizon before you, just as unreachable, just as uncertain. The thought of him leaving, of the absence that would follow, hit you in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

Your chest tightened, and for a moment, you forgot the steady rhythm of your own steps, caught in the sudden shift of the world around you.

“You’ll go?” you asked again, as if the question might somehow change the answer. You hadn’t expected it—hadn't prepared for it, not like this. The words tasted bitter, as though asking them would unravel something inside you.

Jacaerys’s gaze flickered briefly toward you, his eyes a little softer now, though still heavy with something unspoken. “I must,” he replied, his voice firm but laced with something quieter, something more fragile.

"It is what is expected." The words were familiar, the weight of duty pressing down on him with each one. He said nothing more for a long while, the world around you both feeling larger and more distant with every passing second.

You nodded slowly, the thoughts swirling in your mind faster than you could grasp them. Each one tangled with the next, a knot of uncertainty and emotion that refused to unravel.

The shoreline stretched out before you, the vastness of the sea mirroring the distance that would soon lie between you. The cool sand beneath your feet felt oddly grounding, yet you couldn't shake the sense that it would soon slip away, leaving you adrift.

Then, without warning, Jacaerys’s hand brushed against yours, warm and steady, as he came to a halt. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, pulling you gently to a stop as well. You looked at him, his gaze meeting yours, serious but soft, as though trying to find some truth within the moment.

He didn’t need to say it, not aloud, but the weight of it hung in the air—the ache of a parting that neither of you had anticipated but both knew was inevitable.

“I’ll miss you,” Jacaerys’ other hand found yours, both of them cupping your palm with a warmth that spoke volumes, a warmth that felt like the last embers of a fire soon to be extinguished.

You swallowed, the lump in your throat growing, and for a fleeting moment, you couldn’t speak. The vulnerability in his eyes, the rawness of his words, left you struggling to find the right ones.  “I’ll miss you too,” you whispered, the words barely more than a breath, but they held everything.

Jacaerys, needing something—anything—that could tether you both to this moment. "Promise to send ravens?" The words left your lips before you could even think about it, the hope in your voice clear as you looked up at 

Jacaerys’s lips curled into a small, teasing smile, and with a quick nod, he replied, “Only if you promise not to ignore them.”

Without missing a beat, you tangled your pinky with his, the simple gesture a pact between the two of you. A way of sealing what might be forgotten in the passing of time, but something you both needed now.

“Promise,”

As if the air between you could no longer contain the tension of unspoken words, you both broke into laughter. It was a sound that felt foreign and real all at once, something pure amid the complications of everything else.

But just as quickly as the laughter came, it seemed, a spark of mischief flickered in Jacaerys’s eyes. In an instant, he was pulling at the ties of your cloak, his hands quick and determined.

Before you could protest, his fingers tugged at your cloak, and with a quick yank, it was gone, leaving you only in your nightgown, the cool night air suddenly sharper against your skin.

The sound of his laughter mixed with yours as he dragged you toward the edge of the water, your feet stumbling against the uneven sand. “Jace? No!” you gasped, caught off guard, but your words were lost in the sudden burst of giggles that followed.

You tried to pull away, but his grip was steady, and in a flash, you were both closer to the sea than you ever thought you would be in the middle of the night.

The waves crashed against the shore with relentless force, their cold touch sending a sharp chill up your spine. Your nightgown, now soaked through with saltwater, clung to your skin, heavy and uncomfortable, but the laughter that bubbled between you and Jacaerys kept you light.

The sound of the waves, the crisp air, and his playful presence filled the space around you like a song. “Come on, Wren!” Jacaerys called, as he released your hand, stepping back just enough to splash you with the frothy sea water.

You squealed, shocked by the sudden coldness, but the surprise melted into laughter as you kicked your own splash back toward him. “Take this!” you shouted, your words barely audible over the crashing waves. His wet nightshirt clung to his skin, clinging to his every movement like a second layer.

Jacaerys grinned, unbothered by the soaked fabric sticking to him, but his playful demeanor faltered just slightly when you noticed something unusual—something you hadn’t seen before. As he turned his back toward you, you caught sight of a scattering of small freckles across his shoulders and down the length of his back.

“You have freckles on your back?” you asked, your voice filled with surprise and amusement, the playful tone in your words only adding to the moment’s warmth.

The small, sun-kissed dots were scattered like stardust, almost imperceptible unless you were looking for them, but they were there, peppered across his skin in a way that made him seem a little less like the prince you knew and more like someone far more familiar, far more human.

Jacaerys stiffened for a brief moment, a flush creeping up his neck before he turned to face you, a hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’ve had them for as long as I can remember,” he said with a teasing glint in his eyes, his voice shifting to one of playful defensiveness. “I didn’t think they were something worth mentioning.”

You grinned, suddenly filled with a new kind of warmth—one that wasn’t just from the laughter, but from the realization that there were so many things about him you still hadn’t fully seen.

Things you hadn’t noticed before, like the way the sunlight caught in his hair, or the way his freckles dotted his skin like little secrets he’d never shared.

“Well,” you teased, stepping closer, “I think they’re cute.”

Jacaerys rolled his eyes dramatically, his smile never fading. It was as if the world had shifted just slightly. As if he had learned something new about himself, something that had quietly taken root within him without him even realizing it.

No matter what the future held, no matter how far away you would be from him, his heart would always yearn for you. Because no matter how long it took for him to see you again.

He was only an island away.

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[dreamerimpossible]

His reaction when you say someone else's name during sex.

Warnings: +18 content, unhealthy relationships, mentions of violence and death, dark content.

Characters: Mikey, Kazutora, Sanzu, Izana, Ran Haitani, Rindou Haitani, Kisaki, Hanma

Mikey

You'd have to be crazy. Did you forget that Mikey is the person who protects you from the other gangs doing something against you for being involved with him? Did you forget everything that Mikey has done for you? Well, he doesn't forget. He stops and looks at you with those empty eyes. On a particularly bad day, he tells you not to forget your place and who you're with, because he wouldn't have any problem showing you what it would be like to be a day without him and everything he provides for you. It scares you to see him with that look and that menacing voice. He doesn't look like your boyfriend; he looks like just a predator. After that, he's back to himself. Like nothing ever happened. Suddenly, people needed a reminder of how strong he was. You got it.

Kazutora

He becomes obsessive. He pushes you over and over against the surface, be it the bed, the wall, or the car, whatever. He asks you who that man is and why you're naming him. He screams at you and goes crazy. He gives you hickeys in his rage; you can feel his bites. You explain everything over and over again, but it doesn't seem to relax him at all. He runs around the city like a madman waiting for you to tell him who this man is and where he lives. It gets worse if you don't tell him. In your desperation, you take him to an alley and whisper sweet nothings to him that he refuses to believe at first. You tell him that he will know who the man is, but that you needed to apologize first. You gave him the sloppiest oral of your life, holding back the tears that came out of your eyes as you choked. He forgives you, but seriously, he still expects you to tell him who this man is.

Sanzu

Uh… what the fuck? No one would do that. But if you did, you would only be saved if he was drugged. He wouldn't notice, really; he would be on a terribly high adrenaline and only think about the feeling. Then, in the morning, he would have forgotten everything. However, if you catch him sober and lucid, you're lost. He tells you to explain clearly while he shows you his gun and leaves it on the mattress. It's an implicit threat, but quite functional. He doesn't think you simply want another man; he thinks you're cheating on him; that's why he goes so crazy. He can't stand being cheated on, even less when he never cheated on you. It would be unfair, and he wouldn't tolerate it. When you convince him, he's still angry, but a little less paranoid. He'd look at you closely, put a lot more "security" in you, and become more possessive. If you openly show that you like how much he "protects" you, he'll let his guard down, but not enough.

Izana

He gets dressed and leaves. Not before making a fuss and reproaching you for things you never did. His abandonment issues come to light, and it seems impossible to fix things with him. You don't even speak; you just listen and don't know what to do. Then he walks away and tells you to forget about him and that he doesn't want a bitch like you. Then you realize that the guy was hurt by a fight he had, and you know exactly who did it. He wouldn't look for you; he's proud; he ended the relationship that day. He doesn't like to feel left out or like a second choice. So you approach him and put up with some indifference, but there will come a time when he'll like to see you beg for him, letting you be with him conditionally for a while, just to test your behavior. and he'll miss having you. He lets you be with him conditionally for a while, just to test your behavior. If you do it right, he'll be nice to you again, but he'll always want you to introduce him to your friends and people close to you, even just acquaintances. Although, let's be honest, he was like that before.

Ran Haitani

You can see the confusion and pain in his eyes. He tries to cover it up by joking around a bit, but it hurts him, and it shows. The difference with the others is that he won't go crazy; he'll just wait for you to explain; he can actually be quite mature when he wants to. You explain it to him, and he understands, at least with you. You promise that you will make it up to him, and he will give you the chance. That same night you moan his name many times until he gets tired of hearing you. However, that man will not be spared from his cane. Sorry, not sorry.

Rindou Haitani

Pretty direct. He asks you what the hell is wrong with you and if you are cheating on him with someone else. You rush to tell him no and explain everything. He nods his head and says nothing more; he seems to have his same expression as always. He remains serious for the rest of the day; you try to get closer to him, but no progress seems to reach him. Don't worry; after a few days, he will be fine. He needs time. Afterwards he will prove himself and make you come many times. You make sure he has no doubts.

Kisaki

He gets dressed and leaves. He doesn't say anything to you. He doesn't even change his usual expression. The scary thing about him is that he only acts; he doesn't provoke or threaten. That makes you expect anything from him. He comes back the same way he left, unchanged, but his expression seems darker. You decide not to ask. You try to explain, but he doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t feel threatened by it anymore. How could he? There’s no one to confuse you anymore, no one alive, at least.

Hanma

He laughs at you, in disbelief. He might make you a little insecure too, which only made the fight escalate. There are no healthy reconciliations with Hanma; you should know that by now. You’ll get possessive every time he purposely teases you, and he’ll make a fuss every time you get together with a guy. That’s how it is. That seems to be “reconciliation.” There’s a lot of sex too and unhealthy ways to get out frustration. Hanma actually seems to enjoy toxicity.

[doberbutts]

I’m kinda new to tumblr so idk if this is like, improper, but that recent shit about your folks sucking was rough. just like, to read. I can’t even imagine how hard it sucks to be there right now. but idk I wanted to shoot an anonymous ask and just be like “hey you’re gonna make it” which I know you already know but figured it would be nice to hear from someone else too, so. hang in there fellow trans person and fuck your family’s behavior

Oh I never did really fully explain what was happening did I?

My great aunt died on December 1 and it wasn't particularly unexpected (she was very old, and her husband died a few years ago on Dec 3) but it was quite sudden and without much warning. I drove to my parents' house to mourn and help with funeral arrangements and it was my first time visiting since right before covid and also since starting medical transition. I figured I'd be enduring a lot of misgendering and the like but wanted to be there for my aunt because I had a lot of wonderful memories of celebrating Christmas at her house with her and my uncle.

An assortment of little comments added up over the next 24 hours until my mother effectively called me stupid unprompted to my face as I drove her from my sister's house back to her own, because I'd said that my niece and nephew were quite smart and that wasn't an abnormality within our family. This is referring to my graduating at 16 and testing well into genius for my IQ, my sister winning several national awards for her poetry and essays, my adult nephew graduating at 17 and only because of an August birthday, both of my parents having masters degrees they earned on scholarships they were given due to their own strong writing, etc and now my niece is skipping a grade and my nephew is averaging well above his grade level and likely will skip a grade too. So I said something about being a family of smart kids and my mom more or less went "well one of my kids isn't very bright" and then looked hard at me.

I'm the only college drop out of my siblings, and with a worse gpa. It's also not the first time she's called me stupid but normally not in so many words or out of left field like that so it cut pretty deep especially considering all the other bs I'd been putting up with since arriving.

I voiced discomfort with what I had (correctly) assumed she meant as a joke, which turned into an argument, which made me have the realization that this is not my home and has not been my home in some time and in fact the reason my mental health improved rapidly when I left is because I got away from her and all of her nasty little comments she doesn't think are a big deal and now I'm having a panic attack and oh- this is a trauma response. I am back in the same house, the same bedroom, the same situation, and I am being triggered, and I am having a trauma freak out, and it has been a very long time since this place and these people have been anything but detrimental to me.

TO HER CREDIT she did come into my bedroom late that night and stated that she couldn't sleep because she felt awful because clearly she seriously misstepped and did not actually mean to hurt me this badly but at that point the damage was done. We talked it out and then we both cried ourselves to sleep in our respective bedrooms and then I woke up with covid the next day and drove the 5 hours back home so I could access healthcare in my state with my state insurance.

And I don't think I will ever go back there willingly, at least not to stay overnight. I'll come up with a reason that I have to stay at a hotel or something.

So anyway long story short the issue was relatively shortlived and I am now back to normal but WOW that was a BAD night. I have not had a night like that in a very long time.

[ofstarsandvibranium]

To Have and To Hold: Part 12

Fandom: Marvel - Moon Knight (Mafia AU)

Pairing: Marc Spector x F!Reader, Steven Grant x F!Reader, Jake Lockley x F!Reader

Summary: To ensure you’re always safe even after his passing, your father, a mob boss, makes you marry his right hand, Marc Spector. You don’t necessarily hate Marc, but you don’t get along either. Therefore, this marriage of convenience may be a bit difficult for you.

Warning: smut - oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v

A/N: surprise! idk who still cares for this but one of my new years resolutions is to finish some of my unfinished series so here we are.

Series Masterlist

It's late when Marc arrives to your father's home, well, his home now. He anticipates you're already asleep as he heads to the office to decompress after that very long talk with Layla and everything else he had to deal with today.

He had to admit that he did still care for the woman. Did he love her? No, but he'd always want the best for her.

Laying everything out on the table was good for him. He admitted his faults, apologized for being so stubborn and never reaching out until now.

Layla was still stubborn and firey as ever, but she understood. She accepted Marc's apology and offered up her own as well.

Then she asked if it was possible to try again.

That's when Marc admitted he had fallen for someone else, for you. He didn't tell her the whole truth behind his relationship with you, but he explained that it was unexpected. And it's true.

He didn't expect to fall for you when he agreed to the proposal your dad set out for him. Then the more time he spent with you, the more he understood why everyone called you Sunshine. You're sunlight personified.

You bring warmth and joy to everyone you meet, even Marc. And Marc thought he'd never feel this way again after Layla and all the bad he's done. But you brought something out of him, you allowed him to open himself up to love and light.

Seeing Marc's face when he spoke of you, Layla could see that Marc had genuine feelings for you. He seemed happy and she couldn't deny him that, despite everything that he's done and what happened between them.

So when Marc presented the divorce papers, she signed them.

They said their final good-byes and wished each other well.

After that, Marc immediately brought the papers to the L/N Family lawyer to set everything in motion. Then he had meetings for the rest of the day all around the city.

Body tense and craving the numbness alcohol can provide, Marc steps into the office, heading straight for the bar cart.

You switch on the desk lamp at the desk, causing Marc to jump.

"Fuck, Y/N! The hell you still doing up?"

You scoff, twirling your father's letter opener in your hands, “I think there’s some important things we have to discuss, Marc.”

He sighs as he pours amber liquid into a glass, “I agree, but it should wa-” his words are cut off as the letter opener flies at him, landing into the wall beside his head.

He looks at you with wide eyes, "The fuck do you think you're doing?!"

"No, Marc, what the fuck do you think you're doing?! You keep hiding things from me! What else are you hiding from me, Spector? Huh?" You stand from your father's desk, slowly stalking to your fiancé, "First you don't tell me about the arranged marriage my dad planned, then about your DID. You don't warn me about my dad's suicide plan. And now you don't tell me how you're still married?"

Marc gulps down the liquid and places the glass onto the bar cart, "I was planning on telling you-"

"When?! After we got married?!"

"No! Before that, I swear I planned to, but there's so much shit going on! I didn't want to stress you out because you're going through a lot!"

"Doesn't matter! I still had the right to know!"

"I know! And it's whatever now. She signed the divorce papers, I brought them to the family lawyer. They're being filed as we speak and it should be finalized by the time we get married. " He sighs again, running a hand through his hair and glancing at the letter opener lodged into the wall.

He looks back at you, "Listen, from now on, I promise, no more secrets." You scoff and roll your eyes, but he continues, "I'm serious, Y/N, no more secrets. This was my burden to bare and I handled it. Whatever happens now, we'll handle it together. I'll tell you everything that went down today if it makes you feel any better."

"You make me so angry sometimes," you say through gritted teeth.

"I know," he replies as he slowly closes the distance between you.

"Sometimes you make me want to scream."

"You always can. I won't judge," he says sincerely as he stands before you, hand hovering over your closed fist at your side.

"I really want to punch you," you mumble as you look at him.

"Do it," he says in a serious tone, "I've kept you in the dark for a lot of things, but I won't anymore. I'll let you do whatever you want. If you don't want anything to do with this business, fine. If you decide you want to partake in it, I'll let you. You have control here, Y/N," he slowly grabs hold of your wrist. He unravels your fist and guides your hand to his chest, "I let you in, Sunshine. I wanna give you my heart. It's up to you what you do to it."

You stand there speechless. For the first time, you don't know how to respond. Something in Marc's words stirs something in you. A fire in the pit of your stomach comes alive and begins to burn inside you.

Not knowing what else to do, you grip his shirt with the hand that rests on his chest. You pull him close and press your lips to his in a heated kiss. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, one hand gripping onto his hair.

Marc's hands go to your waist, pulling you even closer to him. You feel the heat of his body against yours as he kisses you back. His mouth moves against yours and you're so distracted by the taste of him you don't even realize he was walking you towards your father's desk.

He lifts you and places you onto the desktop with ease and he pulls back to look at you.

There's a haze over his eyes, his lips are slightly puffy from kissing you. His hair is disheveled from when you were gripping it.

"Do you want this?" he asks in a low whisper, his fingers grazing along the hem of your shirt.

You nod, "Yes. Fuck, Marc, fuck me."

He doesn't hesitate to pull your shirt off you in an instant, then working on your pants.

You never thought your first time with Marc would be in your father's office on his old desk. But fuck it, it's the heat of the moment. You're just hoping your dad isn't watching you about to get fucked in his office from above.

You're naked as the day you were born, laid out on the wooden desk. The cool surface a complete contrast to your body that feels like it's on fire.

"Need to get you ready," Marc murmurs as he drops to his knees, pulling your legs to rest on his shoulders, "Been dreaming about this pussy," he mumbles in between your thighs.

He licks a stripe up your slit and it causes your breath to hitch. Honestly, you could feel yourself getting wetter by the second.

He spreads your lips apart, delving in with a careful taste. He hums and smiles up at you, "Sweet, just like I imagined."

You whine in desperation, "Marc-"

"I know, baby. I know. Already desperate for me, aren't ya?" His thumb reached up and draws slow careful circles around your clit. The bud already hardening underneath the pressure.

You hiss out a "Fuck!" Your jaw goes slack when you feel his mouth on your again. His tongue collecting your slick, devouring you like a starved man. Your fingers weave through his locks, gripping tight, and keeping him place.

You grind up into his face and eyes staring into yours as you use his face for pleasure.

You see the lust in his eyes, the hunger and desire for you. Fuck, that look alone could make you cum.

Speaking of which, you let out a moan as you grind harder against his mouth, "Shit. I'm close," you say and it makes Marc immediately pull away.

"What-"

"Shush. The first time you cum is on my cock," he says as he immediately unzips his pants, pushing them and his underwear down enough to free his dick.

He grips himself at the base, the tip just hovering over your entrance, "This still okay?"

You roll your eyes and wrap your legs around him, "Shut up and fuck me, Spector."

Marc smirks and teases your entrance with his top. He coats himself in your slick and then slowly enters you.

Your head drops onto the desktop as he fills you, "Goddamn you feel good."

He gives an experimental thrust into you and then smirks when you moan in pleasure. He then grips you by the back of the neck and pulls you to sit up. He holds you close to him as he fucks into you.

With each snap of his hips, the desk beneath you shakes and creaks. A few of the knick knacks tip over, some pens roll onto the floor. Neither of you care in the moment, obviously, too lost in the lust.

"Harder, Marc. Please. I want it." you beg him with pleading, lust filled eyes.

"You want me to fuck you harder?" he asks in panting breaths.

You nod, "Make me forget. I don't want to think about anything else but you."

"Fuck, keep talking like that, it's gonna be over a lot sooner," he groans, thrusting into your faster and harder.

You chuckle and press your lips to his. He happily kisses you back as he fucks into you. One hand holds onto your thigh while the other is in-between you two, working your clit.

You pull away for air, your lips grazing against his. In short breaths, you murmur out, "I'm sorry I was a bitch."

He chuckles while he continues to fuck you, "It's okay. I deserve it."

"Did you really mean it? You'll give me control whenever I want it?"

He nods, "Whatever you want, Sunshine. I just want you to be happy." He leaves you speechless again, but it's fine, especially since you feel that winding in your stomach grow tighter and tighter.

"I'm close."

"Give it to me, baby. Lemme feel you. I got you, baby."

He fucks into your harder, deeper. You're sure the desk will break any moment now by how hard Marc's fucking you.

"Fuuuu-mmf!" Marc swallows your cries with a kiss. He feels the fluttering of your pussy around him and he feels in absolute bliss.

"Shit," he groans, and pulls out, jerking himself off just above your pussy. He enters you again and gives you a few more thrusts before pulling out and cumming right onto you.

He's a sweaty, panting mess and you're sure you look the same. As he catches his breath, he reaches onto the desk at the tissue box. He takes a few and wipes up the mess he left on you as well as your own mess. He then wipes himself off, tossing the remnants into the bin beside the desk. You sit up with a groan, rolling your neck and shoulders.

You sigh and look up to the ceiling, "Sorry, dad."

Marc snorts and helps you off the desk. He catches you when you lose your footing, a smirk on his face.

You roll your eyes, "Don't even."

"Didn't even say anything."

You sigh, gathering your strewn out clothes, "Let's shower and go to bed."

"Yes, ma'am," Marc murmurs, wrapping an arm around you and guiding you out of the office.

"We still need to talk more, you know," you say as you both climb the stairs.

He lowly chuckles, "In the morning. We'll talk. Promise," he pauses to kiss your head and then continues to guide you to, now, your shared bedroom.

[admirationandromantics]

Could you please write something about Chris or Josh with a virgin reader? How they'd react when they found out? How their first time would be like? Both of them strike me as virgins as well but idk🤷‍♀️

Yes, I also imagine both of them as virgins. Josh seems like he’s been all talk, no action. And Chris? Well, I feel that one is obvious. Anyways, I’ll do both in this post, and for the sake of the writing, the reader is the only virgin, not the guys. They’ve both had sex before. Just because it’s easier to work with. Anyway, enjoy <3 

Chris

He’s not surprised when you tell him, he did not think you were, but the reveal gives him a little comfort as well. Why, you ask? Because he doesn’t need to match himself up to someone else. He’s confident in his ways, and that he can make you feel good, but at the same time, this guy will never stop being insecure, and that small part of it relieved him a little. 

What he also does feel anxious about is the fact that he’ll be your first. And what do people say about their first time? Awkward, weird, nothing went as planned… He wants to make sure that your first time goes well, and that it was a good experience. “I promise, as long as I’m with you, I’ll be happy” “Yeah, yeah. But I’m gonna make you happy for another reason than that too” 

If you are the VERY romantic type, he’ll set everything up. A nice dinner, candles, music etc. He wants you to remember this, and trust me, remember you will. 

One of his goals is to drag out the foreplay as long as possible, wanting you to be drenched and needy for him. Better to go too slow than too quick. This makes the makeout session last way longer than necessary, and you’re starting to get impatient. “C-Chris, I need you now” “No, no, just a little bit longer” he whispers, hand in your hair, pulling you towards him. 

It’s firstly when you start unconsciously grinding on his thigh that he finally understands how down-bad you are, and he starts working on your clothing. He’s fast and gentle with his hands, easily unclasping and removing your bra. 

The cold air hitting your nipples while he admires you, hands groping and lips sucking. You can’t do anything but throw your head back, gripping his shoulders for support as he continues his assault. 

You guys move on, getting each other's clothes off, and him getting on top of you, fingers digging into your heat as you whimper. He continuously asks if you’re okay, if you’re in pain or uncomfortable. 

“You sure you want to keep going?” “Y-yes” “I can stop if-” “I swear, I’ll kill you if you stop now” “Oh? well then” a smile creeping on his lips as he drags out his fingers. 

He positions himself, using your juices as lube as he slowly moves up and down, getting ready. “Okay, we’re gonna take this slow, okay?” You nod, taking a deep breath as he fills you up, small moans leaving your mouth. He leans over you, meeting your lips in a sweet kiss, swallowing each of your sounds while pressing into you. 

“How’re you feeling?” “Fuck, just give me a couple of seconds” you whisper, adjusting and comprehending. He smiles, nodding and spending the time kissing your upper body, everything from your lips down to your breasts. 

After a while, you give him the signal, urging him to start moving. He obliges, always watching your reactions attentively to be sure you’re okay. 

As the night draws to a close, you spend the night in his arms, sleeping and cuddling. Of course, when you were done, he had a glass of water ready for you, packing you deep into the sheets and caressing your hair. 

Josh

Josh is not surprised that you’re a virgin. His suggestive comments here and there getting you so riled up that he only made the assumption. He does not feel that much pressure, only wanting your time with him to go well. 

He can be really romantic, each touch he makes both attentive and calculated. When you’re making out, he’s respectful until you ask him not to be, causing a rougher man to grope and bite you. He still doesn’t go the full way, wanting to be careful and make sure that some type of trust is established before going to second base. 

One day, you’re laying on his bed, a movie playing in the background when your attention turns to each other. This leads to a long make out session, clothes thrown across the room, but still not going further than your underwear. 

You’re hot and bothered, wanting him to take you right now. You smile as you feel him growing hard beneath you, reciprocating that craving. Thighs around his torso, ass on his pelvis, you lean down, leaving kisses on his neck and asking. “Josh, I want you” “Right now? Are you sure?” “Yes” 

He spins you around, making you gasp from your back hitting the mattress. His hands wander over your chest, going behind and unclasping your bra. You sit up a bit, helping him take it off, throwing the garment on the floor. 

“And you want to do this?” “Yes, I do” “Right now” “Are you not up for it?” “Holy fuck, I’m holding back with every fiber of my being” “Stop holding back” 

He watches you while pushing himself into you, making sure that you’re not getting hurt, and can stop at any time. He captures your lips in his, both of your moans filling the room every time you stop for air. 

“Fucking hell, you’re so tight” You can only whimper in reply, feeling him fill you up, struggling to control himself as he wants to ravage you. He gives you time to adjust, letting you signal to him when he can start moving. 

When you’re done, he holds you, praising you and asking how it was. He’s attentive and sweet, asking if you would like a bath or a shower.

[belzrgr]

Oh oh!! (You don't have to do both if you don't want too)

fixing the other's hairstyle to let their hands run through their partner's hair - with Sanji

And

acting like they're cold to have an excuse to cuddle or share clothes or blankets- with Law

No Excuse Needed

Finally got around to writing this, who would have imagined this day would come to be?

Pairing: Sanji x gn! Reader (you/yours)

Warnings/Tags: established relationship, reader is enamored with Sanji, petname "Mon Amour" for reader, reader is kinda shy at the end, fluff

Word count: 608

Sometimes, you were very happy that the Thousand Sunny had an open kitchen because let's be real, you loved watching Sanji at work. The skillful way he prepared not only the crews' breakfast, lunch, dinner and snack but also anything you asked him for. How his arm muscles flexed while whipping cream for a dessert had you transfixed every time and as long as you were alone in the dining room, nobody could rat you out to him. Since he was way too focused to notice your staring himself.

You could watch him for hours, studying his movements and features. If he was standing over the hot stove for long enough, Sanji had the habit of running a hand through his hair.

It had happened often enough in front of you that you recognized it as him running just a bit too hot. And as much as you loved to see it, you couldn't help but feel your gaze drawn to how it messed up his hair style.

Sanji clearly didn't do it consciously, otherwise he would make sure to fix his hair again right after. So many times you struggled inside wondering if you should say something or not but now, you were much closer to him than when you first witnessed this habit of his and being able to call him your boyfriend had given you the confidence and courage to voice your thoughts more towards him.

So you did.

"Sanji?", you gently asked him, immediately being met with his eyes as soon as your voice reached his ears. He was almost done cooking today's lunch and it no longer needed his constant attention.

"Your hair is a little messy, can I... fix it for you?"

You would never get tired of seeing the way his cheeks gained color because of something you said.

"I- well, of course, mon amour!", Sanji responded almost too enthusiastically, some would say but to you it was just incredibly endearing. Like so many things about him.

Leaning over the counter on a clear spot without any stoves he could burn his skillful hands on, the cook gave you permission to touch his head.

Soft golden strands of hair glide between your fingers and under the pretense of fixing them up, you spent just a little more time than necessary running your hands through them. Gently scratching his scalp as you went, then seeing the blissful expression on his face. Eyes closed and a relaxed smile on his lips, it looked like if he could, he would be purring.

Feeling your own face heat up along with your heart from adoration, you reluctantly retracted your hand again. A fake cough of yours made Sanji open his eyes again to perceive you just a little too much for your taste.

Eyes flitting back and forth between his face and literally anywhere else, you spoke up again: "It's fine now, you, uh, maybe should get back to the stove before anything burns..?"

One frantic look to his right calmed Sanji's heart as he saw that he hadn't been distracted by your touch for all too long and nothing had started to smoke yet. When he turned back to you, a loving expression took over his features but as you were a bit too overwhelmed by your own emotions, you escaped.

"I think I heard someone call for me. Ok, gotta go, love you!"

As you ran out to the deck feeling as if your face was burning and heart doing flips inside your chest, you heard him call your name and as the door closed, a small chuckle of his followed you out.

[lemotmo]

Love love love this. Please share your thoughts as well! I don't know if you received the same question or not but I would love to know how you would answer this ask as well!

Q. I have two questions. My first question is do you think they would ever go down the unrequited love route for Buddie? One of them admitting they're in love with the other but the other not feeling the same way. The second question I have is with the benefit of hindsight and knowing what we now know is there anything you wish you had done differently during the hiatus between season 7 and 8? Do you wish you had handled yourself differently or done anything differently?

A. They will never make Buddie unrequited. They won't introduce the idea of a relationship only to have one of them rebuke the other. It happens in real life, it sucks, but it does happen. The problem with doing it on a television show though is it makes the character who doesn't feel the same way the "bad guy" in the other characters story. Please understand that they would in no way truly be a bad person but for the audience it's a sticky situation. It would also be an absolute failure of a choice from a business standpoint. 911 is kind of in rare air where Buddie is concerned. There is nothing else like them on television. There is no other same sex pair you can point to in the history of television who can do what 911 has the potential to do with them. A genuine queer slow burn endgame. It has never been done. Never. I don't believe they were always the plan. I do believe some of it was dumb luck and a lot of it was Oliver and Ryan. Whether it was intentional, accidental or a little bit of both they have created a dynamic that is unique to them. A show that is in its 8th season and more popular than ever and a pairing that has even more interest now than ever before. That doesn't happen. But it happened here and it happened with them. They got so lucky with Oliver and Ryan's dynamic/chemistry. You don't turn away from that. You just don't. There will always be people who don't like it but they are the minority, a sometimes very loud minority, but they are the minority nonetheless. You can say it's a cheesey little firefighter show all you want but it's a cheesey little firefighter show that has the potential to make television history, and that's not hyperbole. They legitimately have a chance to do something no one else has ever done. That's amazing and worth celebrating. People are allowed to be excited about them. It's a big deal and they should be allowed to say that.

Your second question is interesting because it goes hand in hand with a truly American phenomenon. The belief that it is the responsibility of the people who believe facts matter should meet the people who disregard facts because they go against their individual belief where they are. Why do we have to cater to these people? Why is it our responsibility to talk to them with a level of respect their viewpoint does not deserve? Facts matter. Just because someone doesn't like the truth doesn't stop it from being the truth. In this case we're talking about a television show but the rule still applies. The canon facts never merited their beliefs. Never. Not once. Instead of acknowledging that fact they disregarded or flat out tried to erase the canon evidence in favor of the made up version of events they and Lou created. It's not mine or anyone else's responsibility to go along with that garbage. What I regret is that in the beginning I treated them with a level of respect and courtesy they absolutely did not deserve. I answered their asks kindly and with a level of respect for their feelings that I never should have given. I should have called a spade a spade from day one. My mistake was giving them the benefit of the doubt. I believed they got caught up in the biBuck excitement and believed they would come back down to reality soon enough. That was my mistake. They wanted no part of reality. In no time at all suddenly Eddie was an abusive, manipulative evil man who deserved to have his life destroyed and his son to be raised by Buck and the plot device they chose to declare their allegiance too. Why in the world should any of us be pressured into making them feel better about that decision? Then they turned on Buck. Suddenly they were erasing Bucks canon history in order to make the plot device more important and necessary than he was ever going to be but we were the bad guys for calling that batshit behavior out? No. They showed their true colors very early on and the minute they did so I should have reacted accordingly, but I didn't. It was incomprehensible to me that such a below average, ignorant, racist, sexist, talentless white man could convince supposed able minded people that he was God's gift to television. But he did and the minute that became obvious I should have stopped engaging all together. They're not interested in reality. They were never interested in reality. They are interested in nothing but their made up viewpoint and it's not mine or any other member of this fandom's responsibility to make them feel better about that. The facts were there and they chose to ignore them. That's on them. Not me.

Thank you Nonny! 😋

Okay, I'll do my best to answer both questions as good as I can.

First things first... unrequited Buddie? Not a snowball's chance in hell! Once one of them expresses a romantic interest in the other? It is GAME ON for Buddie!

ABC is sitting on a goldmine here. This is the kind of story that will attract new viewers and especially the people who have heard people talk about 'those two gay firefighters' for years now, but who won't watch until they become canon.

There was an influx of new people when Buck came out as bisexual. Unfortunately they also brought along more toxicity because of the whole T/Lou fiasco, but just imagine all the new viewers who will tune in specifically for Buddie. It'll be epic.

I am one of those people who is 100% convinced that Buddie is in the works. It is happening. There is no other way this story can go anymore unless the show wants to lose viewers. Because a lot of people will stop watching if it doesn't happen. That's how this works and ABC knows that all too well.

Now on to question 2: Would I have done anything differently during the S7-S8 hiatus knowing what I know now?

The answer is 'no', I don't think so. I tried to stay as honest and respectful as I could towards BT shippers. I never made it a secret that I didn't really vibe with T and that got me a ton of anonymous hatred where some of these stans accused me of homophobia and wished me dead.

I was critical about T and BT, but I always tried to stay nice about it. Ship and let ship is still my motto, but I have to admit that towards the end of the hiatus my patience had worn very thin when it came to BT and their fandom.

Especially after they went completely off the rails and made those crazy wild accusations towards me and some friends and actually fabricated false evidence to accuse us further. That was truly insane behaviour from some of these people.

But that's all behind us now as the show has thankfully left T/Lou behind forever in 8a. So I'd like to focus more on the wonderful things that happened during that hiatus.

One of the best things that happened is that I gained so many lovely followers and fandom friends. We all stuck together and it felt really nice.

To all the lovely followers and mutuals reading this, I've gotten to know so many of you guys and I'm so grateful for that. I won't name all of you because that will take all day, but you all know who you are. 😊 Special shout out to Justine though! She was (and still is) my rock!

Another highlight during that hiatus was getting to know the 'anonymous blog I love' aka Ali. I'm still thankful that that happened. She made, and still makes, the most eloquent posts about fandom and she is always spot on. Case in point? The answer above!😋 I cherish her friendship very much. 🤗

I hope this fandom will soon move on from the T/Lou era when 8b airs and that we'll collectively stop talking about him. He isn't worth the hassle. It's time to focus on the future now and leave the past where it belongs, behind us.

IMPORTANT! Please don't repost this ask and/or a link that leads straight to my Tumblr account on Twitter or any other social media. Thank you!

Heads up! For anyone who is giving me the shifty eyes for reposting Ali's updates instead of reblogging. Read this.

Remember, no hate in comments, reblogs or inboxes. Let's keep it civil and respectful. Thank you.

If you are interested in more of Ali’s posts, you can find all of her posts so far under the tag: anonymous blog I love.

[sockatoothewafflebird]

I MISSED IT.

oh my god. if i had known sooner, i would have done something- drawn a tribute, maybe- for this show. this show is a part of me. this show has been with me through so much and it is impossible to overstate how much it means to me. it was there during the best and worts times of my life. i cannot ever ever imagine my life without this show.

so, as a tribute to it, because i MISSED THE DAMN ANNIVERSARY OHMYGOD, i'll tell my story with it. i feel like it should be shared because i know there are others out there that appreciate the show just as much as i do. this is pretty long so uhhh word wall warning teehee

i remember when i first discovered it,

about halfway into 2020. season one had finished airing by the time i found it. i had heard things about this "lumity" characyer and decided to try it out because i was an "ally" at the time (oh, how things can change).

it wasn't on a streaming service yet, nor did my family use cable TV, so i watched the entirety of the first season through clips pirated on youtube.

i fell in love with it. watched every theory video i could get my grubby little hands on, watched reaction videos, watched those iconic lumity animatics and listened to the songs on loop for months. it became a part of me.

and, guess what? i made the lego eda meme my pfp on my school laptop (remember that one guys?? oh man that was a WHILE ago) and someone in my school, a new guy, asked me about it. said he liked my pfp and asked if he could sit with me and my friends during lunch. and now, even after both of us moving thousands of miles away, we're still in touch.

that was FOUR YEARS AGO. i know that seems kind of a short amount of time, but i've never held a friend that long before, having moved around a lot in my life. long story short the owl house got me like half the friends i have today.

anyway, back to the show.

i can never forget the hype when season 2 was announced.

i remember scrounging youtube like a starving dog for any content, teasers, theories, etc etc etc i could physically find. i was a pretty sheltered kid back then so i couldn't see any hype for it on social media other than youtubers gushing about theories. but i felt like i was there with everyone, squealing and kicking our feet together over our favorite show getting a new season.

most vividly, i remember being fucking pissed when i saw that the third season we could've had was cut short. i remember all the angry videos, and the petitions, everyone, everyone was all collectively screaming for this to change. we wanted the show to get what it deserved, but alas, it's Disney. so of course we just had to make do.

when season two began airing i forgot all about my anger. i forgot everything because, i had to watch it as soon as possible. i'll remind you, dear random internet user, that my family did not have cable TV at the time, so i couldn't watch it the second it aired there. i watched youtubers' reactions to the episodes.

it was the best feeling ever waking up on a saturday and seeing all of the reaction streams to the episode from all my favorite youtubers- i had to watch it all through the tiny top left corner of my phone screen and i was ecstatic. i loved being able to watch the show with everyone else, even if i sometimes missed reaction premiers or streams and got to them a day late- it was in the top ten most fun months of my life.

oh, and, do you remember? do we all remember Through The Looking Glass Ruins? the episode where gus develops his character and powers, and also the episode in which... you know... amity and luz indirectly admit their feelings for one another? TO each other? you just had to be there for the EXPLOSIONS that happened online that day. the absolute SCREAMS of joy from everyone when amity cheek-kissed luz at the end. it was amazing to witness so many people everywhere, in my social circle and online, collectively cheering and shouting for joy over a queer couple. a sapphic couple, portrayed positively, and casually, and OPENLY.

you have no idea how amazing it felt, after years of questioning myself, to see that on screen. to see that and to see everyone happy about it.

in the time between season one and season two's release, i opened up about questioning my sexuality to my parents, and they were... reluctantly supportive. i took a ton of time to figure it out myself, like maybe two years of constantly cycling though labels and wondering and wondering and thinking really really hard about it.

i remember seeing luz and amity very clearly being a potential couple in the show, and then they actually BECOME A CANON COUPLE a few episodes later, and feeling utter jealousy because i wanted what they had. the world exploded because, for a lot of people, this was a huge finally moment. finally, we have something good for ourselves. i remember watching and re-watching the lumity scenes in the first part of season two over and over and over, and thinking, "i don't want this with a boy. i want it like that." and it was liberating. i cannot thank this show enough for that feeling of fully accepting myself as a 100% organic home-grown lesbian.

that's just my experience with the show, but i'm sure there are tons of other similar stories, because this show was my first exposure to positive queer rep (raine whispers and amity blight are me favorite characters, i think you can guess why) and that changed everything for me.

anyway, on with the show.

the second part of season two released, and the fandom went wild. i cried. i sobbed. the finale was amazing, the lumity moments were amazing (they're portrayed as one of the healthiest couples i've ever seen in modern media ohmygod), the story was amazing. every episode, banger after banger. every minute, smile after tear after mind-blowing moment. the owl house team took disney's smelly, rotten lemons, and they made fucking lemonade. the best lemonade i've ever had.

and also, can i talk about how amazing it is to see so much representation of usually horribly portrayed groups? luz is canonically ADHD. many characters could also be seen as neurodivergent (gus my beloved) eda's curse is a stand-in for chronic illness. hunter's entire story is one about abuse, and belos's is a story of how a person can become a monster, about how sometimes monsters cannot and should not be redeemed. this show is a fucking masterclass in rep.

anyway, "season three" (fuck yoy disney) was amazing, and every episode made me bawl.

i remember seeing that they released the episodes in youtube, and i remember the absolute beauty it was to see millions upon millions of views for it. i remember watching the first one while making myself an omelette. that omelette ended up having my tears in it. i'll have you know that i almost never cry at media, so the owl house really fucking achieved something with all of the tears i shed.

i remember crying when luz "died," crying when she came back and screamed in bel-ass' face , "EAT THIS, SUCKAAA"- and i remember crying at the collective "byeeee" from the whole cast. i remember feeling a sense of bittersweetness that it was over. but the whole cast got the endings they deserved, and that was enough for me.

the owl house is a part of me now.

the owl house's run was a comfort when the news was screaming and crying, it was a comfort when i needed escape, and it was a huge part of the person i am today. i cannot ever thank this show enough.

i'll probably draw something to commemorate the anniversary if i ever find the time, but for now, this post is a way for me to send my appreciation towards the fandom, the creators in the fandom, and the creators of the show that made it possible. this show is over now and has been for years, but it will never leave me. happy five years, everyone! here's to many more! 🥂

[vicedmuses]

i think i want you as much as you want me. even though clayton had a healthy ego and knew that people would be lucky to get a chance with him, it was nice to hear that this wasn't just about giving the man a job or paying him a higher sum of money. they both seemed to like each other. before, he didn't have any ground to stand on when making up the younger man's part of the conversation. now? now he had all of the confirmation that he needed. he barely stayed in monogamous relationships, but that wasn't because he didn't like them. he just never sought them out and no one tried to make a stable man out of him. so when his shirt was fully unbuttoned and he was able to show off more of himself, he smiled softly. “good, because i plan to turn you on as much as humanly possible. every second i can make your cock hard or your hole clench just thinking about me or listening to me is a second that i'm a winner.” he wrapped his arms around caius' waist. not only to support him, but also because he just liked being close to him. skin to skin. touching any way possible. “i don't just like you because you gave me the best blowjob of my life by the way.” that part was true. he liked that the man didn't stop when he wanted something. that determination was admirable and not something that everyone had. “so i think i'd like that. although i hope you know, if i'm going to be sleeping with you weekly i'm not going to just seek you out for sex. i'm going to take you out to shows, dinner, and everything else you can imagine when someone is being courted.” he returned the kiss slowly. something that almost seemed innocent if you didn't know what the two had gotten up to earlier and why they were here now. then, when he felt that delicious tongue sneak its way into his mouth, he couldn't hold back anymore. clayton started to suck on his tongue lightly, not putting too much force behind it. he moaned a little at the taste and the fact that the two of them seemed to be losing themselves in the deep kiss. his shaft throbbed, bulge growing even more, as he heard the moans come from the man's mouth. only one of the many reasons that he found him to be quite attractive. he didn't know how he was going to manage to pull himself away from him. he was starting to get so used to just kissing him. 

honestly, someone could have told him that kiss lasted ten minutes and he would have believed it. time moved different with caius. he liked it. “kissing's a two way street. only that good because i have such a good partner to do it with.” he winked at the man as more of his clothing was taken off. he watched careful at how it was placed in a neat pile on the chair. good to know that he was at least going to be taken care of while he was here. since he wasn't planning on leaving right after they finish their session together. “if you're sure. i can think of a couple of ways to fill you up anyway.” he smirked slightly after hearing the curse. clayton even gave him a little show, flexing his muscles when it came time for his biceps to be touched. he worked hard on his body, so when it came time to show it off he wasn't going to be the type to back away from it. “trust me, i'm going to use you up as i see fit, but i want to make sure that you can still enjoy yourself too. do you have any plans for the weekend? after i'm done with you, i was planning on taking you to a spa. i already made some reservations for sunday morning. that way your body can be fully relaxed for monday and you won't have to worry about anything.” once again, it was a part of him taking care of his partners when he actually did have them. “if you've seen the things i'd smoke, you'd know that this is more than alright with me. i have some back home too, so it's not like i'm against it.” to show his case a little more, he took the joint and took in a deep inhale before releasing the puff. then, he did it a second time, but a little different. that time, he breathed the smoke into caius' mouth while kissing him deeply. with the joint still in his mouth, he made sure to slowly remove the man's shirt. also putting it in the same pile as his. he wanted to make sure that he smelled like him by the end of this. then, clayton returned the joint to the rightful owner and stepped back. “you're not going to have to do anything else tonight.” he slowly took off his pants, making sure to stand in a place where caius could see a hint of cock, but also the curve of his ass. then, when all of his clothes were in a pile, he went back and got down on his knees in front of caius. he hooked his fingers onto the waistband of his sweatpants, slowly pulling them down. at the same time, clay would kiss along his thighs and legs. then, he repeated those motions until both of them were naked. he grabbed his new employee by his legs, slowly lifting them up. “smoke away baby, i'm going to eat you out like you've never been eaten out before.” 

All the things Clayton was saying eased every and any worry he had; he was quick to come around, to acknowledge that perhaps the rough and tough demeanor the man had in appearance was qualmed by his gentle nature. He was surprised surprised (and pleased) to see just how intimate and passionate the man was, by the way he was administering kisses to his lips and face. It made him pause for a second, just as he undid the last button of the man's shirt, tugging it free from where it had been tucked into his pants, freeing up the space to unveil his torso. Caius was sure to feast his eyes upon it soon, but for now, he maintained eye contact as the man spoke on, reassuring him in that calm, deep tone of voice. "Wow," he chuckled, a grin on his face. "I have to confess, the more you speak, the more turned on I get." That, and the attraction was practically palpable. If this was any other situation, he would be asking the man out on a real date... even if Caius had never actually been on one. Most of his encounters were for sex for monetary gain or something born out of passion. "I just want you to know... you don't have to pay me to get a chance at my ass. At this point, I think I want you as much as you want me." Caius stood on the tips of his toes, standing tall so he could wrap his arms around the man's shoulders, a hand finds the back of Clayton's head, Caius' body (though bulky) is slender as he stretched his back in order to lift himself upward, since the two were of relative height. "If after tonight you enjoy being inside of me, and you decide I'm a worthy fuck, perhaps we should arrange for this to be a weekly thing." Playfully, he wiggled his brows at the man, his features softening as he leaned in, their bodies aligning together as Caius stole a sweet, chaste kiss from his plump lips. This kiss was more sincere, more intimate, tender. He latched onto the upper lip, his mouth opened lightly to enable his tongue to sneak out in order to joyfully toy with its newest partner. Every now and then, a soft moan and a whimper would escape his lips. Kissing was not something he did, especially with past partners and hook-ups, since it was deemed a very intimate gesture. So as he stood there, the kiss being reciprocated with a man so attractive, wealthy and well-endowed, Caius was a vocal mess.

Eventually, the kiss broke away. The result causing his cock to throb as it pressed against Clayton's own bulge. "Sweet Jesus, you're a fuckin' good kisser, Boss." Caius' face was plastered with a sincere smile. His feet set back down on the cement floor of his loft apartment, hands returning to the front to sweep between layers of clothing to caress over the wide expansion of Clayton's chest. "I don't think I'm all that hungry now, I can eat later." He hummed, eyes glancing down at the nature of that strong chest, pert nipples, delectable abs. Caius helped to rid the man of every garment of clothing from his torso, until he stood there in just his pants. Usually, he would carelessly throw things aside, but noticing just how expensive and pristine his suits were, he decided to dress them over a nearby chair. Upon returning, he didn't shy away from taking both hands to test the might and dexterity of the man's biceps. "Hm, fuck." And then simply, he allowed his hand graze along his stomach, his touch a sweet caress along supple flesh. "While I may not be the most skilled bottom you've ever met, don't feel like you have to be too careful with me. Yes, maybe not in the first hour, but... I want you to fuck me like you want to. Don't worry about me, Boss. I know I'm going to struggle to sit and walk after tonight, but I'm glad I have this entire weekend to heal myself up for my first day on the job on Monday." By another quick press to his lips, his left hand latched itself onto the belt buckle at the centre front of the man's hips, guiding him backwards into the living room area, where the stench of marijuana was a lot more noticeable. "Ah, sorry about the blunt. Was settling my nerves a bit." The entire joint was still unsmoked, Caius only having taken a few puffs of it before Clayton knocked upon his door. He reached down, took it between his thumb and pointer finger and took a drag of it. "This alright with you?" He wasn't sure where Clayton stood on smoking, so he offered it out to him as he sat down, "You want a hit of this?" Caius leaned back into the sofa, the size and heft of his cock visible in his sweatpants, his gaze turning down to the volume of the man's groin; he knew from his earlier experience, Clayton wasn't yet fully erect. "If you'd prefer, I wouldn't mind laying back, smoking it, and watch you unravel your prize." Meaning, Caius was still pretty much fully clothed, and he ached to be naked, so long as Clayton was just as exposed to his eyes as well. "But before you do, I need to see you. All of you. Please."

[unlimited-nobu-works]

[youremyonlyhope]

why won't my brain shut up why won't my brain shut up why won't my brain shut up why won't my brain shut up

[bibiana112]

Girl are you okay? Cause you've been looking through the "My lesbian experience with loneliness" tag again

Well the short answer is no :D

[inmirova]

"it's easier to leave an abusive situation than it is to stop an abuser" :^( but it's not easy :^(

[pastelbluebutch]

Literally just venting

[blizzardfluffykpop]

I've been working on the same fic for what feels like months because I've wanted already to be out. I craved it being done since the 16th of February when the idea was presented to be by a dear friend. (We rotted so bad because of him...) ANYWAYS 😭😭😭 I'm about to cry happy tears- I finally finished it- I feel exalted tbh- (I forgot to mention it's scheduled for tomorrow at 1030 est~)

If you would like a spoiler for who it is about & what kind of an au it is- and the outfit that ran me insane- See below~

It's a mechanic au with Mr. Kim Younghoon (now originally, he was going to be in dark blue coveralls... (as I had picture him) but then I saw this photo & the performance and I've not been the same). This is Kpopnation: Warsaw, Poland: 230923 (was I only going to use 1? yeah but he: yeah)