#look at the true cost of war

[ghostinthegallery]

Can't believe all that war denied Starscream the life in academia he was born for. All the petty backstabbing, ego tripping, stupid feuds? He would have thrived. It would have been his best life. The only things he ever should have had to fight over were grants, whose name comes first on the paper's byline, and which sucker has to teach the freshman intro course this semester

[here-comes-the-moose]

When I’m writing my Modern AU but then try to figure out and calculate how the life I gave the Batch is financially possible:

[bbygirl-aemond]

okay now that i've slept on this episode (and watched the behind the scenes) i want to talk more about this idea of rhaenyra as a cult leader who has completely drunk her own kool-aid. it's an a+ development for her character and i truly hope the writers continue to lean into it further.

hotd has built up this idea of dragons being a conduit for the divine from the very beginning of season one, when viserys and rhaenyra talk about how the targaryen's perceived proximity to the gods comes via their control of dragons. earlier in season two we also heard the smallfolk describe the dragons as invulnerable gods during the parading of meleys's head. this is a deliberate narrative that the targaryens have cultivated (as jace pointed out) to provide themselves with a divine mandate to justify their rule.

this idea of the dragons as a divine mandate is beginning to intersect with the conqueror's dream for rhaenyra in a fascinating way. rhaenyra has always placed more importance on the conqueror's dream than, say, daemon or jace, but this episode goes much further, and is full of rhaenyra talking about being given signs and instructions from the gods. i think addam claiming seasmoke was a transformation for her- she was smiling and had this look of near elation once he claimed her as queen.

i think she genuinely believes that the gods broke the rules of dragon claiming in order to give her a loyal dragon rider right when she needed one. we then see this same elated smile again when she successfully brings vermithor to heel.

each of these little moments is something she takes as confirmation that she's being aided by the gods. this is why she is so convinced that the dragon seeds who claim vermithor and silverwing will be loyal to her- she has convinced herself that all of this is the gods signaling to her and that they will bring her loyal dragon riders the way they brought her addam. the dragon tamers point out what rhaenyra is not willing to acknowledge; these are not true signs from the gods, but things that rhaenyra herself is reading into and arranging for herself. she is seeing what she wants to see. and this will be proven true when hugh and ulf betray rhaenyra, likely due to rhaenyra's own actions in locking the dragonseeds in to die. they were not loyal believers sent from the gods to serve her; they were just men, and she's given them the fantasy equivalent of nuclear missiles.

a large part of this belief in divine validation is definitely due to rhaenyra's own deep seated insecurity due to viserys neglecting her in her childhood and her small council not taking her seriously enough, but i also think this is a coping mechanism on rhaenyra's part. she has no choice but to lean into this war as fully as she can now, to describe herself as helpless in the wake of what the gods have set before her, because she needs her losses to mean something. she needs visenya's death and luke's death to mean something. she needs the loss of her relationship with alicent to mean something.

but in doing this, she is already beginning to push others away from her. she has lost the support of the dragon tamers, and she has also pushed away jace; when he confronted her about a valid concern about how this would make his own ascension even more fraught, she just parroted more of that divine mandate nonsense back to him, which he is clearly not buying. i'll be curious to see how much deeper she falls into this cultish spiral and how much more it costs her.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Penguin Random House, AI, and writers’ rights

NEXT WEDNESDAY (October 23) at 7PM, I'll be in DECATUR, GEORGIA, presenting my novel THE BEZZLE at EAGLE EYE BOOKS.

My friend Teresa Nielsen Hayden is a wellspring of wise sayings, like "you're not responsible for what you do in other people's dreams," and my all time favorite, from the Napster era: "Just because you're on their side, it doesn't mean they're on your side."

The record labels hated Napster, and so did many musicians, and when those musicians sided with their labels in the legal and public relations campaigns against file-sharing, they lent both legal and public legitimacy to the labels' cause, which ultimately prevailed.

But the labels weren't on musicians' side. The demise of Napster and with it, the idea of a blanket-license system for internet music distribution (similar to the systems for radio, live performance, and canned music at venues and shops) firmly established that new services must obtain permission from the labels in order to operate.

That era is very good for the labels. The three-label cartel – Universal, Warner and Sony – was in a position to dictate terms like Spotify, who handed over billions of dollars worth of stock, and let the Big Three co-design the royalty scheme that Spotify would operate under.

If you know anything about Spotify payments, it's probably this: they are extremely unfavorable to artists. This is true – but that doesn't mean it's unfavorable to the Big Three labels. The Big Three get guaranteed monthly payments (much of which is booked as "unattributable royalties" that the labels can disperse or keep as they see fit), along with free inclusion on key playlists and other valuable services. What's more, the ultra-low payouts to artists increase the value of the labels' stock in Spotify, since the less Spotify has to pay for music, the better it looks to investors.

The Big Three – who own 70% of all music ever recorded, thanks to an orgy of mergers – make up the shortfall from these low per-stream rates with guaranteed payments and promo.

But the indy labels and musicians that account for the remaining 30% are out in the cold. They are locked into the same fractional-penny-per-stream royalty scheme as the Big Three, but they don't get gigantic monthly cash guarantees, and they have to pay the playlist placement the Big Three get for free.

Just because you're on their side, it doesn't mean they're on your side:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/09/12/streaming-doesnt-pay/#stunt-publishing

In a very important, material sense, creative workers – writers, filmmakers, photographers, illustrators, painters and musicians – are not on the same side as the labels, agencies, studios and publishers that bring our work to market. Those companies are not charities; they are driven to maximize profits and an important way to do that is to reduce costs, including and especially the cost of paying us for our work.

It's easy to miss this fact because the workers at these giant entertainment companies are our class allies. The same impulse to constrain payments to writers is in play when entertainment companies think about how much they pay editors, assistants, publicists, and the mail-room staff. These are the people that creative workers deal with on a day to day basis, and they are on our side, by and large, and it's easy to conflate these people with their employers.

This class war need not be the central fact of creative workers' relationship with our publishers, labels, studios, etc. When there are lots of these entertainment companies, they compete with one another for our work (and for the labor of the workers who bring that work to market), which increases our share of the profit our work produces.

But we live in an era of extreme market concentration in every sector, including entertainment, where we deal with five publishers, four studios, three labels, two ad-tech companies and a single company that controls all the ebooks and audiobooks. That concentration makes it much harder for artists to bargain effectively with entertainments companies, and that means that it's possible -likely, even – for entertainment companies to gain market advantages that aren't shared with creative workers. In other words, when your field is dominated by a cartel, you may be on on their side, but they're almost certainly not on your side.

This week, Penguin Random House, the largest publisher in the history of the human race, made headlines when it changed the copyright notice in its books to ban AI training:

https://www.thebookseller.com/news/penguin-random-house-underscores-copyright-protection-in-ai-rebuff

The copyright page now includes this phrase:

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems.

Many writers are celebrating this move as a victory for creative workers' rights over AI companies, who have raised hundreds of billions of dollars in part by promising our bosses that they can fire us and replace us with algorithms.

But these writers are assuming that just because they're on Penguin Random House's side, PRH is on their side. They're assuming that if PRH fights against AI companies training bots on their work for free, that this means PRH won't allow bots to be trained on their work at all.

This is a pretty naive take. What's far more likely is that PRH will use whatever legal rights it has to insist that AI companies pay it for the right to train chatbots on the books we write. It is vanishingly unlikely that PRH will share that license money with the writers whose books are then shoveled into the bot's training-hopper. It's also extremely likely that PRH will try to use the output of chatbots to erode our wages, or fire us altogether and replace our work with AI slop.

This is speculation on my part, but it's informed speculation. Note that PRH did not announce that it would allow authors to assert the contractual right to block their work from being used to train a chatbot, or that it was offering authors a share of any training license fees, or a share of the income from anything produced by bots that are trained on our work.

Indeed, as publishing boiled itself down from the thirty-some mid-sized publishers that flourished when I was a baby writer into the Big Five that dominate the field today, their contracts have gotten notably, materially worse for writers:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/19/reasonable-agreement/

This is completely unsurprising. In any auction, the more serious bidders there are, the higher the final price will be. When there were thirty potential bidders for our work, we got a better deal on average than we do now, when there are at most five bidders.

Though this is self-evident, Penguin Random House insists that it's not true. Back when PRH was trying to buy Simon & Schuster (thereby reducing the Big Five publishers to the Big Four), they insisted that they would continue to bid against themselves, with editors at Simon & Schuster (a division of PRH) bidding against editors at Penguin (a division of PRH) and Random House (a division of PRH).

This is obvious nonsense, as Stephen King said when he testified against the merger (which was subsequently blocked by the court): "You might as well say you’re going to have a husband and wife bidding against each other for the same house. It would be sort of very gentlemanly and sort of, 'After you' and 'After you'":

https://apnews.com/article/stephen-king-government-and-politics-b3ab31d8d8369e7feed7ce454153a03c

Penguin Random House didn't become the largest publisher in history by publishing better books or doing better marketing. They attained their scale by buying out their rivals. The company is actually a kind of colony organism made up of dozens of once-independent publishers. Every one of those acquisitions reduced the bargaining power of writers, even writers who don't write for PRH, because the disappearance of a credible bidder for our work into the PRH corporate portfolio reduces the potential bidders for our work no matter who we're selling it to.

I predict that PRH will not allow its writers to add a clause to their contracts forbidding PRH from using their work to train an AI. That prediction is based on my direct experience with two of the other Big Five publishers, where I know for a fact that they point-blank refused to do this, and told the writer that any insistence on including this contract would lead to the offer being rescinded.

The Big Five have remarkably similar contracting terms. Or rather, unremarkably similar contracts, since concentrated industries tend to converge in their operational behavior. The Big Five are similar enough that it's generally understood that a writer who sues one of the Big Five publishers will likely find themselves blackballed at the rest.

My own agent gave me this advice when one of the Big Five stole more than $10,000 from me – canceled a project that I was part of because another person involved with it pulled out, and then took five figures out of the killfee specified in my contract, just because they could. My agent told me that even though I would certainly win that lawsuit, it would come at the cost of my career, since it would put me in bad odor with all of the Big Five.

The writers who are cheering on Penguin Random House's new copyright notice are operating under the mistaken belief that this will make it less likely that our bosses will buy an AI in hopes of replacing us with it:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/09/ai-monkeys-paw/#bullied-schoolkids

That's not true. Giving Penguin Random House the right to demand license fees for AI training will do nothing to reduce the likelihood that Penguin Random House will choose to buy an AI in hopes of eroding our wages or firing us.

But something else will! The US Copyright Office has issued a series of rulings, upheld by the courts, asserting that nothing made by an AI can be copyrighted. By statute and international treaty, copyright is a right reserved for works of human creativity (that's why the "monkey selfie" can't be copyrighted):

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/20/everything-made-by-an-ai-is-in-the-public-domain/

All other things being equal, entertainment companies would prefer to pay creative workers as little as possible (or nothing at all) for our work. But as strong as their preference for reducing payments to artists is, they are far more committed to being able to control who can copy, sell and distribute the works they release.

In other words, when confronted with a choice of "We don't have to pay artists anymore" and "Anyone can sell or give away our products and we won't get a dime from it," entertainment companies will pay artists all day long.

Remember that dope everyone laughed at because he scammed his way into winning an art contest with some AI slop then got angry because people were copying "his" picture? That guy's insistence that his slop should be entitled to copyright is far more dangerous than the original scam of pretending that he painted the slop in the first place:

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2024/10/artist-appeals-copyright-denial-for-prize-winning-ai-generated-work/

If PRH was intervening in these Copyright Office AI copyrightability cases to say AI works can't be copyrighted, that would be an instance where we were on their side and they were on our side. The day they submit an amicus brief or rulemaking comment supporting no-copyright-for-AI, I'll sing their praises to the heavens.

But this change to PRH's copyright notice won't improve writers' bank-balances. Giving writers the ability to control AI training isn't going to stop PRH and other giant entertainment companies from training AIs with our work. They'll just say, "If you don't sign away the right to train an AI with your work, we won't publish you."

The biggest predictor of how much money an artist sees from the exploitation of their work isn't how many exclusive rights we have, it's how much bargaining power we have. When you bargain against five publishers, four studios or three labels, any new rights you get from Congress or the courts is simply transferred to them the next time you negotiate a contract.

As Rebecca Giblin and I write in our 2022 book Chokepoint Capitalism:

Giving a creative worker more copyright is like giving your bullied schoolkid more lunch money. No matter how much you give them, the bullies will take it all. Give your kid enough lunch money and the bullies will be able to bribe the principle to look the other way. Keep giving that kid lunch money and the bullies will be able to launch a global appeal demanding more lunch money for hungry kids!

https://chokepointcapitalism.com/

As creative workers' fortunes have declined through the neoliberal era of mergers and consolidation, we've allowed ourselves to be distracted with campaigns to get us more copyright, rather than more bargaining power.

There are copyright policies that get us more bargaining power. Banning AI works from getting copyright gives us more bargaining power. After all, just because AI can't do our job, it doesn't follow that AI salesmen can't convince our bosses to fire us and replace us with incompetent AI:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/11/robots-stole-my-jerb/#computer-says-no

Then there's "copyright termination." Under the 1976 Copyright Act, creative workers can take back the copyright to their works after 35 years, even if they sign a contract giving up the copyright for its full term:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/09/26/take-it-back/

Creative workers from George Clinton to Stephen King to Stan Lee have converted this right to money – unlike, say, longer terms of copyright, which are simply transferred to entertainment companies through non-negotiable contractual clauses. Rather than joining our publishers in fighting for longer terms of copyright, we could be demanding shorter terms for copyright termination, say, the right to take back a popular book or song or movie or illustration after 14 years (as was the case in the original US copyright system), and resell it for more money as a risk-free, proven success.

Until then, remember, just because you're on their side, it doesn't mean they're on your side. They don't want to prevent AI slop from reducing your wages, they just want to make sure it's their AI slop puts you on the breadline.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/19/gander-sauce/#just-because-youre-on-their-side-it-doesnt-mean-theyre-on-your-side

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[gay-dorito-dust]

hii, are your requests open? if not you can just ignore this (and sorry to bother!!) but if they are could you do something w the batboys where they have a dream that the reader has died or something? please, and TYSM

Jason would awake immediately from the dream with tears streaking his cheeks and his throat sore from what he could only assume was screaming.

It happened again, that hyper realistic dream that made him felt as though he was seeing through his future self’s eyes, or into an alternate universe where he was bound to lose you despite doing everything in his power to protect you.

It felt real, uncomfortably real for Jason’s liking that it felt a sense of unease and anxiety to flood through him but before they could get worse, he heard your voice.

‘Jason, you were screaming are you okay? Did you have a nightmare?’

He felt as though he could properly breath now that he knew you were okay but his heart was telling him that hearing you wasn’t enough; He needed to feel you against him to ease his racing mind. With that Jason was quick to grab you by the waist, pull you into his chest and held onto you as though he was a kid clinging onto his favourite plush toy, his face buried into your neck as his arms held you as tightly as they could without causing you discomfort.

‘Jason?’

‘I lost you sweetheart.’ He told you without hesitation. ‘I couldn’t do anything, I was frozen with fear and that cost me you in the end.’ He adds, wanting nothing more then to get through image out of his head for good.

‘I’m right here jay birdie.’ You whispered softly, pressing sweet, gentle kisses into his neck and shoulders in hopes of easing the evident tenseness there. ‘You’re my best friend, my soul mate and my partner but most importantly you’re my protector and I have never felt safer than I ever have then with you.’ You reassure him as you let him silently sob into your nightshirt while rubbing your hand up and down his back. ‘I’m alive. you know it, I know it, we both know it to be true. So don’t believe the tricks that your mind pulls on you Jason because they’re always never true.’

Jason pulls his head from your shoulder. ‘What if I loose you one day?’ He asks, staring at you with teary eyes.

‘You won’t.’ You said with certainty.

‘How do you know?’

‘I know because I won’t let it happen, someone has to take care of your heart and kiss your wounds well into the early hours of morning, and I want that person to be me.’ You replied as you pressed a kiss to his forehead before resting your forehead there. ‘You’re stuck with me Jay Birdie because it’s going to take everything this cursed towns got to take me from you.’

Jason, finding reassurance in your words, let out a deep sigh as he fell back into bed, taking you with him as he draped the covers over the both of you once more, kissing the top of your head as he gave your waist a quick squeeze. ‘Gotham will have to go through me first sweetheart, and for you? I’d start a fucking war if it meant keeping you by my side and safe from all harm this town could bring. I don’t care if I got hurt but all it takes is one scratch on you and I’m burning this town down.’ He murmurs before finally falling back asleep, holding you protective against his chest, more then ready to prove his promise to be true in more than one way.

Damian

Would reach out for you for comfort but when he couldn’t feel you his eyes would shoot open and he was getting out of bed to search for you.

Only for you to be stood in the doorway with a glass of water in your hand, looking at him with worry.

‘Damian are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost-‘ you weren’t able to finish your sentence when Damian rushed to hold your face in his hands, squishing your cheeks slightly from the iron clad grip he had on them.

‘Is this real?’ He asks in a weak whisper. ‘Are you really here darling?’

He had a nightmare and your heart broke seeing him this affected by it and placed your water down safely before holding his hands over his, squeezing.

‘I’m right here my treasure.’ You replied. ‘I’m not going anywhere, not without you.’

Damian’s hands loosened their grip on your cheeks and fell to your shoulders as he presses his head against your chest to feel your heartbeat against his ear, proving to him that you were alive and well within his care.

‘I lost you my heart, I felt hollow without you, almost as though someone reached into my chest and took out everything good in me.’ Damian admits as he burrows his head into your chest. ‘You are the good in me.’ He adds, voice muffled but his message was loud and clear.

‘And you are everything good in me my love.’ You replied as you ran your hand through his hair in hopes of bringing him some comfort. ‘Do you want to talk about the rest of it?’

Damian’s grip on your tightened. ‘No. It pains me too much to talk about it right now, I fear that if I do it’ll come my reality.’

‘Do you wish to go back to bed?’ You asked, more than willing to do anything to calm his mind. ‘You can hold me for as long as you want and I won’t complain about needing to pee.’ You joked lightly and could envision the small smile that would appear upon Damian’s lips whenever you said something remotely silly.

‘Please.’ Damian said and without another word you allowed him to drag you back to bed with him and under the covers where he was quick to hold onto you as though you were his personal teddy bear for the rest of the night.

Tim clings onto you like a koala bear after having a nightmare that you died, he was too afraid that if he were to let go then it would become reality somehow.

The nightmare messed with him so badly that he couldn’t get the idea that if he were to stray from your side for too long, tragedy would only naturally befall you. He hates it but he hated the idea of loosing you forever even more and so he would cuddle closely to you, all the while finding it increasingly more and more difficult to return to sleep.

‘Tim?’ You said softly. ‘You need sleep, you know how much I worry about you collapsing one day and I’m not nearby to help.’

Tim laughs humourlessly as he held onto you a little tighter. ‘How can I go back to sleep when nothing good waits for me there hmm?’

You tried to move and look at him but Tim made that impossible. ‘What do you mean by that?’

Tim doesn’t answer.

‘Tim…did you have a nightmare.’ You asked.

‘The worse kind.’ He said weakly as he held you closer to him in hopes of merging you with him so that he didn’t have to watch you die in real life.

‘What would make it better?’ You inquired, wanting nothing more than to help him no matter what.

Tim shrugs. ‘Just…just keep talking to me…please.’ He pleads as his hands toyed with the bottom of your nightshirt anxiously. You smiled softly as you placed your hands over his own, caressing the backs of them as you heard his soft gaps at the sudden contact. ‘What would you like for me to talk about?’

‘Anything.’ Tim said. ‘Anything just, please talk.’

And talk you did for most of the night until you felt Tim fall asleep against your back as soft snores filled the room and you, having felt accomplished in your task, soon followed suit to keep him company in dream land also and make sure his dreams went undisturbed.

[scarlet-star-witch]

The moon and his sun (Part VII - Final Part)

Aemond Targaryen x Female Reader

Summary: People would remember their story. Even decades after they were gone, Septa’s would tell young children about the one-eyed dragon prince and his sweet wife as if they were a part of a fairytale, too good to be true for the harshness real life possessed.

Aemond meets a young girl who quickly becomes his most cherished friend and changes the course of history.

Word count: 13.2 K

Warnings: Angst as usual, Aegon testing my patience, smut, and fluff

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4  Part 5 Part 6 ... Epilogue

~~

She and Aemond had barely spoken since their fight, the strain between them growing with each passing day.

He was always quick to leave their chambers in the early morning, leaving her to break her fast by herself. 

She didn’t mind, she found she had trouble even meeting his eye without feeling as though her insides were crumbling into dust, reminding her of how easy it would be to lose him. 

It felt like dying a slow, agonizing death. 

The door to their chambers opened and she instinctively perked up at the thought of seeing her husband, despite the warring emotions within her, but she immediately froze, fear rising as Aegon strolled inside as if they were his own chambers. 

He smiled widely at the sight of her and was quick to take a seat beside her, entirely too close for her liking. 

“What are you doing?”

“Joining my sweet sister for breakfast.” Aegon smiled, the gesture anything but innocent as he helped himself to the spread of food in front of him. “Where is my brother?”

“He’ll be back soon.” She answered immediately, as if she could use Aemond’s presence to deter him from staying. But with the way he looked at her intently, it was obvious he didn’t believe her. 

He knew the rift between them kept Aemond out of his chambers for hours on end. 

With a lump in her throat that grew larger and heavier with each second that passed with Aegon beside her, she kept her eyes down, beginning to sparsely pick at her food. 

“You know I never thought much of you.” Aegon began, his gaze never wavering from her tense form that refused to relax in his presence. 

She flinched and jerked away as Aegon’s fingers brushed against her cheek, her breathing becoming heavy as she fought hard not to smack the most powerful man in the realm. 

He smirked at her as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, feeling victorious at the sight of her discomfort. 

“It wasn’t until I saw you bouncing on my brother’s cock…saw this body bare, saw the kind of whore you are, that it felt as though I was truly seeing you for the first time.” He crooned, his fingers tracing down the length of her jaw and down her neck. 

As his fingers trailed downwards, getting close to the dip of her breasts, she finally snapped, her hand shooting out, gripping onto his wrist tightly, desperate to stop him before he could touch her further, in places only her husband had ever touched her. 

“Careful, sister. The punishment for putting your hands on your King could cost you your hand.” Aegon warned, delighting in the fury that crossed her features. “Save that fire for my bed.” 

“I will slit my throat before you could ever take me to your bed.” She told him with a fire in her voice that only made his eyes light with intrigue and delight, knowing he was getting under her skin exactly the way he wanted. 

The door to their chambers opened, Aemond stepping inside wearily, though when he saw Aegon, how close he was sitting to his wife, his wrist encased in her grip, her face drawn tightly with hatred, did cold dread settle over him, washing away any ounce of hesitation he felt to face her and their fight.

“What are you doing here?” He barked at his brother, his face hard with a deadly scowl.

“Just getting to know my future wife.” 

Aemond grit his teeth. It took all of his willpower to not beat his brother into oblivion. 

“Get out.” He ordered sternly, though Aegon only laughed and leaned back in his seat.

“No.”

Aegon’s sharp response had Aemond flinching in surprise, his surprise overtaking his anger for a moment at the presence of his weak brother’s backbone. It seemed that the crown on his head had finally made him unmovable in the face of his younger’s brother’s rage that used to make him cower.

“I am your King, you don’t command me, brother.” 

Aemond, without caring for the consequences or the threat of Aegon’s guards that stood outside the door, stormed forward, grabbing his brother by the shirt and hauling him to his feet, desperate to wrench him away from his wife who watched on with fear. 

“If you have any hope of winning this war, it is because of me and my dragon. You are a drunken idiot that has no idea what it truly takes to rule and if you wish to keep breathing and sitting on that throne you will keep your mouth shut and stay far away from my wife.” Aemond spat darkly, jerking his wastrel of a brother in his harsh grip. 

“I am already a Kinslayer and I will take whatever judgment the Gods give me for sinning again.” Aemond threatened him, his hatred clear. 

Aegon looked back at him with nothing but disdain, hating the fact that he needed Aemond, needed Vhagar, to fight his cause. His harsh glare moved to the woman who remained sitting, watching the brothers with wide, nervous eyes. 

“I will see you soon, Sister.” Aegon drawled out the word as if it were an insult, sneering at her one last time before he shoved his brother off him and made his way out of their chambers, leaving the couple in a tense silence. 

Aemond breathed heavily and turned toward his wife, his eye softening immediately at the sight of her. 

“Did he hurt you?”

“No.” She spoke quietly. 

Aemond watched her carefully, noting that she had yet to meet his eye. He sighed and sat next to her. The news from the council the previous night that he had yet to tell her weighed on him heavily. 

She had been asleep by the time he returned to their chambers last night and he loathed to wake her, especially for news that would only upset her. 

“We are to go to battle tomorrow.” He finally blurted out. 

His words finally had her gaze rising to meet him, a startled fearfulness growing in her eyes. 

“I am taking Vhagar to Rook’s Rest.” 

She remained quiet as she took in his words, the growing fear inside of her quickly incapacitating her. A thousand thoughts ran through her head, most of them all the ways she could lose him.  

The longer she stayed quiet, the more tense he became. 

“I’ve talked to my mother.” He continued quickly, looking at her hopefully. “She has agreed to let go of the annulment. I’ve asked her to station more guards at the door. A group will be with you any day I’m not here. They will protect you while I’m gone and if I… if anything happens in battle… they will take you home.” 

Her eyes watched him calculatingly, as if she were staring at a stranger and not the man she loved. Her mind was a mess of thoughts, none of which she could really make sense of. 

Her silence rang out in the room loudly, agonizing Aemond. He looked at her intently, pleadingly. 

“Say something, please.” He whispered weakly. 

She let out a long sigh, her face impassive, not revealing any emotion. Even the sight of her husband’s sadness wasn’t enough to sway her. 

“What do you want me to say?”

“Anything.” He practically begged, her monotonous voice causing an ache to grow within him.

She grit her teeth, looking away from him. “Do you really believe it?”

“What?”

“That your mother is no longer a pawn in that ridiculous plan. That a few more measly guards will protect me from your family. That in the event of your death, I’ll be free to go home and not thrown in the black cells or shackled to Aegon’s bed.”

Aemond flinched at each of her words, looking pained at the reminder of the danger she was in, the danger his own family was placing on her head. 

“You are many things, Husband, but I have never known you to be naive.” 

“I am not naive-”

“You are if you believe I am safe here, especially in your absence.” She interrupted him sharply. “If you were to die in battle, that would be the end of me. No one would take me home, no one would let me live out the rest of my days as a mourning widow, they would have their boots on my neck the minute it was clear you would not be around to protect me.”

Only a stunted breath escaped him, as words were lost to him.

He looked at her pleadingly, but the guilt that lingered in his gaze did not go unnoticed by her and it only served to fuel her anger, knowing that he knew exactly the situation they were in, exactly the hard rock they were pushed up against by his own family.

“They won’t hurt you.” He began and held back a wince as she scoffed and shook her head. “They won’t. I have to believe it.”

“You have to?” She repeated, almost mockingly.

“Yes, because I cannot take another fucking breath if I don’t.” He replied loudly, his desperation, his slipping control clear as he looked at her, his eye wide and brimming with frustration. 

Her expression changed in an instant, the hard front she was portraying shattering the moment she saw how close her husband was to cracking. He had always tried to shield her from the worst parts of him, never wanting her to worry or fuss over him.

It wasn’t often he let her see him falter, but she could see now just how exhausted and broken he was over everything that had happened in the past month. 

She suddenly thought of all the times he had held her, picked her back up when her grief knocked her down, and she struggled to think of the times she was there for him, when he allowed her to be strong for him when he couldn’t.

He didn’t let himself show his weakness, hardly even to her, and it was slowly crushing him. 

“Do you truly have to go tomorrow?” She asked quietly, the fight gone from her voice. 

“I do.” 

There was a hesitation to him, as if he knew it wasn’t a good idea, but didn’t have another choice. He was burdened by the duty he was shackled to, beaten down by the sentiment that had been drilled in him since he was a child.

He felt this was all he could do, simply because his family told him so.

She hated they had such a hold on him, that they held such control over him.

“I will come back.” He told her, looking at her intently, as if he could will her to believe it. 

She just nodded, her throat growing tight with emotion at the thought of how tomorrow could go so wrong, at the thought of losing the one person she cherished with her entire being. The thought of losing him was already unfathomable, but the thought of losing him now, never being able to heal the rift between them was enough to break her. 

He stood, hesitating for a moment, knowing he had to meet with Ser Criston, but wary of leaving his wife, of furthering the divide between them. 

He looked to her longingly, as if he wanted to reach out to her, to kiss her, to lavish his affection on her as he used to, but just couldn’t find the courage to. 

He didn’t know if she even wanted him to, so he settled for a half-hearted nod and a mumble of goodbye before leaving her side once again, feeling as though the cracks in his heart were growing deeper and deeper with each passing day they were fractured.

She remained in his thoughts for the rest of the day, as she always did any moment he was not at her side.

He didn’t see her until that night at the feast Aegon was adamant on hosting. It was more of an excuse for Aegon to lavish in praises for his bravery for their planned battle on the morrow. 

Aemond could only roll his eyes at his brother’s brazen showmanship. 

They would run out of coin soon enough with all the celebrations he’d thrown in the short amount of time he sat on the throne. 

It seemed parties were the only thing Aegon could think to decree during his reign, despite the war that raged. It was a wonder a battle even got planned with his ambivalence for planning anything that didn’t include wine.

He looked to his wife sat by his side, her expression portraying she’d rather be anywhere else. She boredly looked among the dancing couples and reveling Lords who were drinking copiously, their laughter unable to stir a smile of her own. 

Aemond knew better than to ask if she wanted to dance. He knew she would refuse. 

He thought back to that night, the beginning of their divide and wanted to scream and cry all at once for the state of things, for this dreaded feeling of being so far from her in a way he had never experienced before. 

The thought of her not by his side was too terrifying to even imagine. The thought of her willingly separating from him broke his heart and he didn’t know how to react in any way but anger.

She had barely spoken to him since that night and it wasn’t as though he was any more forthcoming in swallowing his pride and apologizing for his anger that had struck her that fateful day.

Next to him, his mother sat, sending him a weak smile. Despite her assurance that she wouldn’t be forcing an annulment, he couldn’t deny that he had trouble believing her, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how agonizing it was to not believe it. So he did what he could to force himself to. 

But he knew he would worry every time he was not at his wife’s side that Aegon would swoop in and use his power to take her from him.

His brother was certainly not above despicable behavior. 

His wife was barely able to look at his family. A curt smile was all she was able to give as they arrived that evening. The only real emotion she had shown was towards Helaena, but even then it was only a weak smile that didn’t reach her eyes. 

Aemond was sure it did not go unnoticed how tense the table of royals looked. He could only imagine the gossip that was spreading about them. 

He felt as though he could breathe easier once his mother retired for the night, his view of her irrevocably changed since that meeting. 

He tapped his fingers against the table erratically, stealing another look at his wife. A servant placed a new cup of wine before her and Aemond waved his hand, refusing another cup for himself, it was only making his already churning stomach worse. 

“Are you enjoying the music?” He asked, internally wincing to himself for how awkward he sounded as he tried to engage his wife in conversation. 

“Not particularly.” She answered monotonously. 

Aemond’s lips parted, but no words were found. It felt like talking to a stranger than to the woman he had loved for years.

“Could you two cheer up?” Aegon chastised as he approached the table to fill up his cup. “You look like you’re attending a funeral.” 

Aegon’s attention on her seemed to be the last straw of her already waning patience. With a sigh, she pushed her chair out and stood.

“I’m tired, I’m going to retire for the night.” She explained and left without another word.

Aemond watched her go with a frown. The lack of affection wasn’t something he was used to, not from her at least and it was enough to leave him with a sick feeling in his stomach. 

“She’s become quite frigid.” Aegon noted, not bothering to look at his brother and catch the glare he would surely be sending his way. “Have you stopped fucking her? Is that why she’s become such a surly bitch?” 

Aemond grit his teeth, his hands twitching with the urge to knock his brother’s teeth out. It seemed the drunken idiot had already forgotten about his earlier threat on his life. 

“Well, if she’s not drinking it.” Aegon laughed, grabbing the goblet that sat before his wife’s empty seat, handing it over to some foot soldier from the Lannister army who eagerly swallowed it down in one gulp, the cheering crowd around him growing raucous. 

Aemond could barely contain his annoyance, his desire to leave overwhelming. His fingers tapped at the table incessantly, itching to follow his wife, to be as far from Aegon’s arrogance as he could. 

“Must you look so sullen, brother?” Aegon chastised him.

Meeting the glassy eyes of his drunken brother, Aemond was forced to use all the willpower he possessed to not throw a punch, removing the smug smile from his face. 

“Stop crying over your wife. There are plenty of other women here-”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” Aemond snapped at him darkly. 

Aegon scoffed, a multitude of insults on the tip of his tongue, but the sound of hacking coughs caught both of their attention. They looked to the Lannister soldier, his eyes wide, his face turning red as he gasped for air that wouldn’t come. He clutched at his neck, his body-shaking coughs bringing him to his knees.

The chattering of the crowd ceased, leaving terrified gasps and screams as men quickly surrounded the dying man, surveying for a threat.

Aemond stood from his seat, taking large steps forward, pushing others out of the way. He took in the scene before him with a growing dread. His gaze moved from the man twitching out a last painful breath, blood and bile spilling from his lips, to the empty cup on the ground. 

The cup that was meant for his wife. 

Something broke inside him at the realization. 

He rushed out of the room, elbowing his way past the crowd. He sprinted through the halls, a shrill ringing in his ears, his mind conjuring the horrible sights that he would find. 

What if he wasn’t fast enough this time?

He had already lost his child, he couldn’t lose her. 

The thoughts raced through his mind torturously as he ran, his fear growing with each step. His pulse thundered in his ears, his throat tight as he pictured the gruesome scene waiting for him.

He came to an abrupt stop, almost losing his footing, his chest heaving as he narrowed his gaze on the lone guard at their chamber doors. The man startled slightly at the sudden appearance of the disheveled prince and he bowed, greeting him dutifully. 

“Has anyone been inside?” 

“No, my Prince. Not since your wife.”

He stepped forward purposefully, the adrenaline in his veins and the fear that lingered, causing his hands to tremble. 

“Where’s the rest of you?”

“My Prince?” The guard questioned in confusion.

“Where are the other guards? There’s supposed to be more of you here keeping watch.” He seethed impatiently, the man before him blanching in intimidation.

“I-I’m sorry my Prince. It is only me. I have not heard of any others to be stationed with me.”

Aemond stared the man down angrily, his mind racing with thoughts he couldn’t quite make sense of. He pushed past the guard and rushed into his chambers, his shoulders sagging immediately, expelling a heavy exhale of relief as he spotted her. 

His wife lay in their bed, fast asleep and unharmed. 

He stepped towards her on weak legs, sitting on the edge of the bed, taking a moment to just look at her, to ease his wounded mind. He knew he wasn’t reaching, that what had happened just minutes ago, that man choking on his own blood, was no accident. 

Someone had tried to take her from him, again. 

He leaned down, placing a gentle kiss to her forehead, reveling in the sweet scent of the floral oil she had put in her hair that night. 

“I’ll make it right, I promise.” He whispered into the quiet room, needing to speak the promise aloud, even if she wasn’t awake to hear it. He needed to reassure himself that he could protect her, for he felt as though he had been failing. 

With one last lingering look at her, he stood and stepped out of the room, giving a quick warning to the guard to be on alert as he stomped down the hall. 

He made it to his mother’s chambers, barely acknowledging Ser Criston who stood vigil and stormed inside. 

His mother startled at his abrupt entrance and her face twisted, gearing up to scold him, but she soon noticed the fear in his eye, the lingering fury that made her stiffen.

“What’s happened?” She asked tersely, placing a hand over her racing heart, her stomach churning for what she was about to hear. 

“A man was murdered tonight.” He spoke monotonously. 

“What? Who?” Alicent asked breathlessly. 

“He drank from my wife’s cup. He drank the wine that was meant for her and barely a minute later he was dead.” 

Alicent’s throat went tight, her blood running cold within her veins. She straightened her posture, attempting to remain composed. 

“Rhaenyra and Daemon’s bloodlust knows no bounds.” 

“Where were the guards?” Aemond asked abruptly, glossing over his mother’s comment.

“What guards?” 

“In front of our chambers.” He clarified, his voice hard as stone. “I asked you to assign more, to ensure my wife would be protected. You said you would, but there was only one.”

Alicent’s heart raced wildly within her chest, the rapid rise and fall of her chest visible as she tried hard to settle her breathing. 

“I will have a talk with them. They should have been there.” She answered, the wavering of her voice clear, forcing her to swallow hard in an attempt to get rid of the lump that had grown and threatened to stop her from breathing.

Aemond watched his mother thoughtfully, the sinking feeling he had already been plagued with growing tenfold the longer he watched her, slowly becoming aware of her charade. 

His eyes moved to watch the flames dance in the fireplace, breathing out a long sigh as the thoughts in his head swirled like a hurricane. He wanted to refuse it, to not believe his mother would ever have anything to do with something so sinister, but her entire being portrayed guilt. He knew his family's ambitions made for crass and even sometimes despicable actions, he knew the way of war, he just never expected to fall victim to it at the hands of the ones who should have loved him dearly. 

“I was excited to be a father.” He started quietly, the tension in his body the only sign of the storm silently raging within him. “I knew I would have done anything for my child. They could’ve asked me for the stars and I would have flown on Vhagar in the night and taken every one of them from the sky.” 

The mention of the babe he had lost had Alicent’s chest tightening, her eyes beginning to sting with tears that threatened to give away the turmoil plaguing her. 

“I don’t even have a babe to hold and I know I would have done whatever I could to make them happy.” His voice became stunted, anger tinging the heartbreaking words that kept his emotions on a short tether, the reminder of what he lost, what had been ripped so brutally from him and his beloved. 

His lone eye raised from the fire and landed on his mother who seemed to squirm under his intense gaze. 

“You… you weren’t even trying to keep me from my happiness, you’re trying to rip it right out of my hands.”

Alicent’s breath caught in her throat, her stomach sinking with dread. 

“I don’t know what-”

“You know exactly what I’m speaking of.” He interrupted her angrily, his hands clenched into fists as it took all of his restraint to not lunge at her, having to constantly remind himself that the woman in front of him was his mother.

“Think about what you are accusing me of, it’s absolutely ridiculous.” Alicent screeched, her emotions fraying as she desperately tried to pull her son back to her. 

“You never wanted me to marry her. You wanted to deny me her, you wanted to tear her from me even when you knew she was the only one that truly made me happy.”

Alicent rolled her eyes, her fear quickly shifting into indignation. That Island girl has sunk her claws so deep in her son, she scarcely recognized him anymore. 

“The only one?” She questioned, almost sarcastically. “After everything I’ve done and you still don’t see that it was all for you, for our family.” 

Aemond let out a bitter sounding laugh, a sound that would have sent chills down the spine of a lesser man. 

“Tell me, Mother, when exactly were you thinking about my happiness? When you tried to force an annulment from the woman I love or when you tried to murder her?” 

Alicent’s voice caught in her throat. Each word was like a slap to the face. The guilt churned in her stomach so violently she thought she was going to be sick. 

“I know grandsire’s ambitions would have retribution, but I never thought you would bend to them at the expense of your children.”

Alicent sunk back in her chair, the fight swept from her as she realized Aemond was not going to budge an inch. She picked at the skin by her nails anxiously, her teeth biting her bottom lip incessantly as her heart raced. 

“We needed to help Aegon’s cause.”

The whispered words were all the confession he needed to hear. 

Aemond fumed silently, his jaw clenching so tightly it was a wonder he didn’t crack any of his teeth. His first thought was that he couldn’t believe his own mother would do this to him, to break him into disrepair by taking his wife from him, but as he remembered the forced annulment, he soon realized he didn’t really know his mother at all. 

“We know what Rhaenyra would do to us once she sat on the throne. I had to protect you, I did what I could so our family would survive.”

Aemond scoffed bitterly. He too once thought his life would be forfeit once his half-sister rose to power, but the longer he thought of it over the years, the more he spoke of those fears with his wife, the more he realized how unfounded they had been. 

“You really think my father-by-law would allow that to happen? Ixtal is King’s Landing’s greatest importer, you think Rhaenyra would risk the entirety of the realm, her position as ruler, just to do away with siblings she could not spare a second thought for?” 

“You don’t know that!” Alicent yelled, becoming desperate as she felt as though her son was slipping through her fingers.

Aemond sighed and stood from his chair, heading towards the door, but Alicent’s sobs stopped him as she begged him not to go.

“Aemond, you have to understand.” She cried. “I had to do what I could to keep you safe. You will see that one day, you will see that I only did what I thought was right for our family.”

To hear her speak of the life of his wife, his greatest love, as nothing more than collateral made him feel sick, his disdain growing even further. 

“I hope you will see one day that your ambition is what ruined this family.” 

With those final words, he left, leaving his mother to sob in solitude. He numbly walked back to his chambers, the look in his mother’s eyes haunting his mind. 

It wasn’t until he was behind the closed door of his chamber, standing in the dark room that he allowed himself to release a shuddering breath, his throat tightening as it all caught up to him. 

His mother’s betrayal was like a dagger to the stomach, letting the wound bleed until there was nothing left of him. 

His gaze fell on his sleeping wife and the dam broke. Tears fell from his eyes as he realized how close he had been to losing her and by the hands of his own family. It was enough to undo him completely. 

He knelt at her bedside, unable to stop the tears that fell. His lip trembled, shaking breaths escaping him as he clutched to her hand. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He whispered weakly. 

She stirred and blinked her weary eyes open, frowning immediately as she noticed the tears her husband was shedding.

“Aemond? What happened?” She asked tiredly, propping herself up on her elbow as she intertwined their fingers. 

“I didn’t protect you.” He whispered, his voice tight with tearful emotion.

“What are you talking about?”

“The second this war started, I should’ve done something. I knew you weren’t safe here, I knew you weren’t safe with them and I didn’t do anything. I’m so sorry, issa prūmia, please forgive me.” 

“Aemond…” She was stunned, watching as her husband, the stoic man she knew, broke into pieces before her. 

She laid her hand over his that held her other tightly, caressing gentle touches over his hardened knuckles. 

“Darling, there’s nothing to forgive.” She assured him, but the look on his face remained tortured. 

He sniffled and wiped his tears forcefully, tearing his hand from hers and he got to his feet, making his way across their chambers to her wardrobe. 

“I’m getting you out of here.” He spoke, his voice now full of determination.

“What?”

“It’s not safe for you here. You’re going back to Ixtal.”

Her heart jumped in her chest, it was everything she had wanted since this war started, but she couldn’t ignore the lingering dread that settled within her like lead, realizing what it would mean for them. The thought of separating from him was unbearable. 

“I’m not leaving without you.” She spoke forcefully, standing from the bed, her eyes hardened as she stared back at her husband. 

She knew it was a big ask to leave his family and his home for her, but circumstances were different now. She had already lost so much, she wasn’t going to lose him too, she certainly wasn’t going to let his family take advantage of her absence and shackle him to another woman. 

Aemond swallowed thickly and stepped towards her, his hands cradling her face gently as he revered her with nothing but adoration, his decision made in a split second.

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere but by your side.” 

Her face softened, emotions swelling, tightening her throat. 

“What happened?” She asked quietly. His change of heart was unexpected and the state of him she had woken to was more than concerning. It wasn’t often he let himself feel his emotions, except anger of course, and it was upsetting to say the least.

Aemond seemed to shudder at her question, his eyes holding a faraway look that seemed tortured. 

“Not yet.” He said, his voice barely audible. He would tell her everything once they were safe, once they were far from King’s Landing and his scheming family. “Pack your things, we need to be quick and leave before the light.” 

She nodded and rushed to her wardrobe, hauling out as many dresses as she could carry and tossed them on the bed. A sudden realization came to her, igniting her worries once more.

“Wait, Aemond.” She spoke up frantically. “Helaena and the children. We can’t leave without them, they’re not safe here.”

Aemond’s entire being softened. Helaena and her children were the only ones, outside of her, that he cared about above anyone else and her care for them, her willingness to accept them as her own warmed his heart, only confirming to him that he was making the right decision.

His mother’s betrayal stung, it festered in him like a disease that threatened to spread and ruin him, but he pushed it down. He would feel the heartbreak when they were safe in Ixtal.

It didn’t take long for them to pack their meager belongings. They didn’t need to take much, there wasn’t much of anything with sentimental value he would miss. He just needed his wife at his side. 

They traveled through the hidden halls, quickly coming to the entrance of Helaena’s room. Aemond pushed the entrance open slowly, wincing at the noise, hoping he wasn’t about to scare his sweet sister.

He was soon shocked, flinching back as he met the awaiting eyes of his sister, her children cradled to her sides, bags at their feet.

“Is it time?” 

“What- Helaena…”

“We are leaving, are we not?” 

“Well… yes, but-”

“Let’s go. We shouldn’t waste any more time.” She smiled warmly, placing her hand on her brother’s cheek briefly before moving towards her friend, wrapping her up in a tight hug, her gratitude overflowing from her. “I knew you would be our saving grace.”

The whispered words of the Princess left her shocked. She had to shake herself of her surprise and hauled Jaehaerys into her arms. With Helaena carrying Jaehaera, their bags secured with Aemond leading them, they were on their way. His hand fluttered towards the sword at his hip every so often, senses sharp and at the ready for anything and anyone that dared to stop them.

It didn’t take long to get to the Dragon Pit.

“I’ll meet you outside with Vhagar.” Aemond assured her and with one last squeeze of her hand, he was gone. 

Her heart was in her throat, her palms sweating with nerves as she helped strap the children’s bags to Dreamfyre’s saddle. Once Helaena was seated on her dragon, she helped Jaehaera up and strapped her in. 

“It’s alright, my Darlings.” Helaena cooed to her children who were quiet and sullen with fright. “We’re going to a beautiful place where we’ll be safe.” 

“Is father coming too?” Jaehaera asked quietly and Helaena shook her head, almost seemingly delighted to share the news of the absence of their father. But the child just nodded and whispered ‘good’. 

She repressed a shudder. She didn’t want to think of the neglect Aegon had forced on his children. She swept Jaehaerys up into her arms once again, her heart aching as he nuzzled into her, burying his face in the crook of her neck. 

“You like to swim, don’t you, Jae?”

He nodded against her and she smiled, brushing her fingers through his hair soothingly.

“I know where to find the most beautiful beaches. You’ll get to swim in the bluest water you’ve ever seen where the fish swim between your toes and jump out of the water to greet you.”

“Will you show me?” 

She smiled and nodded. “I’ll take you there myself.” 

With the assurance, he loosened his grip on her, more at ease. A distant roar caught their attention, the familiar sound of Vhagar. With one last look to Helaena, silently assuring her that she would keep her son safe, she slipped out of the Dragon Pit, hurrying her way up the hill where Vhagar rested. 

Her hope spiked, her fear receding slightly as she spotted Aemond atop his dragon. Their escape was imminent. No one would stop them now, not when they had Vhagar to face. 

She helped Jaehaerys climb up into the waiting arms of his uncle who strapped him in carefully. She climbed, her movements familiar use, not something she’d ever thought she would say in relation to dragon riding, but Aemond had been insistent over the years of his two favorite girls bonding. 

She used to roll her eyes at him, but now she couldn’t have been more thankful. 

As she settled herself, her heart sped, uncertainty suddenly overtaking her adrenaline, the gravity of their actions soon crashing into her overwhelmingly. She placed her hand over Aemond's, stopping him before he could grasp the reins. 

“Aemond,” She spoke, her voice tight as her mind raced. “You have to be sure, entirely sure, that this is what you want.” 

He sighed, as if disappointed by her hesitation, believing he would ever second guess the decision to run away with her, to keep her safe. 

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.” He assured her, tilting her chin with his finger so she was looking at him head on. “I promised you, didn’t I? We’re going to Ixtal where we’ll grow old and raise our children.” 

His words, which were once said in the comfort of their sheets, their love nothing more than a secret from the rest of the realm, soothed every ounce of insecurity that had crept through her veins. 

She breathed out in relief and leaned forward, kissing him swiftly. 

Dreamfyre’s roar broke them apart and they watched as Helaena took flight with her daughter. 

“Are you ready, Jae?” 

The child nodded eagerly to his uncle and leaned back into his aunt’s arms, holding tightly to her as the mighty dragon below them rumbled and stretched her wings, taking to the skies with ease. 

The moonlight was their only guide in the dead of night. It wasn’t until they settled high in the sky, covered by the clouds, easy on their course, did she finally let herself relax. She leaned back into the strong chest behind her, her husband’s hand leaving the reins to wrap around her, securing herself to his front, his forehead rested against hers, a look of nothing but pure contentment on his face, a far cry from the scowl that had been securely etched onto his features for months. 

She knew his decision to leave could not have been easy and she was terrified to hear what had happened, what the final straw was to get him to agree to leave the place he called home, to leave his mother behind.

She leaned into him, as if needing his comfort from the mere thought of what transpired to make him turn his back on the woman that raised him.

Aemond held her tightly, breathing in the scent of her, his eye falling closed in fulfillment at the feel of her skin under his fingertips. Even the brush of her hair against his face in the wind was the greatest thing he could have ever felt. 

She was all he needed. 

A weight was lifted from his chest, allowing him to breathe easier the farther they flew from King’s Landing. His family’s schemes, his mother’s betrayal, Aegon’s threats, they all seemed to melt away as the distance grew between them. 

The sun was just beginning to rise as they spotted the shores of Ixtal. 

Warmth bloomed within her at the sight of her home, knowing she was only minutes from reuniting with her family. 

She felt jittery, anxious excitement taking over every inch of her as they landed on the shores. A slew of guards were already waiting for them on the shores, the dragons having been spotted in the distance and causing mayhem in fear of a potential attack. 

Among the pointed spears and swords, she spotted her father’s face. She breathed shakily, eagerly undoing the straps around her waist, charging down from Vhagar’s back despite Aemond’s protests. 

She didn’t care for safety, she didn’t care for decorum. She charged towards the group of guards who soon lowered their weapons at their leader’s cries for a cease. Her father pushed the guards out of his way, coming to the front of the blockade, the sight of her causing tears to brim in his eyes. 

Barely a second later, she was in his arms, the force of her embrace almost knocking him off his feet. 

“You’re here.” He breathed out, holding tightly to his beloved daughter with a force that could only be portrayed by that of a father with a heavy heart. “How are you here? I haven’t heard from you in weeks, we thought-”

His words stopped as he noticed Aemond’s presence over her shoulder. His brows furrowed at the sight of the young child in his arms, his confusion only furthered as Princess Helaena stepped forward, another child in her arms. 

“You brought an entourage?”

Her face turned serious, worrying him immediately.

“Father, we… we’re seeking refuge from King’s Landing. It’s no longer safe for us there.”

He looked at his daughter incredulously, sensing there would be a long story to come. He nodded stiffly, having trouble tearing his eyes away from his daughter, his little girl he had been fraught with worry over the past moons.

A yell of her name sounded, catching their attention. Her face smoothed out, her worry disappearing as a bright smile grew. 

“Mother!” She called out, racing past her father and the litany of guards still standing at attention to seek out her mother who had raced out of the palace at the sight of the dragons, her arms open and ready for her daughter. 

Aemond watched, an ease settling over him as he saw her smile again, that bright, wondrous sight that could only assure him he had done the right thing. 

The Lord of Ixtal stepped forward, sending a polite smile to Helaena and eyeing the children with a soft gaze.

“Come, you must be exhausted from your journey.” He motioned them forward, allowing Helaena to lead, hand in hand with her twins, the two men settling in a matching pace side by side. “I knew you were the right man for the job.”

Aemond looked at the man beside him questioningly. 

“I knew you would keep my daughter safe. I never had any doubt.”

The young prince seemed to deflate under the praise. The guilt that had been festering within him unfurled, overtaking him so powerfully, he stopped walking.

“I didn’t- there was… it was too close-”

“Aemond,” His father-by-law placed his hand on his shoulder, squeezing comfortingly. “You’re here. You brought her home, safe and sound.”

“But I couldn't-”

“You are one man. You cannot fight the entire world of enemies alone, especially not when they are your own family.”

Aemond’s eye widened, looking perplexed by his words. The Lord just smiled sadly and shook his head.

“I had my suspicions from the start. I knew they didn’t want you to marry her, I knew their ambitions would become too great.”

Aemond just nodded stiffly, the words getting caught in his throat, not yet able to voice just what his family, his own mother, had done. 

“You’re a good man, Aemond. I hope you’ll be happy here.” 

“I will be.” He spoke, his voice laced with conviction, as if there were no doubts in his mind about his life now that he was standing on the sandy beaches of Ixtal, his future no longer out of his own control.

They stepped into the palace, his eyes finding her immediately. Her mother left her daughter’s side, coming towards him, a tearful smile gracing her features. 

Before he could say a word, she wrapped him in a tight hug. 

“Thank you.” She whispered to him, the words and the affectionate gesture plucking at his weakest points. The affection of a mother, a caring and kind soul, reminding him of what he had just lost, what he had purposefully stepped away from.

But it had never been like this. Alicent had never held him this tight, he had never felt love from his mother in a single touch, not like he was now from a woman he had met only a handful of times before. 

“You three look like you have hiked through the seven hells and back. Why don’t you rest for a while longer, we can talk later.” Her mother suggested. 

Helaena was guided to her new chambers for her and the children, her smile wide, no trace of derision from her escape. She seemed all too happy to be back to the place she had fallen in love with in that first visit years ago.

Aemond let his wife lead him to her old childhood chambers. 

He stepped in, taking in a deep breath, letting the events of the night roll off his back. He looked at the dried flowers and childhood drawings that lined the walls, some hers, some her siblings that had been gifted to her years ago that she couldn’t bear to part with. 

Her sentimental heart never failed to warm his own. 

As he set their bags down, his gaze fell to the view of the horizon from the balcony, picturing the chaos that would be ensuing across the sea in King’s Landing as their absence was discovered. 

He thought of his mother and the state she would be in once she realized both he and Helaena were gone, her grandchildren safe from their clutches. 

He let out a shaking breath and barely a second later, arms were winding around his waist. He hummed a grateful sounding noise, placing a hand over her clasped ones at his front.

“What are you thinking about?”

“They’ll send search parties.” He mused, his mind beginning to conjure the many ways his brother and grandsire could ruin the peace they tried to find for themselves.

“My father will handle it.” She assured him. “Besides, no one would dare try to force Vhagar away from here.” 

He smiled, his eyes falling to his mighty dragon that was basking in the sun, her wings fluttering in the waves that crashed onto the shore, her rumbles of contentment echoing up to their room. He looked over his shoulder at his wife, the warm feeling in chest growing at the sight of her, the ease she now carried around her.

“Thank you.”

Her eyes softened, a small smile growing. “I think I should be saying that to you.”

He had a million things he wanted to say but no idea how to say them. So he settled for kissing her softly, hoping it conveyed every ounce of love and adoration he held for her, the thanks he wanted to bestow upon her for saving his life, for saving his sister and her children. 

He pulled away regretfully, letting his forehead rest against hers as he thought over how close he had come to losing her just hours ago, causing tears to brim in his eye.

“I’m sorry.” He choked out, emotion welling his throat yet again. 

Her brows furrowed, not used to seeing him break as he was now, as he did just hours ago. 

“I haven’t been a good husband.” 

“Aemond-”

“I haven’t.” He spoke again, interrupting her attempt to soothe him. “I didn’t listen, I thought I could fight against everything alone. I pushed you away and I hurt you.” 

She watched him carefully, noting the guilt that seemed to seep out of every inch of him. 

“I’ll spend the rest of my life making up for it all, I swear.” He whispered frantically, as if he was desperate for her to believe him, as if she had any doubt. 

“What happened?” She questioned again, looking at him worriedly, but he shook his head, pushing the thought of this mother, of that man choking on his own blood, from his mind. 

“Not yet.” He whispered again, not yet ready to reveal to her the threat on her life, not wanting to break the peace they’d finally found after months of such heart-breaking tension. 

She was in his arms, they were safe, his sister and her children were safe. That was all that mattered. 

He kissed her again, this time firmer, more sure of himself. After tumultuous weeks of grieving and then spite between them, they hadn’t been close like this in ages. It had been too long since he had made love to his sweet wife. 

She melted into him, the feel of his hands on her, his lips against hers so desperately, was enough to heal the wounds in her heart the war had caused. 

“You are so beautiful.” He whispered as he planted kisses down the slope of her neck. “You are so wonderful, so kind. You have the most perfect, golden heart.” 

He lavished praise as his hands untied the laces of her gown, his lips finding their place over her racing heart, the heart that had given him so much love, enough to heal a boy doomed from the start. 

They moved slowly, treasuring each gentle caress and loving kiss as they stripped themselves bare. The waking nightmares they had been faced with in King’s Landing melted into nothing but old memories in the wake of their embrace. 

For so long, after the attack and losing their child, she had felt so disconnected to her own body. Now, as Aemond kissed every inch of her, as his hands roamed the familiar curves of her body, she felt she was finally herself again. 

She had spent too long watching her husband succumb to who his family wanted him to be. It made her determined to remind him why she loved him, how much she cherished him. 

Her hand slithered down the strong planes of his chest, his breath hitching as it traveled lower and lower until she gently grasped his stiff length in her hand that twitched with desire under her touch. 

Breaths left him in desperate pants as she stroked him, her touch familiar yet so missed. He repressed a shiver as she quickened her pace, her eyes watching him intently, the sight of his pleasure a welcome reprieve to how tightly wound she’d seen him for months. 

He moaned and quickly grabbed her hand, stopping her motions. He would not spill too early, before he even had the chance to bring her pleasure. 

She squealed in surprise, her laugh ringing out in the room as he picked her up and eagerly carried her to the bed. Her delighted giggles continued as she fell back on the soft mattress below her, biting her lip and practically writhing at the heated look from the man above her. 

She reached up, taking his eye patch off and tossing it to the side, needing to see all of him.

Aemond wasted no time, he couldn’t go another second without her. He spread her legs and kneeled before her, his mouth devouring her with a fervor of a man starved, moaning at the delectable taste of her.

She cried out, her hand falling to his head, tangling her fingers in his hair, pulling with each deliberately devastating stroke of his tongue. 

Her body was powerless against him, a litany of praise falling past her lips without her knowledge, mindlessly calling out to him, divulging every ounce of her love for him, both cursing and acclaiming his tongue and his ability to render her completely mindless. 

He growled against her, the sound of his name spoken so breathlessly, so desperately, quickly becoming his undoing. He quickened his pace, his need to push her over the edge growing as his own desires did.

She almost screamed, her back arching as he added his fingers, curling them in just the way he knew would drive her crazy. 

Her hands twisted into the sheets below her, her legs beginning to quiver from their place over his shoulders as he worked her to the cusp of ecstasy. 

“Aemond!” She cried out as his wicked tongue and fingers brought her to a blinding peak. 

She panted heavily, her limbs still trembling from the force of her release, barely able to comprehend the heated kiss Aemond pressed to her lips, the taste of her on his tongue making her moan. 

The soft sound turned into another high pitched cry as he entered her slowly, a shuddering breath falling past his own lips as they joined for the first time in months. He stilled, needing a moment before he lost his composure completely. 

He gazed at her below him, his lone eye shining, the love he felt for her in that moment suddenly overwhelming. He ducked his head into the crook of her neck, squeezing his eye shut as her hand caressed through his hair, her soft lips brushing against his temple. 

“It’s alright.” She whispered. “I’m here. I won’t ever be parted from your side.” 

Her words, as if she knew exactly what had happened just hours ago, the attempt on her life on the orders of his own family, were the salve to the torment running through his head since he learned of the threat against her. 

He raised his head, kissing her firmly, his tongue tangling with hers, desperate for her touch, her taste, every inch of her. 

“No one will ever take you from me.” He spoke softly, though the air of determination surrounding his words did not go unnoticed, whether to reassure her or himself he wasn’t sure. 

His hips began to move rhythmically, thrusting in and out of her gently, as if it were their first time again. 

She sighed, her eyes fluttering closed. Her hands gripped onto his back, feeling his muscle ripple under his skin as he moved. 

She wrapped her legs around his waist, holding him tightly as he made love to her as if he were afraid to break her, afraid to cause her any more harm than what she had endured since the war started. 

“Aemond,” She breathed out, leaning upwards, her nose brushing against his as she brushed her lips against his. “I’m ok. You can go faster, I can take it.” 

His face twisted, memories of the night of the attack, of her screams and cries of agony, of how close she had been last night to succumbing to the war. The thoughts were torturous. 

“I can’t-” He choked out, his jaw clenching, his brows furrowed as if he were in pain himself. “I can’t hurt you.”

“You won’t. I know you would never.” She assured him, her hands cradling his face as she looked at him intently, pure trust and love echoing through her eyes. 

He exhaled loudly, allowing his pace to quicken slightly, the moan she let out like music to his ears, soothing every ounce of his worry. 

“I trust you.” She whispered and his resolve shattered completely in an instant. 

He whimpered and began to thrust into her harder, his movements becoming more assured, his hunger for her reaching its peak, his hips now crashing against hers purposefully, moans falling freely from his lips as she cried out at every hard thrust, his cock hitting that place inside her that made her writhe against him.

Her noises were beautiful, they sent shivers down his spine, made his head spin in that delightful way only she could give him. He never liked to feel as though he wasn’t in control, but with her he welcomed the feeling. 

She was the only one he felt safe around to let himself feel it. 

He gripped onto her thigh, hiking it higher on his hip, allowing him to reach deeper inside her, her name like a desperate prayer on his lips as he felt himself nearing his end. It had been too long and he was no match for her perfect body. 

He brought his hand down, his thumb brushing against her clit, desperate to bring her with him. It didn’t take long until she trembled against him, her nails digging into his back, her head thrown back against the sheets as she cried out loudly. 

The feeling of her tightening around him and the sight of her lost in pleasure beneath him undid him effortlessly. He gasped, his movements becoming more frantic in his end, frantic groans following with each of his movements. It hit him like a wave, crashing over him all at once. He cried out, a sound more desperate than she had ever heard from him, his body stiffening before falling lax as he came hard. 

His eye fell shut as the haze of pleasure overtook him. He breathed harshly, letting the aftershocks of bliss roll through his shaking limbs. Her hands brushing his hair out of his face brought him back into the present.  

His eye fluttered open, meeting the eyes of the woman below him, her easy, pleasure filled smile bringing one of his own.

He leaned down, kissing her softly. Silently vowing to himself that he would never let anything threaten her life again, not as long as he lived, that he would never bring her pain ever again. 

He held her tightly, breathing out a long, drawn out breath, expelling every bit of the bitter anger and betrayal that clung to him. 

As he lay beside her, his softening length still buried inside her, the blissful touch of her hand running through his hair, he listened to the waves outside the open balcony doors, the calls of seabirds reminding him of where he was, where he would spend the rest of his days with her by his side.

It brought him more peace than he ever could have imagined. 

~~

With Aemond’s absence, and subsequently Vhagar’s absence from the frontlines, the Greens quickly succumbed to the Blacks. 

She held tightly to Aemond’s hand as her father read outloud the letter sent from Rhaenyra who now sat the throne. He gave no reaction as he heard of Otto’s execution, of Aegon’s demise in the black cells. He barely twitched as he heard his mother was to be sequestered in the Red Keep, forced to live out the rest of her life in solitude. 

The only emotion he showed was the breath he let out when he heard Daeron was to remain in Oldtown, with strict orders never to return to King’s Landing. He was thankful his younger brother never played a role in the war, that his life was spared from a gruesome fate. 

Helaena looked forlorn, her eyes cast down to her hands that fidgeted in her lap. She left for a reason, she had escaped with her children, an act she would never regret, but it didn’t lessen the unease in her heart.

She always knew this was how it would end. 

The knowledge that Aegon would never touch her again was a shining ray of light in the storm of dark clouds that was the news of the demise of her family. 

They were dismissed quickly, her mother throwing her a wary look as Aemond practically sprinted from the room as if it were deprived of air he desperately needed. 

She walked at a slow pace, knowing he’d need a few minutes to himself to take in the news. Making her way through the gardens, she knew exactly where he’d be, where he often found himself in moments of deep thoughts and contemplation. 

She knew he didn’t regret leaving, but some days the decision was harder to swallow than others. 

Within a few minutes, she found him sitting on the bench in front of the billowing willow tree, the place they had first spoken, the place he had complimented her drawings, the place where she had made him laugh as if they were old friends rather than new acquaintances. 

He didn’t look up as she approached. 

The only indication he gave to her presence was the long breath he let out as she took a seat next to him. 

“I’m fine.” He spoke impatiently, as if to assure her so he could be left to his torturous solitude.

“You know I don’t believe that.” She admonished softly, making no move to leave. 

His foot tapped erratically against the stone below him, his teeth biting his bottom lip, his shoulders hunched, the very picture of discontent. Frowning, she placed her hand on his arm, sliding down the length of his tense muscles until she found his hand, intertwining their fingers.

“I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re feeling.”

“I can’t quite make sense of it myself.” He admitted quietly.

“I know you’re not happy Rhaenyra is on the throne-”

“I don’t care about that.” He spoke abruptly, his tone becoming sharp. “Our lives would have been much easier if that damned chair didn’t exist.”

She knew since coming to Ixtal, after the month of peace they’d had without his family breathing down his neck, forcing his every move, he could breathe easier. But it was still his family, his own brother and grandsire who had perished in the war. 

“Aemond,” She began softly. “Talk to me, please.”

“I know what my brother was. I won’t pretend to mourn him.” 

“You do not have to.” 

His eyes held a vacant look, as he retreated into the mess of thoughts in his head. He knew what his grandsire had done, the game he had played long before he had even been born. He knew the retribution Otto faced was well deserved. 

It didn’t cause him much grief. 

It was the thought of his mother that left his insides twisting in a way he hadn’t anticipated. 

“It doesn’t seem like enough.” He whispered, his words almost lost to the wind. 

“What doesn’t?”

“She tried to take you from me yet she lives.” 

Her breath caught in her throat. She had never had a close bond with Aemond’s mother but after she had been told what had happened that fateful night they left, what caused her husband’s tears, her view of Alicent had been forever changed. 

Aemond held tightly to her hand, as if saying the words aloud were too much to handle. 

He let out a shaking breath, pinching the bridge of his nose, he could feel a headache coming on, one that was all too familiar when it came to the derision his family caused him. 

“It does not seem a fitting punishment yet I’m… relieved. I don’t think I truly want her dead.”

Aemond didn’t know what to make of what he felt for his mother. He was angered she still drew breath yet relieved she hadn’t been killed brutally by Rhaenyra, yet he still couldn’t stomach the thought of her, not after what she’d done. 

“Of course you don’t. No matter what she’s done, she’s still your mother.” 

He thinks to himself that he doesn’t deserve her, this wonderful woman in front of him, the only one to truly see him. 

When he lies with his wife, when he sees her beautiful smile, when he feels her touch on his skin, he thinks he’d be content if his mother never saw the light of day again, yet deep down, the guilt festers. 

He was the reason their side lost. His departure was the sole reason Aegon and Otto are dead, the reason his mother is confined for the rest of her days. 

He can’t find himself regretting his actions, knowing the outcomes, yet he can’t help but feel as though he had failed his family. 

The sense of duty they had instilled in him was screaming, raging at him for what he had done. But he wasn’t that man they raised him to be. 

He was the man who fell in love with his best friend. He was the man who finally felt love as a child from a girl who tried endlessly to get him to see the beauty in himself and the world around him. 

The part of him that felt guilty for his mother was soon crushed out by the love he held for his wife. When he looked at her, he realized no one had ever truly cared for him but her. No one had ever had his best interest at heart except her. 

He squeezed her hand in his, finally letting his gaze reach hers, the concern in her eyes melting a part of him that desperately needed to be melted. 

“I don’t regret a single moment with you.” He tells her, the look in his eye now soft, no longer shrouded in agony and confusion. 

She smiles softly, still worried for him, worried for what the news would cause him. 

“Aemond-”

“I just want to think about our future.” He interrupted, knowing exactly what fears lay on her tongue, fearing much of the same for himself. 

But he would cross that bridge when he came to it. He would feel the moments of guilt, of relief, of whatever other emotion his family would cause him, as they came. 

He didn’t fear what he would feel because he knew the woman he loved would be there to soothe him in every one of those dark moments. His family, though they may try, couldn’t hurt him anymore.

“I want to raise our children here, where they won’t know any pressures of the court or successions, of war or conflict.” 

“Are you sure you don’t-”

“Protecting you was and will always be my number one priority.” He assured her before she could even voice her question about his regret. 

Her smile was much more genuine, his words soothing the anxiety she felt at his reaction. He felt himself smile at the sight before him, eased merely by her presence.

He leaned in, kissing her softly, letting his forehead rest against hers.

“You were always my purpose.” 

His whispered words were assurances they both clung to in the face of uncertainty. 

Tension would always exist as long as their enemy sat on the throne, but they were content, miles away, across the sea where their love flourished, where they would start their family.

No one would take that away from them.

~~

A year had passed peacefully. No further word from King’s Landing came. Helaena and her children thrived in the beauty that was Ixtal. The eccentric Princess made many friends with the ladies in court, finally feeling as though she could be herself without judgment, without fearing retribution or gossip. She no longer felt the pressure to be the perfect image of a Targaryen Princess. 

Aemond had quickly found his place alongside her younger brother in leading the city watch. He melded into his new life with an ease she hadn’t expected. 

Her own father accepted Aemond into their council, his voice soon becoming a valuable and respected asset to the island and its governance with most of the realm. 

Their new life was everything they wanted. 

Until the day their past caught up to them. 

“My Lady?” She looked up to notice her guard approaching, a nervous expression painting his features. “A dragon has been spotted approaching our shores. Shall I request your husband?”

Her face was drawn tightly and she shook her head brusquely. She knew exactly who would be accosting them.

“No, I will handle it.” 

She walked determinedly to the throne room, her guard following behind her worriedly.

“Where is my father?”

“In a council meeting.”

“And my husband is with him?”

“Yes, my Lady.” 

“Good.” She breathed out. She didn’t need either of them catching wind of their guest’s arrival and causing a stir. “You are dismissed.” She spoke to her guard whose eyes widened at the command, his mouth opening to refuse, but she gave him a pointed look.

“I can handle this, Ser Jerrod.” 

The guard sighed defeatedly and gave her a look of resignation.

“I am telling your husband of your orders when he comes to punish me.” 

Aemond had developed quite the reputation of being protective of his wife, the guards were terrified to obey her orders when they knew they would face the ire of her dragon husband. 

“I will take the blame, I promise you.” She assured him with a smirk. 

As her guard left, leaving her alone in the throne room, she let out a long breath, her heart racing as she prepared herself for what she would soon face. 

Only minutes later, the great doors opened and Queen Rhaenyra entered, her face hardened, bitter anger in her eyes. 

Her steps faltered, her powerful pace slowing as she met the eyes of the person she had least expected. 

Rhaenyra spoke her name slowly, her entire demeanor changed, abruptly thrown off from her course of murderous rage that darkened her thoughts, that prompted her abrupt arrival. 

She breathed deeply, straightening her posture as she steeled her expression, putting on the mask of anger back into place.

“I’m sure you know why I am here.”

“I do.” She answered Rhaenyra cooly, her posture relaxed, an exact contrast from the woman before her who looked as though she was unraveling. 

The dark circles under her eyes did not go unnoticed. 

“I need to see Aemond.”

“That’s not going to happen, Rhaenyra, you know that.”

“He needs to pay for what he did.” The woman spoke through gritted teeth, angry tears filling her eyes. 

She stared at the woman, the Queen, before her for a few long seconds, taking in her state of weariness with a heavy sigh, which only seemed to upset Rhaenyra further, her face turning red, her jaw clenching as she took a mighty step towards her.

“He killed my son!”

“And you killed mine!” She yelled back, matching her with the ferocity only a devastated mother could have. 

The reminder of what Rhaenyra agreed to, what she allowed Daemon to do, made her face crumble, her eyes falling to the floor, refusing to meet the gaze of the woman in front of her, the woman she had made lose everything. 

She never wished the loss of a child on any woman, yet here she was, standing face to face with the woman with whom she had directly caused the greatest sorrow. 

“Gods, Rhaenyra, do you think yourself innocent, do you think you are absolved of punishment from your place in this war?”

“I know I am not.” She choked out, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I did not start this. Your husband must pay for what he has done.”

“My husband does not hold this blame alone. This war would’ve happened no matter who laid the first blow, you know that.”

“They usurped my crown!”

“Yet you sit on the throne and the only reason you do is because Aemond chose to step down from the fight.” 

Rhaenyra’s jaw tightened, the fury in her eyes taking over her grief. 

“You did not come here to wager about succession.”

“No, I came to kill my brother.” Rhaenyra stated simply, her glare deepening when the woman in front of her scoffed.

“Aemond is under Ixtal’s protection. He has no governance under the crown.”

“Your father is an honorable man, he will do what is right-”

Her sarcastic laugh stopped Rhaenyra mid sentence, the older woman scowling at the young woman before her with blooming hatred.

“My father does not know all the details about what happened that night in King’s Landing, why I was attacked, how I lost my baby. If he knew it was you and Daemon that orchestrated it, that you were the reason he lost his grandchild, no force in this realm could save you.” She threatened, delighting in the way Rhaenyra shrunk under her pointed words. 

“Your position is tentative, Rhaenyra. Most of the realm despises you, especially after this senseless war. The smallfolk in King’s Landing are starving, the Lords of great houses are fed up with your trade arrangements, raising taxes, abandoning treaties.” She started, her voice low with animosity that steadily grew with each passing second she stood before her.

Rhaenyra looked surprised by what she knew, the details that hounded her night after night, the reason she was berated practically daily in court by smallfolk and Lords alike. 

“Most leaders in this realm hate you, you have little support anymore. If my father were to break tradition and take a stand against your position, how many houses do you think would remain loyal to you?”

Rhaenyra remained silent, her face twisted with disdain, mostly because she knew she had no argument. 

“If you threaten my husband, if you plan some heinous attack on his life, if you darken Ixtal with your presence again, I will tell my father the role you played in my attack and nothing will stop him from marching to the gates of King’s Landing, with the support of the entire realm behind him.” She warned darkly. “Don’t forget, we’re the reason you still have food on your plates. You shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

“Who do you think you are to threaten me? I am your Queen.” Rhaenyra raged, losing what little control she had left. 

“You think you can threaten me?” She countered. “That’s what you came here for, wasn’t it? To exert what little power you have left to boost your ego, to enact revenge for a bitter fight you caused.”

Rhaenyra flinched, her face twisted with derision at her words.

“Don’t pretend you have no role in this, Rhaenyra, you are smarter than that.” She added before the queen could speak another senseless word. “You pretended some measly words against your sons were more dire than a child who lost an eye. You added fire to an already growing inferno and you think they would, what? Live in peace?”

Rhaenyra gazed past her, refusing to look her in the eye. 

“I am truly sorry about what happened to Lucerys.”

“Don’t say his name.” Rhaenyra seethed.

“A son for a son, that was what you wanted, wasn’t it?” 

Rhaenyra flinched, swallowing harshly against the lump in her throat, the guilt she still felt for her role in such a violent act drowning her, especially now as she faced the woman she hurt directly. 

“You got what you wanted, so consider us even.” She choked out through her own growing emotions, the memory of that night still haunting her. “Now leave.”

She watched, feeling victorious as Rhaenyra bowed her head, unable to look at her, as she turned on her heel and began to walk to the door in defeat.

“You may sit on that throne but it is my house that holds the power.” She called out before she could leave the room. “Remember that next time you get the urge to visit again.”

The door closed behind the Queen and she let out a long breath, feeling as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, having spoken to the reason for her attack for the first time, having expelled her anger towards the woman who had caused her greatest loss. 

She let her shoulders relax, suddenly realizing how tense her entire body had become. She turned on her heel and stopped abruptly as she noticed Aemond in the doorway across the room.

His face was passive, she couldn’t read a single emotion on his face. Even after all their time together, she still had trouble reading him in moments when he was guarded. 

“How long have you been here?”

“Long enough.” He answered vaguely. A moment passed before he let a small smile grow and she breathed out, laughing slightly as she approached him. “I quite like seeing that side of you.”

“You are not mad?”

“Mad?” He asked in disbelief and laughed. “No, I think you handled that with much more grace than I ever could.” 

He held his hand out to her as she came before him, taking her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. 

“In fact, seeing you defend me as valiantly as you did was quite… stirring.” 

She rolled her eyes and pushed at his chest.

“Aemond.” She admonished. “This is serious.”

“It is and you handled yourself as if you’ve been ruling for years.”

She sighed in annoyance, the praise not having the effect she expected. She felt as though he was avoiding the seriousness of what happened, or how wrong things could have turned out. 

“Your sister arrived to kill you and all you can do is compliment me?” 

Aemond’s smile faltered, his demeanor changing in an instant, the cool air around him gone.

“I have to live with what I did… to Lucerys.” He admitted quietly. “She must live with what she did. It’s like you said, we are even.” 

She intertwined their fingers, her hand squeezing his in a silent show of comfort. She knew he still felt immense guilt about what had happened that night, for what she endured as a result of it. 

He still had nights when he couldn’t face it. 

“Do you think she will retaliate?” She asked quietly and Aemond shook his head, clearing his throat and the air of intensity surrounding him as his easy smile returned. 

“Not unless she wants another verbal lashing from you.”

She scoffed and looked at her husband plainly. He pulled her towards him, a serious look in his eye even as his smirk remained. 

“If she ever dares to return, she will have to face Vhagar.” He told her. “I would never let her hurt you or anyone on this Island.”

She breathed out in relief. She didn’t want it to ever come to that, but to hear it so plainly, the lengths Aemond would go to protect her, to protect her family and their home, was a strange comfort. 

He kissed her forehead and looked at her with a gaze full of nothing but love, the words she had said to Rhaenyra in his defense running around his head. He would not soon forget it, the way she stood up for him. 

Her name was called from across the hall, breaking the moment between them. 

They turned to see her younger sister approaching, their smiles widening as they saw the bundle she carried in her arms.

“Sorry to interrupt, but she was getting fussy. I think she’s missing you two.” 

Aemond met her halfway, his arms already outstretched to take his daughter from his good sister. He whispered his thanks, his gaze locked onto the babe in his arms, his precious girl. 

At only 3 moons old, she was the greatest light in his life, aside from her mother of course. She had him wrapped around her little finger the second she took her first breath.

“Thank you for looking after her.” She told her sister and stood by Aemond’s side, latching onto his arm as they both gazed down at their child. 

“Is everything ok? I heard there was a dragon spotted.” Her sister inquired.

She looked over at Aemond, but he seemed too engrossed in their daughter to have even heard the question. 

“Everything’s fine. There’s nothing to worry about, she won’t be coming back.” She assured her sister who nodded and quickly made her exit, sensing the couple wanted to be alone with their little family.

Together, they walked out of the palace and through the gardens, coming to the familiar bench by the willow tree. 

Aemond sat, sparsely taking his eyes off his daughter. Next to him, his wife laughed, continually amused at how effortlessly their daughter mesmerized him. 

She leaned her head on his shoulder and reached out, gently tracing her finger over her daughter’s chubby cheeks that grinned at her touch, making a noise of contentment as she wriggled in her father’s arms. 

Aemond placed a kiss to her forehead and she raised her head, meeting his gaze. 

Their smiles grew at the same time, the same thought running through their minds. They had made it.

Whispered promises made in the beginning of their love had finally come true. 

They had their family and nothing could take it from them. 

~~

Thank you all for reading and coming with me and this wild ride! All of your comments have meant the absolute world to me and I'm just so happy I got to share this with you all xx

There will be an epilogue so this will not be the end of Aemond and his Sun xx

~~

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[lola-writes]

𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐄 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐈 ║ I. Adonis ║ Marcus Acacius x Hanno's sister!reader

➣ Deliciae Imperii -> Delights of the Empire

➣ Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Ao3 | Ko-Fi

➣ Chapter II. | Series Masterlist

Word Count: 2,9k

Synopsis: As an esteemed warrior of the Numidian army, your world turns on its axis when you’re taken prisoner by the Romans. Ever since your stealth attack that nearly cost the General of the Roman army, Marcus Acacius, his life, he appears to have taken a special interest in you. Under his tutelage of swordplay and carnal things, you delve deeper into the heart of the Roman Empire, uncovering its instability, and Acacius’ true intentions with you…

Chapter Themes & Warnings: POV first person, use of y/n, blood, detailed descriptions of violence, terms of endearment (anaticula, Adonis), slavery, Roman history, vomiting, angst, swearing. See series masterlist for full themes & warnings!

Song: Fight for Survival – Klergy

a/n: The original plan was for this to be a oneshot, but in the end it seemed impossible. I've got a lot planned for this story. Hope you stay tuned! 🥰

Anaticula (duckling), Adonis (god of beauty and desire)

Poem by @fairytalesques

Enjoy the read!

Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

I am a rose unfurling, winter’s bloom. Poison dripping down my throat and out of my bladed fingers. I spin stars into black holes, drive monsters to extinction in the dead heat of summer. You ever stop to think what life could have been if the poison had been potent? A lifeline in the carnage. A blessing or a curse? The flower is now festering like a disease but with Adonis I’ll be safe, he keeps the antidote. 

The metallic tang of blood, thick and cloying, hung heavy in the humid air, a shroud of death as thick as smoke. It was a symphony of war, conducted by the piercing shrieks of the wounded and the barked commands of the officers. A cacophony that blurred my senses as I moved with deadly precision through a haze of silver and red.

I fought with the savage efficiency of a wild animal, yet my kills were clean and quiet, each motion honed by years of training under Hanno's tutelage. My vision tunneled to a singular, deadly focus – the annhilation of the Roman usurpers by any means necessary. In this moment, I was a force of nature, an instrument of retribution. I would purge the land of their corrupted touch if I were to die trying.

The enemy pressed on, a relentless tide. For every ten I felled, another twenty rose to take their place. Yet somehow, the more I fought, the stronger I became, as though the adrenaline that infiltrated my every tissue contained a potent elixir that invigorated my muscles and dulled their exertion. 

Clashing blades rang in the air. Our two armies mingled near indistinguishably; clanging, crunshing and screaming. It would be difficult to tell friend from foe, if it weren’t for the Romans distinctive galeas, the red fur frilling atop the silver helms like beckoning targets. 

Just then, the crowd parted like clouds from the sun, unveiling a figure descending the battlement steps, a silhouette of lethal grace. Donning a sable breast plate emblazoned by Sol, sprawling across his chest with a douzen golden rays, he moved with the effortless grace of a dancer, his blade a blur of silver death, his countenance molded into a rigid canvas of authority. A retinue of red fringed galeas encircled him, their bodies his shields, their presence a testament to his rank. 

My gaze fixed him through the crowd as the next wave of men in their peculiar-looking helmets came charging at me. I ducked, slicing open the patellas of the first two, making them buckle in the sand. The third I dodged, sidestepping before plunging my blade into his brachial plexus. The fourth I parried, our blades screeching in unison, before I kicked under his flared skirt. There wasn’t much fight left in him after that.      

Jubartha’s words echoed in my mind as I tracked the approaching entourage, “Take out the leader of your enemy, and it matters not how much blood stains your sword.”

He moved fluidly like a windless sea. His spatha whipped around him, trailing shadows in the dust-ridden air, splattering the sand with blood. His expression was a paradox. As though he would not rest until Rome had pocketed another conquest, while simultaneously longing for a different fate entirely.

Crimson trailed around him like crushed punica granatum. None breached the shield of bodies surrounding him, and those who tried did not emerge alive, like prey entering a lion’s den. 

I caught a glimpse of Hanno and Jubartha atop the parapet, fending off the ruthless wave from the assaulting sea. The walls had been breached, our numbers were dwindling. A sense of desperation seized me, a reckless courage driving me forward.  

There was but one choice at my disposal.

I sprinted up the steps of the opposite parapet, scaling the heights with desperate urgency. Ducking behind a wooden pole, I dashed across the platform until I reached its bosom. I leaned out over its edifice, where down below, a second protective roof had been built. I started the climb downward, the splintering wood tearing at my hands like an angry cat. I landed on the roof with a thud and crouched towards the edge. Our men were still charging through the opening of the parapet, but before I knew it, they began to slow, getting knocked back by the shield wall of fearsome Roman guards. I rose to my feet, my heart pounding in my ears, adrenaline surging through my bloodstream. My hand found the hilt of my sword and clasped it into place. For what I was about to do, risking becoming unarmed was to invite my doom.

The chaotic shadowy flare of guards flanking the steady shadow of an unyielding assassin grew in the sand below. I filled my lungs, washing out the biting fear of death creeping around the edges. 

A warrior’s oath echoed in my mind: I am Numidia. 

I dipped, toes to the edge. A head of dark and silver emerged below. 

What could go wrong?

I leapt. 

The fall felt decelerated, as if in a dream, and all surrounding noise faded underwater. My feet met his back, and a heavy grunt of startlement escaped him as he fell forward. His body broke my fall, and I rolled with the force of the impact, swiftly regaining my footing as I turned to face him. Dazed for but a second, his face dusted with sand, he grappled for his sword. But before he managed to get a proper grasp of the hilt, I pressed my boot atop his knuckles. He groaned in frustration behind gritted teeth. The next second, my one hand had clasped the knife from my boot, while the other had gathered a fistful of his hair and snatched him backward. 

In the third second, my blade was poised at his throat, ready to claim his life when, for reasons unexplained, the edge paused in his skin. 

In the fourth second, I had met his eyes, and an unfamilliar current passed down my spine. They were big, and brown, and full of contradictions, staring up at me with equal surprise, malice, and admiration. But no fear. His chest was heaving. His hair was a full, tangled mess of black and silver beneath my fingers, textured from the unsettled sand. The strands of silver had leaked into his beard which covered his dark, dirt-and blood-spattered complexion. His nose was sharp, angled like the limb of a bow, and his lips were slightly parted from gnashed teeth. The wound I had inflicted seemed to defy the vision of him I had before me, bleeding red but ichor. 

In the fifth second his resistance faltered, his head growing heavy against me. But before I could savour my victory, a sharp blow clattered my teeth, and suddenly my body was not my own. My vision blurred, my ears buzzed, and my fingers loosened the grip of the knife, no matter how hard I fought against it. 

In the sixth second, I was laying in the sand, grasping for consciousness. I thought I could hear Hanno screaming in the distance, but it was just beneath the surface. Gathering the last ounces of strength I had left I reached for the blade laying inches away. The contours of Adonis hovered over me, as one of the guards kicked my weapon out of reach. My other hand dragged itself to my waist, half-limb, seeking to undo the clasp to my sword.

“Tsk tsk tsk...” Adonis clicked his tongue. I winced as his boot came down on my hand, pressing down. “You have some fight in you, anaticula,” his voice, laced with what I would percieve as… concern, circulated around my head like a distant echo. “Grab her.” The words consumed me, nuzzling my cognisance like a warm blanket, and as I lifted off the ground, I faded into oblivion. 

_

Vae victis. Woe to the vanquished. 

The declaration travelled with me between the realms of my unconsciousness, followed by the distant wails of bereaved mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters. 

I awoke to the comforting crackle of the fire we used to cook our supper. The air was thick with the scent of fresh fish, and the vague neigh of my stallion drifted in from outside. I sighed, nuzzling my face into the pillow, and was captivated by the unfamiliar softness of it. Something was different. The ground beneath me seemed to shift and sway, and as I opened my eyes, the pillow under my cheek was foreign to me – vibrant with patterns winding around the fabric like climbing vines.

Reality slowly dawned. I was not home. And the crackle of the fire and the neighing from my stallion was in fact the creaking and squeaking of ship timbers. 

I groaned as a sharp pain lanced through my skull. Everything came back to me. The Roman invasion. The battle. The blow to the head. Adonis … 

My breath stilled when I met his gaze across the room. Clad in the same sable armor and a royal scarlet cape, he was seated at the head of a table bedecked in plates of fish, cheese, fruit and caraffes of wine. He held my stare with a distant look of interest, rolling a purple grape between his fingers before plopping it into his mouth, his jaw clenching and unclenching. 

The throbbing pain pulsed in my temple in tune with my heart as I sat up on the setee. Sludge stuck to my thoughts and it felt as though my center of gravity was off the way the room kept rocking.

“Easy,” came his voice, a low rumble. His chewing ceased, his movements stilled, as if ready to rise in haste.

The ship’s rhythmic rocking intensified, the sound of waves lapping against the hull growing louder. A cold sweat broke out on my brow. My breathing surged and grew ragged, trying to subdue the rolling sense of nausea consuming me. 

But it was futile.

With a violent shudder, I retched, the contents of my stomach emptying onto the wooden planks.

I stared blankly at my mess, a strange blend of satisfaction and shame washing over me. Relishing at the thought of having defiled the ship of the Roman usurpers, I was humbled by doing so in front of the man who I failed to kill. My guts were ready to spill again at the very thought.

His chair creaked against the floor as he rose. I only saw his legs as he approached, dropping to his haunches in front of me – in my vomit, and I recoiled, equally to his sudden advance as to the indignity of it. He moved with intent, the scarlet cape pooled around him, and I could not help but feel intimidated. It was like he didn’t know what he was standing in. Or rather, didn’t care. Furthermore, based off his attire alone, he was too high in station to be on his knees for a commoner like me. Even less, kneeling in a commoner’s bodily fluid. 

He was so cool and calculated, from how he moved to how his gaze settled on mine, though something alive played in his dark brown eyes. Something that could snap at any second. His complexion was still riddled with dried dirt and blood from the battle, and the cut in his neck had leaked down his throat like spilt ink. 

I knew not if it was the sudden uprising of nerves, his closeness, or a result of the blow to my head, but the words slipped past my lips without thought. “You’re a truly terrible commander.” I dried the dribble off my chin with the back of my hand.

A furrow etched between his brows and genuine concern flickered in his eyes, like he was contemplating whether it might be true. “I conquered your city,” he parried.

“I nearly killed you,” I retorted.

A hint of malice clouded his features. “Nearly.” His tone of voice gathered timber; that the word came off as a threat. 

He stared at me. The urge to look away was so strong it itched beneath my skin. He expected me to. Though something foreign and astute made me persevere. Holding eye contact with him felt like a deadly game. But it also evoked a whisper of adrenaline, as warm as spiced wine. 

Finally, his eyes drifted downward to the pool of vomit at his feet. “I’ll have someone clean this up,” he said, before leaning forward and putting his arms around me. 

Adrenaline shot through me like a violent storm, and I pushed him away instinctively. His face was a mask of indifference, and he reached for me again, and this time he didn’t let go, no matter how hard I fought him. He carried me up off the settee as I kicked, squealed, grunted and clawed. My mind raced with the thoughts of what he might do to me. His breast plate was ice cold against my skin, but I was too frantic to notice. I came to my senses once he dropped me down in a chair next to the table. He glared at me, clearly unimpressed by my defiance, before grabbing a plate off the table, methodically filling it with a chaotic assortment.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, breaking off a twig of grapes as a final touch before serving it to me, rounding the table to seat himself.

I simply gaped at him, too bewildered to respond. My chest heaved from exertion, my tense body clutching onto the wood of the chair, trembling slightly from the waning adrenaline spike.

“You need not fear me, anaticula,” he soothed. His voice was a strange blend of velvet and steel, a combination I believed to be uniquely his; calming and unsettling me in equal measure. And despite the ingrained hatred I harbored towards his people, an inexplicable, vexing trust for him began to bloom within me.

“I am General Marcus Acacius,” he boomed, as though I would have trouble hearing him from across the table. Where he came from, I’d wager men stood to attention at the mere mention of him, but I remained indifferent. Belittling him was all the power I had.

His name grew heavy in the air, silence stretching. I’d expected him to explain my fate next. That I would be sold as a slave for men to plunder as they wished, or perhaps executed for having his life at my disposal. Perhaps he’d do it himself.

“What do I call you?” he asked finally.

“Whyever does that matter?” I snapped.

“Is it so strange to wish to know the name of the woman who nearly killed me?” His voice dipped at the very mention of it. 

“I’ll be dead soon enough,” I said with feigned indifference. Acacius stiffened, watching me carefully. “Or if you do not kill me, I’d kill myself before I ever become a slave.” I watched him relax slightly and continue his meal.

“That’s not going to happen,” he muttered inbetween chews.

My gut flared with anticipation, “Which part?” I demanded.

He looked up at me. “What’s your name?” he asked, deliberately ignoring my question. 

“Y/N,” I replied, my voice barely a whisper. 

He repeated my name, the sound rolling off his tongue like honey while he fixed me with his eyes dark like amber. I grew strangely warm and restless, and a sudden urge to flee seized me, a wild beast gnawing at my nerves. 

“Where is my brother?” I blurted out, rather raggedly, a note of desperation creeping in, but as I did, I recalled I had not seen Hanno since the start of the battle. Was he even alive?

“Your brother?” he asked, like the notion I’d have a family was aberrant to him, a fleeting spark of uncertainty passing through his eyes. He swallowed sharply, picking at the salted fish on his plate. “With the other prisoners,” he muttered.

“So,” I began, molding myself out of the rigid posture I had assumed, and leaned forward. “Why am I here?” I asked, casting a disapproving look around his opulent cabin.

He stopped and fixed me with a gaze ice-cold. “For safe keeping,” he said sternly. “You nearly killed me today, Y/N. I wouldn’t want to find out what else you’re capable of.”

Vague images flickered before my eyes – chaos, then darkness. “You talk as if it’s some big feat,” I scoffed.

His eyes, twin pools of lethal venom, bored into me. “I assure you,” he hissed, resting his bracers against the edge of the table, a hint of admonition lingering in his voice, “It is.”

My face heated at the thought of having impressed him, but the word ‘nearly’ was a nettlesome creature.

“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” I said, the words bitter on my tongue.

Acacius cocked his brows in recognition and poured wine. “Why didn’t you?” he asked, raising the cup to his lips. 

The question caught me off guard, and a bitter taste filled my mouth. I recalled myself hesitating. I had the blade at his throat. I could have ended the battle there and then, declared Numidia victorious against the power of Rome. But I couldn’t do it. 

“I-,” I don’t know, I thought. 

A sharp knock on the door shattered the silence, and a sentry entered the room, bowing slightly. “General Acacius,” he spoke, his voice laced with duty and reverence. “Rome awaits.” 

Chapter II. | Series Masterlist | Chapter III

Make sure to like and reblog if you enjoyed this chapter, thank you! 🥰

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[yoomiwrites]

We won

Note: Reader x Ekko, just because I wanted to comfort my favorite Arcane baby. Part 2

The night was still, save for the faint hum of the city recovering from the war. The fight had been won, but the cost of victory lingered in every broken building and every empty street. You climbed onto the rooftop, heart heavy but guided by a familiar pull—Ekko. He was there, as you’d known he would be, sitting on the ledge with his knees drawn up and his gaze lost in the city lights.

He looked smaller than usual, like the weight of the world was pressing him down. You hesitated for a moment, unsure if he wanted company, but then you reminded yourself: you’d stood by him through everything—through childhood dreams, whispered plans, and years of unyielding struggle. This was no time to step away.

Wordlessly, you walked over and sank down beside him. The warmth of his presence was the same as always, grounding yet fragile. You didn’t speak immediately, letting the silence breathe between you.

Finally, you reached out, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. He stiffened at first, his pride perhaps urging him to resist. But then he melted into you, his head dipping until it rested against your shoulder.

“It’s okay to cry, you know,” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the city’s distant murmur. “It’s okay to feel everything, Ekko. Even though we won, it doesn’t mean we didn’t lose.”

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. But then you felt it—a single, shaky breath, followed by another. His fingers tightened against his knees, and you knew he was holding back tears.

“I thought it’d feel different,” he finally said, his voice rough and broken. “Winning. I thought it’d… fix things.”

Your heart ached for him. For all his brilliance, for all the things he’d built and rebuilt, Ekko was still just a boy carrying far too much. You wanted to take that burden from him, to remind him he wasn’t alone.

You thought of all the years you’d watched him grow. How he’d once rambled on about Powder, his voice bright with a crush he didn’t even realize he had. How later, he’d spoken with equal passion about his inventions, his plans, and the hope he clung to so tightly. And then there was you—always there, always listening, always fighting to keep up.

And almost dying in the process.

Your body still bore the marks of the war, a deep gash across your side and bruises that would take weeks to fade. But none of that mattered. Not now. Not when you had survived, and not when Ekko was here, alive and safe, even if his heart wasn’t yours.

“None of this is fair,” you whispered, tightening your hold on him. “It’s not fair to lose so much. But we’re still here, Ekko. You’re still here.”

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes meeting yours for the first time. They were red-rimmed, wet with unshed tears, but he didn’t look away.

“You’re always saying stuff like that,” he said with a weak laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Like it’s that simple.”

“It’s not simple,” you admitted. “But it’s true.”

He didn’t reply, but his hand found yours, squeezing it tightly. You stayed like that, sitting together on the ledge, watching the city slowly come back to life.

Inside, you knew your feelings for him would remain unspoken. Ekko’s heart belonged to the ghosts of his past, and you would never try to take that from him. But for now, it was enough just to be here, by his side, holding onto the fragile hope that tomorrow might be kinder.

[itgetzweird08]

can i have this dance? k. bakugo x gn!reader

one two three

“Mmm I like the black jacket more”

Katsuki hums softly at your answer as he holds the suit jacket up to his chest. He scoffs, tossing it haphazardly on the bed before flopping down on top of it. He held his phone above his face at arm's length, staring at your face through the screen as you ate your cereal. “This is fucking stupid” he complains softly and you giggle as he moans and groans, chewing your breakfast.

“It’s not stupid Kats, it’s a dance! And technically, it's your first high school dance. If you ask me it’s long overdue.”

That part was true. It was the first formal UA has hosted in the past three years. Usually, there was a dance twice a year: one during the Christmas festival and the other during the spring semester. It was exclusive to students and staff as everyone dressed to the nines and had a good time celebrating the holiday season and the loveliness of spring. Katsuki grew up hearing about it, and sort of looked forward to them. But due to the League and AFO, class 3-A never got to experience one. Until now.

Japan was slowly returning to normal after the events of the war a year prior, and to celebrate the students after all of their hard work and sacrifices, Nezu had finally cleared the spring formal to take place just a few months before graduation. When the class got the news, they were thrilled and even Katsuki had to admit that he was the tiniest bit excited. That was until Mina mentioned that they were all gonna have to find dates- then his balloon popped. He only wanted one person to be his date at any event, and that was you. Unfortunately, you were halfway across the world. This is why as you sat at your breakfast nook munching on Frosted Flakes, Bakugo laid on his comforter in his pajamas in preparation for bed. You called each other almost every day and when one of the first things he told you was the news about the dance, you begged to see his suit options. That’s what led you here, keeping him up two hours past his bedtime as he gave you a little fashion show. But he didn’t mind. He would explode the planet to make you smile, and he valued your opinion. He just wished you were there to give it in person.

“Yeah I guess,” he huffed and sat up, putting his suit back in his closet, turning off his ceiling light, and getting beneath his comforter. “I just don’t see the fucking point in going.” You raised an eyebrow at him and frowned. You knew he was excited, you could tell because of how fast he told you the news when you called. But now he seemed disappointed. “Why not?” You pried softly, trying to get to the root of the problem as he pouted. His room was dark, so you couldn’t see his entire face, but you could hear in the way he spoke that his bottom lip was slightly jutted out in disappointment. “Raccoon eyes was talking about everyone getting dates and shit…and you aren’t here.”

Your heart broke a little and your eyes stung a bit. He wasn’t upset that he had to go to the dance..he was upset that you wouldn’t be there to accompany him. “Oh baby…I’m so sorry” you whispered. All he did was shrug and grumble to himself, which is what he did when he didn’t want to outright tell you he was sad. “You know I would love to be your date Katsuki…I wouldn’t want to be anything more. But I can’t..we both know that.”

While Japan was making leaps and bounds in its recovery, its reputation in the eyes of other countries was still extremely damaged. After the death of Star and Stripe, all travel to Japan was halted indefinitely in your country. Not to mention, due to the aftermath of America’s number one’s death, as a hero student, you had to fight against the villains that tried to take advantage of the gap she left behind. Between the travel ban and your responsibilities, not to mention general travel costs, there was no possible chance you would be able to accompany Katsuki.

“Yeah, I know…just wish I could dance with you, that’s all. Wanna see you all dressed up and shit.”

All you could do was smile sadly at the camera and muster as much hope as you could for the both of you. “Maybe one day…especially since we’re both graduating soon.”

It was silent for a moment, both of you sitting in your own disappointment. You glanced at the clock, seeing the time and knowing that it was way past the time Katsuki usually slept, so he must be exhausted. But before you let him go, you just had to ask.

"Kats...can you even dance?"

His face filled the screen, eyebrows pulled together in offense. "HUH? What the fuck are you talking about?" You couldn't help but smile at him, and the heaviness of the prior conversation lifted off both of your shoulders. "I'm just asking!" " Of course I can dance! The fuck do you take me for??" "Okay prove it!"

Before he could respond, Katsuki yawned and you took that as your cue. You gave him a warm smile, depsite the fact that he was still glaring at you. " You can show me your moves tommorrow-" " m'not showing you shit-' "Tomorrow! I want to see what you got! Now go to bed, I'll text you later. Love you!"

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. But seeing how goofy and happy you were made him smile slightly. " Love you too. Talk later."

[verstarppen]

pairing; lando norris x fem! star wars actress! reader [ no faceclaim ]

a/n; if i see ONE more "but at what cost" comment i will explode you with my mind

[ series masterlist ]

liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1, kellypiquet and 100,004 others

yn.jpg life recently

view all 90,541 comments

kingmag9 I scrolled so fast I legit thought this is a lando.jpg post

darthjadusdefender are the rumours true, then?

princepercival please respect their privacy and leave the conversation out of her comment section

shae_vizla_2 So no KOTOR movie set pics? :(

vettelover no lando either...

liked by oscarpiastri, mclaren, martingarrix and 875,995 others

landonorris it’s race weekend time 🖤🧡

view all 547,004 comments

angelricciardo oscar: 🧍‍♂️

sugarussell pr team working overtime

cherryhamilton Oscar is an unpaid employee actually

astongoatin day 4785 since our last y/n photo on this account

inchidentlover Where's Waldo modern reboot

dannyavocado so close! your wife is actually missing ♡ please find her

codelh44 everyone else moved on, i stayed with the fact that they took out the -l/n -norris off their twitter names

liked by mclaren, davidcorenswet, oscarpiastri and 925,221 others

yndeathtrooper the only spa weekend that matters

view all 256,540 comments

sunnysainz now why is the only photo of lando with his back to the camera...

tyrescreamer divorce babe DIVORCE

holidaykimi OSCAR LOOKS SO GOOD

alfajuliet i threw my phone across the room i can't take it anymore

generalkenobi3 so no kotor? at all??

papayasalad did you yell "OBJECTION" at least once during the carlos slander i need to know

carlossainz55 ... yndeathtrooper obviously

liked by danielricciardo, oscarpiastri, yndeathtrooper and 2,014,808 others

landonorris as dom toretto said

view all 60,141 comments

yukinator22 oh we're COOKED y'all

albogeant your guys' shoulders must be aching from reaching that far, clearly she's taking the photo

simplyclerc THAT'S WHAT IM SAYINGGGG SHE EVEN LIKED THE POST mcmango ok but why wouldn't she be in the picture like????

super_max A GOOD CAPTAIN FALLS WITH THE SHIP

shadownorris oh okay im just gonna go play my mitski daily mix for the fourth time in a roll that's fine

liked by alex_albon, davidcorenswet, kellypiquet and 148,007 others

yn.jpg goodbye belgium you'll always be famous

view all 60,141 comments

kellypiquet Girls Night 😊

yn.jpg YEAHHHHH

bottaswiththefur aaa the outfit matching the luggage is so cute

lionkingseb lando search party

rock4rrari max???

g3org3zilla i read this in the tone of the seagulls from nemo

pic credits: pinterest and instagram

taglist: @justdreamersdream @cha-hot @dl-yum @minkyungseokie @allywthsr @eugene-emt-roe @soleilgrec @raevyng @baw-sixteen @palomaxaxaxa @cassiopeiia24 @callsignwidow @sheridamn @kissesandmartinis @gods-menace @iifloweringnightsii @fanboyluvr @idkiwantchocolatee @flyclaren @cixrosie @lanando4 @lichterfee @yagirlhayes @blueberry64857959

@thatoneembarrasingmoment @celestialams @inloveallthetime @danielricswife @youdontknowmeshh @arian-directioner @cherry-piee @queen-of-elves @skepvids @woozarts @spaghetittied @1655clean @spidersophie @evie-119 @jggykhug09090 @nataliambc @ems-alexandra @mehrmonga @sanctify-mp3 @eulris @wtfisakilometer2 @aexitizen-ln4 @gulabjamoon @ilymoonie @localwhoore @lavenderhazeeworld @redbullphantasmagoria @onecojg @cixrosie @hiireadstuff @ririyulife @rockstargfism @awritingtree (why are there so many of you people how did you find me)

[prettyboykatsuki]

cw power imbalance + fem!reader + dubcon!

young master gojo satoru and you, the silent, brooding maid girl who's been subject of his harassment for years. you're the daughter of a fallen family - a spoil of war from a broken sorcerer clan with no family left. you do your job well - always stoic, always bitter, and painfully serious. dutiful to the point of absurdity.

you entertain gojo immensely. he can't keep his hands off of of you. the harassment has been present forever, but it escalated to sexual only recently and becomes his favorite thing to do. he says things you hate all the time. he blames you for the fact he's so uninterested in marriage these days since no one could ever be so fun. and it makes you want to claw his eyes out. stark, sharp, piercing blue eyes that keep you pinned under their gaze.

this is your destiny of course. you're stuck. you can't run. where would you even go? if your master calls, you must answer. if gojo spills tea on his pants, it's only natural you clean him off with your mouth as he asks you. if he's bored, it's your duty to pick your skirt up and let him soak the lace with his spit and fingers.

this is your life now. he is your life now. that only gets more true as he becomes the master of the house with age.

and it has been for a long time.

you shouldn't look so sad. so serious. though gojo likes that about you - always remember he utterly adores you. the kind of adoration spoiled golden boys are capable of for their favorite toys.

the kinds of toys that aren't easily broke and cost more than the average man can afford.

[brokenmenswhore]

Would you plssss write something about dom Jace but also dom reader?? Even if she’s one of slocents daughters and comes to dragon stone as she believes Rhanerya to be the true queen so she’s being held prisoner atm while they decide her fate. Her and Jace have always had a thing for eachother but he’s so angry about being left in the dark and he takes it out on her (respectfully). Like they have that hot intense sex ??? Maybe they’re arguing before so it’s a bit of enemies to lovers?? I just need some rougher sex with Jace!! He was looking too good this season and the way he was quite sassy and strong willed was so fucking hot

this is so hot?????? girl i don’t get nearly enough jace requests

loyal | jacaerys velaryon

pairing: jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader

warnings: dacryphilia, smut (MDNI 18+), rough sex, reader consents but some moments may appear as noncon/dubcon

────── ☾ ──────

It started when you were children. Your brothers, Aegon and Aemond, often teased Jacaerys and Lucerys for their dark hair. In return, Lucerys tormented Aemond about the eye he had cost him. There was always tension, and always an unspoken competition of which line was the legitimate succession to the Iron Throne.

Your sister, Heleana, stayed out of the fighting. You oftentimes tried to stick by her side, both desperate to avoid the fighting, as did Jacaerys. Despite the hostility between your family members, you and Jacaerys always tried to get along.

As he grew up, he began to come into his own, but was still very much second to his mother. He became more and more handsome as he aged. You were nearly the same age, so you had the privilege of watching him grow, and he had the same for you.

Your mother vied for your brother, Aegon, to succeed your father, Viserys I. Rhaenyra, Jace’s mother and the daughter of Viserys, maintained her claim. When Viserys passed, your mother placed Aegon on the throne, and Rhaenyra took residence in Dragonstone with her children.

Your mother preached the importance of the family sticking together in support of Aegon, but in truth, you knew she was delusional. Viserys never faltered on his decision to have Rhaenyra succeed him, and Aegon was unfit to rule. Your mother had a subconscious belief that if she assisted in upholding the patriarchy, it would in turn reward her. You knew that so long as she was a woman, it wouldn’t.

Rhaenyra, however, was Viserys’s first born and the rightful heir to the throne. She was level-headed and peaceful, like her father, and you knew in your heart that she was the true queen.

So you left King’s Landing.

There was nothing for you there. You seldom got along with your family, and even Heleana was preoccupied with Aegon and their children. The only member of your family you truly cared for was Jacaerys. You wanted to be on the right side of history, and that meant standing behind Rhaenyra in this baseless war.

Jacaerys, however, remained perpetually angry with you. He expected you to make your allegiance to Rhaenyra known the moment Aegon was put on the throne. He assumed you stood with Aegon when you didn’t, and thought you were therefore against him and his mother, and he was hurt and angered by that belief.

In the earliest hours of the morning, you mounted your dragon, departing your childhood home before your mother could awaken and attempt to stop you.

You arrived in Dragonstone shortly after, and were met with members of the King’s Guard, led by Daemon, as you arrived.

“Bold move, arriving on dragonback unannounced,” Daemon spoke as you jumped off the saddle, “I could have killed you and your dragon before anyone else caught sight of you.”

“Ah, but you didn’t, Uncle,” you responded, pushing your wind-swept hair out of your face.

“What are you doing here?” he cut to the point.

“I am not here as a threat,” you started, “I am here in support of your wife and her cause.”

“And I am to simply believe you?”

“I would expect nothing but suspicion from the likes of you,” you said, an amused smile on your face, “but I do not lie, Uncle. I want no part of the claims my mother or my brother make. Why else would I have come here so suddenly?”

Daemon sighed and inspected your face for a moment, deciding whether or not he trusted you. He always suspected the worst, and thought it better to be safe than sorry. He tilted his head toward the men of the guard, shouting, “keep her in the dungeons for now. Your Queen can decide her fate.”

“Daemon-“ you began to protest, but you were being dragged away within moments. You called back, “you cannot honestly hold me prisoner as punishment for my lineage?”

Daemon called back, “yes I can, niece. I do not trust you yet.”

────── ☾ ──────

The Black Council gathered at the usual time, everyone taking their typical seats, Jacaerys remaining standing opposite his mother across the table.

They began to discuss matters of politics and war, when Daemon chimed in, “We also must discuss the matter of my niece.”

Jacaerys furrowed his brows in confusion.

“She did come here of her own volition, to her credit,” Rhaenyra said, “but you are right, we cannot be sure we can trust her.”

This discussion had clearly started previously, and without Jacaerys present.

Daemon adjusted in his chair, getting comfortable. “I had the guards take her to the dungeons for the time being, but Y/N can be very stubborn, and will not accept staying in there long. We must act quickly if this is disingenuous. It may be an infiltration from the Greens.”

“Yes, well, now that she is already here, we-“

“What do you mean Y/N is here?” Jacaerys nearly spit out, pressing his palms to the table in front of him, leaning toward Daemon, who was nonchalantly sat in his usual council seat.

“She arrived yesterday morn,” Daemon spoke casually, not confused by Jacaerys’s frustration, but simply not caring about it, “your mother was out.”

Rhaenyra began to respond, “I must speak to her before taking any action, to determine if her loyalties truly lie with-“

“She has been here for nearly two whole days and I was not informed?” Jacaerys cut her off.

Daemon lifted his head, “why would you need to be informed, Jacaerys?”

Jacaerys let out a huff of frustration. “I am as much a part of this council as you.” He was also frustrated because it was you, and he wished he knew the moment you arrived, but he could not let Daemon know that.

“I am the King Consort, you forget yourself. I have no obligations to brief you on matters that I do not see fit.”

Jacaerys slammed hit hands on the table. “I am the heir to the Iron Throne, Daemon. I expect to be treated as if all matters that pertain to my mother, pertain to me as well, because they do.”

“Jacaerys-“ Rhaenyra tried to catch his attention, but instead he diverted his frustrations to her.

“And where were you? She has been kept prisoner for nearly two days due to your absence.”

“Mind your tongue,” Daemon warned.

Rhaenyra’s eyes remained focused on Jacaerys. “I had other matters to attend to.”

“And yet again you leave me in the dark, as you both did regarding Y/N.”

“It is never my intent to insult you, Jace,” Rhaenyra said.

Jacaerys pushed himself off of the table, pacing back and forth for a moment. “Let me speak to her.”

“Who, Y/N?” Daemon asked, laughing at the thought.

“Let me handle it,” Jacaerys pleaded, ignoring Daemon as he looked to his mother for approval. His voice and posture were confident, but his eyes were desperate. All he wanted was to be involved.

“Fine,” Rhaenyra waved a hand, “you may handle it, but only because she is most likely to be truthful with you out of all of us.”

Jacaerys stood up straight, taking a deep breath and resetting his confidence. He gave his mother a nod, turning around and retreating toward the dungeons, a guard in tow.

When he arrived in front of your cell, you turned around to face him, almost shocked by the sight of him. He had grown exponentially since you last saw him, and his dark hair was now long and curly, framing his face perfectly.

“Unlock it,” Jacaerys commanded the guard, who unlocked and cracked open the door to your cell.

Jacaerys stepped into the cell, hands over the hilt of his sword as he faced you. “Now leave us.”

The guard coughed, “My Prince, I-“

“I said leave us,” he said again, his voice heavier and more demanding the second time around.

The guard stepped away, nervously dropping the key to the cell door on the ground before he quickly retreated up the steps, leaving you alone with Jacaerys.

Jacaerys was clearly frustrated, and it had been a long time since you’d seen one another. You were unsure of what to say.

“What are you doing here?” Jacaerys said, his nostrils flaring as he focused on standing tall.

“As I told my brother, I am here to support you and your family,” you stated.

“Why am I to believe you?” Jacaerys questioned, “why come now? You did not think it important to decide where your loyalties lie when your mother forced a drunken usurper on the throne?”

You did not expect such hostility from him. You imagined what your meeting would be like, and this was not it. “I admit, I did not have the will to leave until recently.”

“And why is that?” he pressed. Was he mad at you? Was he hurt?

“I did not think myself strong enough, but I am growing rather tired of being weak.”

Jacaerys nodded a few times to himself, stepping closer to you. He went to open his mouth three times to speak, but could find no words to say each time.

You decided to break the silence, asking the question you thought stupid to ask, but you couldn’t help it. “You did not wish to see me until now?”

Jacaerys met your gaze for a moment before responding. “I was not aware you were here until mere minutes ago.”

You shifted your stance as you looked at him in confusion. “But I have been here for nearly two days.”

“My mother enjoys keeping me in the dark,” he explained, “I believe she assumes she is prioritizing my safety. Instead, she is simply underutilizing my talents.”

You sighed. “Do you perhaps trust me enough to let me take leave from this cell?”

“No.”

“But-“

Jace was frustrated by how long it took you to decide to back the Blacks, and was also no longer able to hold back his pent up frustration from his mother always leaving him in the dark and refusing to let him be proactive.

“You took forever, did you know that? This entire time, it’s been the same two sides. You are a big girl now, you’ve been more than capable of choosing a side,” he was nearly shouting now, “and instead you chose to stay with the Dowager Queen and her usurper son!”

“What did you expect of me?” you retorted, voice raised as well, “I left behind my life when I left King’s Landing! All to support what I believe is right! And yet you stand here to what, accuse me of being untruthful? Is that what you think of me, that I am simply here to act as an inconspicuous threat?”

Jacaerys stepped closer to you, his torso nearly hitting yours. He was seething in anger. “If you were truly on my side, you should have come here the second that crown touched Aegon’s head.”

“Who are you truly mad at Jace, hm? Are you truly upset with me, or are you upset your mommy won’t let you play Prince?” you snapped back, fed up with his attitude.

“How fucking dare you speak to me like that,” he spat, “if you truly accepted my mother as your queen, you would know to mind your tongue around the Crown Prince.”

“I will, when the Crown Prince is not being such a prick.”

Jacaerys inhaled a sharp breath, his face turning red from all the pent up anger and frustration he was eager to release. He was speechless, unable to think of a clever enough comeback.

“You’ve found your voice in my absence, haven’t you, Jace?” you asked, your faces mere inches from one another. Your voice was low, almost sultry, and your tone, combined with the close proximity of your bodies, was doing something to Jace.

He felt his cock twitch in his breeches, gazing down at you.

“You wanna prove to me your loyalty, is that it?” Jacaerys asked.

“Whatever it will take for you to believe me,” you responded.

“Bend the knee.”

“Alright” you agreed, “let me out of this cell, and once you take me to your mother I-“

“To me, Y/N. Bend the knee to me.”

You looked deep into his eyes. You could see he was frustrated, both generally and sexually. You two had always liked one another, and not seeing each other for much too long only enhanced the feelings, especially now that you were both grown up.

You never broke eye contact as you slowly sank down onto your knees, both hitting the floor gently as you gazed up at him, your head only a few inches from his most sensitive area.

The sight of you on your knees in front of him was awakening something carnal within him, and the feeling was mixing with his pent up rage, making for a dangerous combination.

“You know what to do,” he spoke.

You continued looking up at him through hooded eyes as you tugged at his breeches, but they wouldn’t move until he removed his sword from around his waist, which he did quickly and swiftly. Without any obstructions, you were able to pull down all the clothing that sat on his waist, freeing his cock.

“And if someone decides to check on the Crown Prince?” you asked, watching Jacaerys shudder as your hand gently wrapped around the base of his length.

Jacaerys braced himself by placing a hand on the wall next to him. “I dare them to try and stop me,” he said, gripping your hair in his hand, making a fist and positioning your head in front of his tip, “open.”

You opened your mouth and stuck your tongue out, and Jacaerys lightly growled as he pushed your face into him, your mouth enveloping his cock as the tip immediately hit the back of your throat, causing your gag reflex to act up for a brief moment.

Your hand remained on the base of his shaft, lightly stroking up and down as he continued to force your head as far as he could down his length, before allowing you to take over. He kept his fingers tangled in your hair, ready to keep you on him if you tried to leave, but he wanted to feel what you could do without his constant guidance.

You set a steady pace with your mouth, running your tongue over and around his tip every once in a while. You looked up at him, and the sight caused his cock to twitch in your mouth as he threw his head back in pleasure.

His lips parted as he involuntarily gasped and whined when you picked up the pace. You continued to look up at him, knowing it added to his arousal when he caught your gaze, his cock bumping your throat as you nearly choked around him.

“Fuck,” he whispered as he began to move your head again, shifting his hips slightly to fuck into your mouth. You tried to maintain your pace, but Jacaerys wasn’t having it. “Stay still,” he demanded.

You put your hands on your thighs, allowing him to take over as he began to fuck your mouth. He was snapping his hips the hardest he could in a standing position.

You began to let out small chokes and moans as he hit the back of your throat at a steady, yet fast rate. You tried to focus on breathing through your nose as you constricted your throat and held your jaw open for Jacaerys to use for his pleasure.

“You look so good on your knees for me,” he spoke through gritted teeth, pushing and pulling your head via your hair a final few times until you felt an unfamiliar, salty liquid hit the back of your throat.

You instinctively swallowed his seed. He held your jaw open as he pulled out of you, checking to ensure you swallowed everything, but you didn’t understand what he was doing.

He ruthlessly shoved two fingers into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue and forcing your mouth even more open. When he couldn’t see or feel any more of his seed in your mouth, he sighed, “good girl.”

“Proven myself enough?” you quipped, giggling slight after your statement to demonstrate that you meant it as lighthearted.

“Your mouth may be loyal to me,” Jacaerys said, “but that’s not the only part of you. Get up.”

You pushed yourself up until you were at his level again, and he immediately grabbed your shoulders, swinging you around and backing you up until the back of your legs hit the cell bench. You fell into a sit, and Jacaerys stood intimidatingly over you.

“Pull your dress up,” he instructed.

You began to bunch up the fabric of the dress Daemon had provided you, pulling it upward until it was at your waistline, and lifting your hips so you were no longer sitting on fabric. You jolted slightly when the flesh of your ass hit the cold bench, and Jacaerys watched in amusement.

Jacaerys tilted his head to the side as he ran a finger along the seam of your small clothes, hooking a finger under the band, pulling, and then snapping the band back onto your waist. “Off.”

You pulled them down your legs, dropping them to the floor below you. Jacaerys stared at your core for a moment before dropping to his knees in front of you, lifting both of your legs and adjusting them onto his shoulders.

Your breathing quickened, your chest rising and falling rapidly and he looked up at you, leaning closer and closer toward you. He stuck his tongue out, running it slowly between your folds, watching you sigh in pleasure at the feeling.

“Have you ever been tasted?” he asked, brimming with a confidence you’d never seen.

“No,” you admitted.

“Good girl,” he praised, “you really are loyal to me.”

He pressed his face to your core, his tongue swirling and circling around your clit as he sucked you, his hands holding onto your thighs for assistance with anchoring them to his shoulders.

Every so often he licked a strip from your hole to your clit, collecting all your wetness in an eager attempt to taste you.

You couldn’t help but watch him. It was so erotic, seeing the boy you’ve wanted like this for so long in between your legs, and looking the most handsome you’d ever seen him.

Your hand found the back of his head, holding him against you as his tongue teased your hole, slowly pushing in and curling upward against your spongy walls as you whimpered.

You completely involuntarily started to twirl strands of his hair around your pointer finger, playing with the unfamiliar length almost on instinct.

Jacaerys pulled away from you. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“S-sorry,” you stuttered, “couldn’t help it. I like it like this.”

“Yeah?” he responded.

“Mhm,” you vocalized, tugging lightly at the strands on the back of his head as he dove back into your cunt, his tongue inside of you at the same time he sucked your clit, the brand new feeling nearly overwhelming.

“Fuck, Jacaerys,” you moaned.

“Tell me you belong to me,” he commanded, watching your face as he continued to pleasure you with his mouth.

“I- I’m yours, Jace,” you breathed out, shaky, “a-always been y-yours.”

Your words made his cock begin to harden again, despite having already came.

Jacaerys moaned into your cunt, causing your walls to squeeze as your high approached.

“If you’re mine, then come for me.”

His words drove you over the edge, your orgasm hitting you hard as your back arched and your thighs tried to clamp around his head, but he held them open as he tasted every last drop from you.

Jace ran a thumb over his bottom lip to collect any extra wetness, sucking the digit clean as he stood over you again.

“Could have had you even earlier,” he said, holding his palm out in front of your face, “if they told me you were here. Spit.”

“Into your hand?” you asked, confused by the action.

“I need something to help lubricate,” he explained, “unless you think you’re wet enough.”

His tone was intentionally taunting you, and it drove you crazy. You liked him being domineering over you.

Embarrassed, you forced the words out, “I don’t think that’s a problem.”

“No?” he responded, ruthlessly shoving a finger into your hole, causing you to gasp as he almost immediately pulled it out and sucked it dry, “guess you’re right.”

He lined his cock up with your entrance, holding one leg flush against his waist. “Can’t believe I could have had you yesterday.”

He pushed his entire length into you with one violent thrust, a strangled moan leaving your throat at the sudden intrusion. The force nearly had you crying, your hole not quite ready for his size, even with your immense wetness.

“Poor baby, is that too much? You gonna cry?” he taunted, pulling almost all the way out before pushing into you hard again, causing your body to jolt upward.

A tear ran down your cheek, and Jacaerys leaned down and licked it off of your face.

Seeing you cry reminded him of the frustration he entered the room with, and he would be damned if he didn’t use the outlet right in front of him to release some of it.

He gripped your waist roughly, beginning to piston in and out of you, forcing you to adjust to his size as you went, if that was even possible.

A hand found its way around your throat, squeezing enough to only slightly obstruct your air flow as he fucked you hard. He thought about how mad at you he was, how mad at his family he was, how mad at this war he was, how good you looked underneath him- he was starting to lose control.

You whined his name as your walls began to squeeze him again, overstimulated from having just came only a few minutes ago. Jacaerys slowed down his pace exponentially, determined to make your next climax drag out.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he praised.

You simply moaned in response, his hips rutting into you at a violent pace, his pubic bone hitting your clit with every single thrust.

His hand left your throat and instead snaked around your waist, holding you at a higher angle that felt even better than before.

“Jace, fuck,” you moaned.

You heard armored footsteps clang down the staircase, and within moments, a member of the guard came into view. Jacaerys turned to him, with no urgency, and no shame. He continued to fuck you as he spoke, “not now.”

The man was caught off guard by the sight, and you tried to turn away from him and hide, but Jacaerys grabbed your jaw and forced you to keep your head straight.

When the man only took a step back and didn’t fully leave, Jacaerys repeated himself. “Not. Fucking. Now.”

The man snapped out of his thoughts the second time, bowing toward Jace and retreating back up the staircase.

Jacaerys picked up the pace once the man was out of view, fucking you as fast as he possibly could.

“Always have to fucking repeat myself,” he said, his anger growing as he dipped his head near the crook of your neck.

He spoke with each thrust, “They Never. Fucking. Listen.”

Tears were freely falling down your face now, the intensity almost too much for you. Jacaerys lifted his head to look at you, saw you crying, and lost it.

He pulled out of you, swiftly pulling you off the bench, spinning you around, and roughly pushing you back down so that your elbows rested on the bench, your ass up and level with his hips.

He inserted himself back into you and reset his pace, snapping his hips against you as hard as he could, watching the flesh of your ass shake with each hit.

He grabbed a fistful of your hair, harshly pulling until your back arched. He watched your face contort in pleasure, now that there was no hiding. Jacaerys had you completely at his mercy.

“So fucking pretty, crying with my cock in you.”

His words caused your walls to squeeze his cock, only a few sharp thrusts away from coming.

Your second high hit you even harder than the first, your legs shaking uncontrollably as your juices lubricated Jace even more.

You would have fallen, your legs giving out, if Jacaerys didn’t have such an intense grip in your hips. Feeling the weakness in your legs. he wrapped an arm around your waist and one around your chest, pulling you upward so that your back was flush against his chest.

He broke his dominance to ask you, “fuck, Y/N, where can I come?”

You sniffled and whined, “I’m yours, Jace, you can come inside of me. Please.”

“You want me to fill you up?” he tsked, holding you tightly against him as he thrust upward, “then beg for it.”

“I- I can’t-“

“I don’t like having to repeat myself,” he spat, his thrusts now long but hard, your whole body convulsing and giving out in his arms.

“Please, Jace, please come in me, I’m yours, I want you in me, please-“

The begging was enough to send him over the edge, and he bit down on your shoulder to quiet his groans as he came inside of you, spilling his seed deep within your walls, further marking you as his.

He held you against his body for several minutes, relishing in the feeling of you so close to him, before slowly helping you sit down on the bench.

He sat next to you, catching his breath along with you. When he was sufficiently recovered, he put his clothes back on, stood up, and held a hand out toward you.

You furrowed your brows in confusion.

“You want out of this cell or not?”

[hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall]

For Rome - Chapter 1

Summary: A weary Roman General, Marcus Acasius, sets out to find the so-called "Angel" his soldiers speak of—a woman with a gentle touch and an even softer voice. What he discovers is far more extraordinary than he ever imagined.

Pairing: General Marcus Acasius x F!Reader

Warnings: a description of injuries (I'm not a doctor or do not have any medical education so apologies), nothing here yet. English isn't my first language so all mistakes are mine for which I apologise.

Words: 6K

The life of a soldier was never an easy one, but the life of a Roman soldier? It was a crucible of steel and blood. General Marcus Acasius knew this better than most. War had carved its lessons into his flesh and seared them into his soul. He had lived through campaigns that churned the earth with rivers of blood, watched comrades fall like broken reeds, and seen hope flicker and die in the eyes of too many men. This was not a life he would have wished upon his worst enemies—let alone himself.

And yet, here he was. Bound by duty, chained to Rome’s legacy, and crushed beneath the weight of serving not one, but two emperors whose names would forever leave a bitter taste on his tongue.

Two boys drowning in power they neither earned nor understood. They were spoiled by their station and cruel in their ignorance, wielding authority like a child might a blade—clumsy, reckless, and devastating. Marcus had long since lost count of the orders he had executed on their behalf, justifying them under the banner of Rome. Yet he knew the truth. He had not fought for Rome in years. He fought for their whims, their games. And the cost? Endless bloodshed. Endless grief.

The screams haunted him most—the keening wails of mothers clutching lifeless sons, the choking sobs of widows, the silent, hollow-eyed children whose futures he had stolen with the sweep of a sword. He had grown sick of it all. Sick of blood-soaked glory, of starving masses, of men reduced to mere tools in the grotesque machinery of imperial ambition.

Perhaps that was why he found himself here now, in the shadowed underground of the subcity. The stench of rot and despair clung to the narrow alleys, and the skeletal frames of the impoverished haunted every corner. It was a place forgotten by the sun and abandoned by Rome, yet it thrummed with whispers.

Whispers of you.

An “angel,” his soldiers had called you. At first, he had dismissed their reverent tones as the drunken ramblings of battle-weary men. What could an angel possibly look like in a place like this? But the way they spoke of you lingered in his mind, drawing him down into this forsaken part of the city.

It was not the talk of your beauty that intrigued him. He had seen beauty before—false and true, fleeting and eternal. What struck him was the way his men, hardened and stoic, described your hands, your voice, your presence. They spoke of the way your touch could ease pain, how your smile softened the sharp edges of their suffering, and how your words, simple and kind, could light the darkest of days. They described you with an almost childlike awe, as though you were something beyond their comprehension, something Rome itself could not tarnish.

Marcus wanted to scoff at their adoration, but the weight in their voices told him otherwise. Could someone like you truly exist in this ruined city? A city bloated with greed, corroded by power, and built on the bones of the desperate? He needed to see for himself.

You were said to help those Rome had cast aside—the soldiers, the beggars, the orphans, and the broken. While the wealthy insulated themselves from the rot, you faced it head-on. Even Lady Lucilla, a shrewd and guarded aristocrat, spoke of you with an uncharacteristic fondness. “A stubborn creature,” she had called you with a rare smile. “She takes only what she needs, no more, even when I insist. She’s maddeningly selfless, like a fool chasing the wind.”

It was those words that lingered as he descended into the subcity. They painted an image of someone unyielding, someone who refused to be swallowed by the darkness around her. Someone who, perhaps, could remind him of what it meant to fight for something greater than power.

The streets grew narrower, the air thicker. His boots crunched against the broken cobblestones as he approached the small gathering place where you were said to tend to the sick and weary. His heart, hardened by years of war, beat faster, not with fear but with something he couldn’t quite name.

The room was not what he expected.

Makeshift beds lined both sides of the narrow space, occupied by men, women, and children in various states of weariness and healing. Yet, unlike the countless barracks and field hospitals Marcus Acasius had seen in his lifetime, this place radiated an unusual serenity. The faces of the sleeping bore no trace of the gnawing fear he had come to associate with suffering. It was as if some invisible spell had been cast here, lulling their troubled souls into a rare and precious peace.

He inhaled deeply, preparing for the sharp sting of blood and rot so common in places of injury and despair. Instead, the air was clean—remarkably so. It smelled faintly of herbs, maybe lavender, and something subtler, something soothing. It reminded him of the private quarters back at his villa, of the rare nights when he could sleep without the shadows of war pressing against his chest. A ridiculous thought, he chastised himself.

And then, he saw you.

You stood with your back to him, entirely focused on the child sitting on the small, battered chair in front of you. Marcus had made no attempt to move quietly—he was a soldier, not a thief—but you hadn’t turned at the sound of his boots on the stone floor. It wasn’t fearlessness; it was trust, an unshakable calm that marked every movement of your hands as you adjusted the sling cradling the boy’s injured arm.

The child couldn’t have been older than eight. His tear-streaked face glistened under the dim light, and yet his lips curved into a smile—soft, hesitant, but undeniably genuine. A smile on the face of an injured child. Marcus stared at the sight, unmoored. He had never seen such a thing before. In the chaos of war, even when children were treated, their screams and sobs were met with indifference, their pain an afterthought. But here, this boy laughed—a pure, light sound that bounced off the walls like a small rebellion against misery.

“General.”

Marcus turned to his right, startled from his reverie. One of his men lay in a bed nearby, his head wrapped in clean bandages, his arm in a sling not unlike the boy’s. He bore the marks of battle but looked far better than Marcus had expected. There was color in his cheeks, and his voice, though tired, carried a note of gratitude. “I didn’t expect to see you here, sir.”

With a quick wave of his hand, Marcus silenced the man’s attempt to rise and salute. Before he could reply, a burst of laughter drew his attention back to you.

The boy was laughing again, his small body shaking with mirth. From where Marcus stood, it seemed you were scolding him, your finger jabbing lightly into his tiny chest. But the smirk tugging at the corners of your lips betrayed you. Whatever you were saying, it was no reprimand. It was a game, a tease, an effort to pull the child out of his fear and into the safety of his own joy.

You lifted the boy off the chair with ease, steadying him as his bare feet touched the floor. His brows knit together as you handed him a small cloth bag, but his frown vanished the moment he peeked inside. His wide, shining eyes spoke volumes. To him, whatever lay within was a treasure.

“Food,” the soldier beside Marcus murmured, his voice low as if sharing a secret. “She always sends them off with something to eat and a few bandages, in case they need more later.”

Marcus turned to him, his expression unreadable.

“We soldiers don’t take the bags,” the man added, his lips curving into a faint smile. “It’s our way of helping her, in a sense.”

Marcus’s gaze shifted back to you, just as the boy flung his arms around your waist. The child’s face pressed into the fabric of your tunic, and for a moment, Marcus expected you to flinch, to recoil from the dirt and grime clinging to him. But you didn’t. Instead, you wrapped your arms around him, holding him as though his small embrace was a gift you treasured.

The light in your eyes was unguarded, pure, as though you had managed to unearth something sacred in this forsaken world. And in that instant, Marcus understood. It wasn’t just the calm you brought to the room or the kindness in your actions. It was the way you saw them—not as burdens, not as broken things to be fixed, but as people.

His gaze landed on you then. You had paused in your work, looking at him with a flicker of curiosity. For a moment, your eyes studied him, piecing together who he might be. Then came the realization, settling over your face like a shadow. Marcus braced himself, expecting anger, distrust, or even fear. He was, after all, the embodiment of the Rome that so many here had suffered under—a man of war, destruction, and discipline.

But no such emotion crossed your features. What he saw instead was recognition and something that startled him even more: worry.

You moved toward him with a grace so natural it seemed deliberate, your steps soft and careful, as though you were wary of waking the injured souls around you. Not that the child’s laughter hadn’t already done so—it rang through the space like a bell, impossible to ignore. Yet your gentle tread felt like a habit born not of necessity but of respect.

“General Marcus Acasius,” you greeted him, your voice low but warm, your lips curling into a soft smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. The worry lingered there, quiet but unmistakable. “Whatever brings you here? I hope you’re not injured?”

Your voice was something else entirely. It carried a tenderness he had not heard in years. It reminded him of a mother soothing her child after a nightmare. No wonder his men had spoken of you the way they had; he could see now how easily they must have fallen under your spell.

“Nothing to worry about,” he replied, surprised at the gravel in his voice. “Just a few bruises—annoying more than painful.” He didn’t know why he admitted it out loud. Perhaps it was the way your eyes held his, unwavering and full of quiet concern, or the way your tone invited truth without demanding it.

“I can take a look at them, if you’ll let me.”

You stepped closer then, as if reaching out to touch him, but your hand hesitated mid-air before falling back to your side. It was almost imperceptible, that moment of pause, but Marcus saw it. It wasn’t fear. It was something else—an acknowledgment, perhaps, of who he was and what he carried. You were cautious, yes, but not timid.

Your attention shifted to the soldier in the nearby bed, and the smile on your face broadened into something softer, brighter. “Emascus,” you murmured, moving to his side. Your hand brushed gently against his forehead as you checked his temperature, your touch featherlight. “You’re not running so hot anymore. That’s a relief.”

The soldier nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Marcus watched the exchange, a strange mixture of emotions stirring in his chest. Gratitude was chief among them—gratitude that someone cared for his men in a way he no longer could. Your hands, your voice, your presence—it was a balm for these battle-weary souls. But beneath that gratitude was a deep sadness. It pained him that such care could only be found here, in the forgotten corners of Rome, among those cast aside by the empire he had given his life to defend.

Your voice drew him from his thoughts.

“Would you be so kind as to wait for me in that room there?” you asked, gesturing toward a door at the end of the corridor.

For a moment, Marcus didn’t register that you were speaking to him. When he did, his brows lifted in surprise. There was an unexpected firmness in your tone—not commanding, exactly, but resolute. Though your words were phrased as a request, there was no mistaking that you fully expected him to comply.

“I like my patients to have an ounce of privacy while I take care of them,” you continued, your smile returning, this time with a hint of mischief. “If you allow it, my lord.”

Something in your tone almost made him laugh. He hadn’t been spoken to like this in years—not with such quiet authority, not by someone who seemed utterly unshaken by his presence. You didn’t seem to see the weight of his title, only the bruised man standing before you.

His lips twitched, amusement threatening to break his stern facade, but he merely nodded and turned toward the door. He left the soldier in your care and entered the room you had indicated.

The space was small but neat, with a wooden bench against one wall and a table holding an assortment of salves and bandages. It smelled faintly of herbs, the scent even stronger here than in the main room. As he sat, Marcus felt a strange sense of anticipation, as though crossing the threshold of this room had marked the beginning of something he couldn’t yet name.

He leaned back, his gaze drifting to the door as he waited. For the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking of battles or emperors. Instead, his mind was filled with you—your quiet confidence, your steady hands, and the unexpected strength in your voice.

He hadn’t even noticed when his eyes closed. The stillness of the room wrapped around him, lulling him into an unfamiliar calm. It was unlike him to let his guard down. Years of war had taught him to remain vigilant, always aware of his surroundings. Yet here he was, letting his defenses crumble in the quiet warmth of this strange place.

The great General Marcus Acasius, lulled into a fleeting peace by a mere slip of a woman. He almost chuckled at the absurdity of it. Somewhere in the heavens, the gods were surely laughing.

When he woke, the room was darker than he remembered. The soft glow of a single candle now lit the space, casting flickering shadows across the walls. He blinked, his eyes adjusting, and realized the other candles had been extinguished. The lone flame illuminated a desk cluttered with papers, small jars, and bundles of herbs.

You sat there, leaning over a parchment, your brow furrowed in concentration. The light caught the curve of your cheek and the faint smudge of ink on your fingers. There was an endearing focus to the way you worked, your nose scrunching slightly as if deep thought required such a gesture.

A strange thought crossed his mind—you looked almost...adorable.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

His voice was rougher than he intended, and he regretted it when you jumped, startled by the unexpected sound. Your hand flew to your chest, but the alarm faded quickly, replaced by that familiar, calming smile.

“You seemed like you needed the rest, my lord,” you replied, standing to light the other candles. The room grew warmer, brighter, the flickering light chasing away the shadows and revealing more of the space. You moved with practiced ease, each motion deliberate yet unhurried.

Moments later, you handed him a cup of wine. “It may not be as fine as what you’re accustomed to, but my father always said it’s good manners to greet a guest of high rank with wine rather than water.”

There was a playful lilt to your voice, a teasing cheerfulness that felt out of place yet oddly welcome. It caught him off guard—not just the tone, but the fact that you spoke to him as if he were merely a man, not a general burdened by the weight of Rome’s empire. There was respect in your words, yes, but also a grounding quality that made him feel human, rather than the untouchable figure most people treated him as.

He took a cautious sip of the wine, raising a brow in surprise. It wasn’t the finest vintage he’d ever tasted, but it was far from the worst. Given your introduction, he’d expected something barely drinkable.

His surprise deepened when he noticed you pouring yourself a cup of water.

“I prefer to keep my wits about me,” you said, catching his expression. “A clear head is important, especially if someone comes in need.”

But when he didn’t respond, still staring at you with mild bewilderment, you reached for his cup and took a small sip of the wine yourself. The casualness of the gesture startled him. You drank as if it were the most natural thing in the world, then placed the cup back in his hands with a smirk.

“See? I’d make a terrible healer if I poisoned my patients.”

“And since when am I your patient?” he asked, his tone caught between amusement and disbelief. Few dared to address him so directly, let alone with such nonchalance.

“Since you admitted your bruises,” you replied, settling onto the edge of your desk with an easy grace. You leaned forward slightly, your gaze locking with his. “Speaking of which, will you let me see them? I might be able to make them less...annoying.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost forming a smile. The way you quoted his own words back at him carried a lightness he hadn’t felt in years.

For a moment, he simply looked at you. In a world that demanded so much pretense, you were refreshingly unguarded, completely at ease in your skin. There was a peculiar strength in your openness, a quiet defiance of the world’s harshness that left him disarmed.

And against all odds, he found himself nodding.

“Let me help you with this,” you said softly, gesturing to his armor.

Your tone was steady but not commanding, leaving the choice entirely to him. Marcus hesitated for a moment before nodding, a small gesture that carried more weight than you realized. You hadn’t moved an inch until he gave his permission, a restraint he found rare and striking. You valued dignity, it seemed—not just your own but that of others—and in a world like his, where power often crushed such considerations, it felt like a delicacy.

Your hands, though small, moved with confidence. It wasn’t the first armor you had removed, that much was clear. Yet there was a care in the way you handled the clasps and buckles, as if you weren’t simply working with steel but touching him directly. That thought made Marcus uneasy, though not unpleasantly so. You were a mystery, a curious creature that didn’t fit into any category he knew.

When you finally peeled away the layers of armor and his tunic, leaving him in his undergarment, your sharp intake of breath didn’t escape him.

“Those look a bit more than just annoying bruises,” you chided, your voice carrying both concern and a quiet reprimand.

Marcus felt strangely exposed—not just physically but in some deeper, more vulnerable way. He had been treated by healers before, but those were men, soldiers like himself, who patched him up with brisk efficiency and little ceremony. This was different.

Your fingers brushed over his scars and bruises, light and careful, yet purposeful. Some of the older wounds bore the telltale signs of sloppy care: reddish bandages, poorly healed scars, and swelling around the stitches. Your grimace deepened as your gaze settled on two scars that had become infected.

He watched your face, noticing the way your lips pressed together in frustration, your brows knitting with disapproval. It wasn’t directed at him, though. That much was clear.

“You don’t look too happy,” he said, his voice laced with dry humor.

You sighed, your fingers continuing their examination. He winced when you pressed gently against one bruise, testing for deeper damage. But when your hand moved to the large bruise near his ribs, the pain was immediate and sharp. Marcus flinched, a curse slipping through his clenched teeth as his hand shot up to grab yours, stopping you from pressing further.

“Forgive me, General,” you said, your tone clipped, “but at least now I know you do feel pain. You’re just a complete moron for ignoring it.”

“Excuse me?” Marcus exclaimed, genuinely taken aback. For the first time in years, someone had spoken to him with such boldness, and he wasn’t sure whether to be offended or impressed. “Do you care who you’re speaking to?”

Your expression didn’t waver. In fact, you seemed entirely unbothered by his title or his irritation. “You can sentence me to death for my words if you wish, my lord,” you said, your voice firm but laced with a frustration he could only describe as maternal, “but it doesn’t change the fact that you have multiple broken ribs. And you’ve neglected them. Not to mention whoever last treated your wounds should be stripped of any right to practice medicine. Two of these scars are infected, and I’ll need to reopen, clean, and stitch them properly.”

You glanced up at him then, and his breath caught. The anger in your eyes wasn’t for him—it was for his neglect and whoever had failed to care for him properly. There was something about that look, fiery and determined, that melted something in him he hadn’t realized was frozen.

“So you can do whatever you wish with my head,” you continued, your tone softening slightly but still resolute, “but only after I’ve taken care of you, my lord.”

Marcus stared at you, speechless. No one had ever cared for him enough to risk their own well-being for his. You had to know the danger of speaking to him this way, yet here you stood, unwavering.

And, to his surprise, he didn’t mind. He found that when it came to you, he didn’t care about his status or authority.

“Where do you want me?” he asked at last, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice.

You blinked, caught off guard for the first time. Your reaction was subtle—just a few moments of hesitation—but it was enough to make him smirk. A small, childish triumph stirred in his chest, a victory that felt sweeter than any battle he’d won.

You were good. Really damn good. It didn’t take long for Marcus to understand why his men preferred you over the hardened healers in the camps. Your hands were smaller, gentler, moving with a precision that was both calming and mesmerizing. But it wasn’t just your touch—it was the way you talked him through each step, explaining what you were doing as though giving him a measure of control. It was a strange thing for him to find comfort in, but it steadied him in ways he didn’t expect.

When the time came to reopen his infected scars, you hesitated. Your expression faltered, guilt flashing across your features like a crack in the calm façade you wore. “Brace yourself,” you said softly, almost pleading. And when the scalpel touched his skin, you winced, as though the pain you inflicted was your own to bear.

It hurt, of course, but it was nothing Marcus hadn’t endured before. Yet the way you worked, with such care and purpose, made it impossible to look away. Your movements were swift but deliberate, your focus unwavering. You cleaned each wound with an attentiveness he had never experienced, as though the scars on his body were more than just marks of survival—they were something sacred.

“You’re better behaved than your men,” you teased as you began cleaning the second wound.

Marcus raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh?”

“I remember Euthris once proposing that a kiss would make him feel better,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips.

He chuckled, the sound surprising even himself. He had known women who would have slapped a man for such a comment without hesitation. And yet here you were, laughing about it.

“I do apologize for my men,” he said, his tone warm, amusement lacing his words. Truthfully, he understood the poor soldier’s sentiment. He surprised himself by realizing he wouldn’t mind a kiss from you either. But he was no longer as bold as he once had been—age and experience had tempered him. “I assume he left thoroughly disappointed?”

You shook your head, a playful glint in your eye. “I kissed his cheek to thank him for donating his food bag to someone else.”

Marcus blinked, taken aback by your words. His expression softened as he processed them. Perhaps his men were flirtatious, even bold, but they were also honorable.

“They’re good men,” you continued, your voice quieter now. “I’ve noticed the way they leave their bags behind, or how they slip coins into places they think I won’t see. They could spend those coins on something for themselves, but instead, they choose to help. You should be proud of them, my lord.”

“I don’t believe I’ve had much to do with their actions…” Marcus began, but his words faltered as you began stitching the reopened scar.

Your apologies came soft and quick, almost teary, as the needle pierced his skin. He wanted to tell you it was fine, to reach out and brush the concern from your face, but he remained still, letting you work.

“I didn’t know about your existence,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now. “I came here because I overheard my men talking about you during one of their drunken nights.”

You flushed at that, your laughter turning awkward and small.

“They spoke of an ‘Angel,’” he continued, his eyes fixed on your face. “And I had to see for myself.”

“You must be disappointed then, my lord,” you whispered with a hint of humor, turning to the next wound. Again, you apologized softly when the needle broke through his skin.

“I never had an image in mind of what an angel might look like,” he said. His voice dipped, becoming almost reverent as he reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The movement was instinctive, unplanned, and when your body froze beneath his touch, he hesitated. Had he crossed a line?

“But if someone were to ask me now,” he continued, his hand retreating slowly, “I would give them your description.”

Your breath hitched, and your wide eyes lifted to meet his. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the air between you thick with something unspoken.

You had heard of General Marcus Acasius. His name carried weight, whispered among soldiers and citizens alike. He was a formidable force, a man whose strength and cunning had turned the tide of many battles. But more than that, he was spoken of as a good man—merciless in war but fair, unwavering in his duty.

When he had walked into your space earlier that day, the first thing you noticed was how unfairly handsome he was. You had wondered, fleetingly, how a man like him could ever be sent to a battlefield. But now, as you stitched the last wound and felt the weight of his words sink in, you realized he was more than his reputation. He cared for his men, even as he neglected himself. He spoke without arrogance, treated you with respect, and carried a depth that made you want to know more.

“Forgive me, my lady. It seems I’m as ill-behaved as my men,” Marcus chuckled, the sound warm yet apologetic. His gaze dropped to your hands, which had frozen mid-motion after his words and touch. You swallowed hard, regaining your composure, and quickly returned to stitching the last wound.

When you finished, your voice was soft, almost hesitant as you asked him to remain lying down. If the room hadn’t been so quiet, he might have missed it entirely. Without waiting for a response, you turned to your table, busying yourself with a small bottle and herbs.

The smell that wafted from your work was unlike the harsh medicinal odors he’d grown accustomed to—sharp, biting scents that clung to battlefields and camps. This was different, a subtle and soothing aroma that seemed to fill the space with peace. He found himself breathing it in deeply, drawn to its unfamiliar comfort.

“You have nothing to apologize for, my lord,” you said after a moment, your voice steadier now. When you turned back to him with a medium-sized bottle and a piece of gauze, he noticed the faint flush on your cheeks. His lips curved into a small, unbidden smile, his ego growing slightly at the sight.

“Rather than ill-mannered,” you added, a shy smile tugging at your lips, “it was quite charming, I must admit.”

Marcus chuckled again, his gaze resting on you as though you were some kind of art—something rare and unexpected in his world of violence and chaos.

“But I am no lady,” you continued, meeting his eyes briefly before glancing away. “I’m just a girl from the lower classes, trying to carve out a place for herself in this cruel world.”

“You are the reason my soldiers are still standing,” he replied, his voice steady and sincere. “If anyone is worthy of the title, it’s you.”

His words took you off guard. There was a weight to them, a charm so effortless it almost felt unintentional. “Not to mention,” he added with a faint smirk, “you still haven’t told me your name.”

Your reaction was almost comical—your hands paused mid-action, and your mouth opened as if to reply, only for you to close it again, too embarrassed to speak. Marcus couldn’t hold back the laugh that burst from him. It was deep, genuine, and so free of burden that it surprised even himself. He hadn’t laughed like that in years, and you, caught in the sound of it, found yourself smiling despite your flustered state.

Finally, you managed to stammer out your name. The way he repeated it, soft and deliberate, made your heart skip a beat.

“I…” You cleared your throat, willing the warmth in your cheeks to fade. “I’ll apply this oil to the bruises on your ribs, then wrap them with bandages. I assume you won’t accept the bandages from me.”

When he nodded, the smirk on his face grew, earning a roll of your eyes.

“Fine,” you said with mock exasperation. “But I insist you take the oil and use it before bed each night.”

He hesitated for only a moment before accepting the bottle. He knew well enough he couldn’t find anything like it elsewhere. But as you began to pull your hand away, his fingers closed gently over yours, stopping you.

From beneath the folds of his armor, Marcus retrieved a small leather bag. Without hesitation, he placed it in your hand. The weight of the coins surprised you, and you immediately began to shake your head.

“I cannot accept this,” you said firmly. “I won’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument, “and you will, my dear.” His smirk softened into something warmer, his voice quieter as he added, “You’re doing an incredible job—not just for my men but for everyone who comes to you. If not for yourself, then take it to help them.”

You looked down at the bag, then back at him, your throat tightening as the emotions you had kept at bay finally broke through. Tears welled in your eyes, spilling over before you could stop them.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “From the bottom of my heart.”

Marcus, sensing your discomfort at showing such vulnerability, simply nodded and looked away, giving you a moment to collect yourself.

Steeling yourself, you poured some of the oil onto the gauze and began to gently apply it to his bruises. Your touch was soft but deliberate, your movements careful as you worked. The warmth of the oil seeped into his skin, its soothing scent filling the space between you.

As you finished and prepared the bandages, Marcus watched you with quiet fascination. He hadn’t expected to find someone like you in a place like this—someone who treated others with such care and dignity, no matter their station. He couldn’t help but admire you. There was a quiet strength in everything you did, a resilience that didn’t demand attention but couldn’t be ignored. Yet, alongside that strength, you carried a gentleness that was rare in a world like his—a softness that didn’t falter, even under the weight of the pain and chaos you confronted daily.

“I want this oil to be gone in three days,” you said at last, your voice steadier now, though the lingering care in your eyes hadn’t wavered since he first saw you. “Every night, it should be applied.”

You looked at him then, something sterner flickering behind your gaze, and for a moment, he saw the fierce determination that lay beneath your calm exterior. “And please,” you continued, the words firm but kind, “do not overwork yourself. Those ribs need time to heal, and they won’t get it if you keep pushing yourself.”

He smiled at that, a quiet acknowledgment of your concern, and nodded. His eyes never left you as you worked, wrapping his torso with bandages. Despite the size of your hands, your touch was confident, and your movements were precise. To his surprise, when you finished, he found himself able to breathe a little easier.

“The dressing of broken ribs is crucial for your health,” you explained, as though anticipating the thoughts running through his mind. “Even if it hurts a little, it needs to be done tightly enough to provide support.”

You glanced up at him, your smile gentle but teasing. “My biggest concern was that one of the ribs might puncture your lung. And, well, no one wants that.”

He chuckled at the light humor, his chest rising and falling more easily than it had in days.

“I won’t waste your hard work on me,” he said sincerely, his voice warm with gratitude. There was something in his gaze—a softness, an intensity—that made your breath catch for just a moment.

You nodded, stepping back and surveying your work with a satisfied expression.

“Do you need help dressing?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

Marcus moved his arms tentatively, testing the bandages’ hold. To his relief, the sharp pain had dulled significantly. “No, I think I’ve got it,” he replied, shaking his head with a small smile.

“Good,” you said, turning back to tidy your workspace. “I want to see you again in three days for an inspection.”

He pulled his tunic over his head, watching you as you worked, your movements fluid and purposeful. He couldn’t help but notice the care in even the smallest gestures—the way you arranged the jars, the precise manner in which you cleaned your tools. His gaze lingered, and a soft smile touched his lips when he realized how intently he was observing you.

You continued speaking without looking at him. “Of course, if you decide not to take my head before then.”

At that, Marcus frowned. But when you turned to him with a playful smirk, his confusion gave way to quiet laughter.

“And who would take care of my soldiers the way you do?” he replied, his tone gentle but sincere.

Your expression softened at his words, and you rolled your eyes in mock exasperation. “Three days, General,” you murmured, turning to leave.

As you disappeared into the hallway to check on your other patients, Marcus remained where he was, his mind lingering on the sound of your voice and the way you had looked at him—not as a general, but as a man. He was already counting the hours until he’d have an excuse to see you again.

[callsignhood]

Calling König by different cute names:

Tags: Gender neutral, tooth rotting fluff, that’s it.

❤️Schatzi (Honey)

“Where did you learn that?” He blinks his eyes in pure joy and surprise. He loves the way you’re speaking German with him. “You’re my beloved too, my Häschen, my Spätzchen.” He happily teases you back with a grin. He’ll call you by something lovely and purposefully cute, because you are the one that he needs to protect with all cost.

🧸Teddy bear

He laughs with delight. He then drowns you in the embrace of his arms and made sure to avoid squeezing you too tightly, since he is aware of his size and strength. “Of course, I’ll be it.” He playfully spins himself with you a few round, looking at you with those pretty blue eyes full of affection. You can tell he has a big smile under the sniper hood.

💅Baby girl / War princess

König flinches at the name, and he looks you up and down a few times, wondering if he heard it wrong. You repeat it again. He unbelievably coughs out a laugh. “Ernsthaft?” (Seriously?) He’s not very amused, but he’s far from upset. He frowns a little under his sniper hood, and drops his head on your shoulder, giving you a few nuzzles. “Bitte (Please), call me Schatzi or something, I prefer those.”

If you keep calling him Baby girl, expect some defensive head shakes and arm nudges. Nobody has ever called him by those, and it’s… a bit weird for him. But he’d probably accept his fate and comes to you with a grumpy eye roll. “Yes yes. I’m here.”

🎶A name in your native language or something he is not familiar with

“What’s that? Tell me.” He let out a chuckle, grabbing your hand and giving it a light squeeze. He couldn’t understand the meaning behind it, but he’s sure it’s something either cute or cheesy, since he knows you like to tease him. If you don’t tell him, he’ll ask his teammates and find his answer. He is also willing to learn a few pet-names in your own language. Please expect and tolerate some cute mispronunciation from him.

💍Meine Frau (my wife)

König immediately chokes on air, stares at you with wide opened eyes from your baffling words. He then puts one hand on his eyes, sighing out a weak and desperate Nein (No) under his sniper hood. “My love, it’s not right, I should be dein Ehemann (your husband), not your wife.” He corrects you with an embarrassed tone, as his cheeks and ears grew hotter under that piece of cloth. He’s grateful that you couldn’t see him blushing as you finally corrected yourself with mein Ehemann.

He will secretly consider when should he make this name come true to its meaning.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The real problem with anonymity

I'm on tour with my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me in TUCSON (Mar 9-10), then San Francisco (Mar 13), Anaheim, and more!

According to "the greater internet fuckwad theory," the ills of the internet can be traced to anonymity:

Normal Person + Anonymity + Audience = Total Fuckwad

https://knowyourmeme.com/memes/greater-internet-fuckwad-theory

This isn't merely wrong, it's dangerously wrong. The idea that forcing people to identify themselves online will improve discourse is demonstrably untrue. Facebook famously adopted its "real names" policy because Mark Zuckerberg claimed to believe that "Having two identities for yourself is an example of a lack of integrity":

https://www.zephoria.org/thoughts/archives/2010/05/14/facebook-and-radical-transparency-a-rant.html

In service to this claimed belief, Zuckerberg kicked off the "nym wars," turning himself into the sole arbiter of what each person's true name was, with predictably tragicomic consequences:

https://www.kalzumeus.com/2010/06/17/falsehoods-programmers-believe-about-names/

Facebook is, famously, one of the internet's most polluted reservoirs of toxic interpersonal conduct. That's not despite the fact that people have to use their "real" names to participate there, but because of it. After all, the people who are most vulnerable to bullying and harassment are the ones who choose pseudonyms or anonymity so that they can speak freely. Forcing people to use their "real names" means that the most powerful bullies speak with impunity, and their victims are faced with the choice of retreat or being targeted offline.

This can be a matter of life and death. Cambodian dictator Hun Sen uses Facebook's real names policy to force dissidents to unmask themselves, which exposes them to arbitrary detention, torture, and extrajudicial killing. For members of the Cambodian diaspora, the choice is to unmask themselves or expose their family back home to retaliation:

https://www.buzzfeednews.com/article/meghara/facebook-cambodia-democracy

Some of the biggest internet fuckwads I've ever met – and I've met some big ones! – were utterly unashamed about using their real names. Some of the nicest people I know online have never told me their offline names. Greater internet fuckwad theory is just plain wrong.

But that doesn't mean that anonymity is totally harmless. There is a category of person who reliably uses a certain, specific kind of anonymity to do vicious things that inflicts serious harm on whole swathes of people: corporate bullies.

Take Tinyletter. Tinyletter is a beloved newsletter app that was created to help people who just wanted to talk to others, without a thought to going viral or getting rich. It was sold to Mailchimp, which was sold to Intuit, who killed it:

https://www.theverge.com/24085737/tinyletter-mailchimp-shut-down-email-newsletters

Tinyletter was a perfect little gem of a service. It cost almost nothing to run, and made an enormous number of peoples' lives better every day. Shutting it down was an act of corporate depravity by some faceless Intuit manager who woke up one day and said "Fuck all those people. Just fuck them."

No one knows who that person was. That person will never have to look those people in the eyes – those people whose lives were made poorer for that Intuit executive's indifference. That person is the greater fuckwad, and that fuckwaddery depends on their anonymity.

Or take @Pixsy, a corporate shakedown outfit that helps copyleft trolls trick people into making tiny errors in Creative Commons attributions and then intimidates them into handing over thousands of dollars:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/01/24/a-bug-in-early-creative-commons-licenses-has-enabled-a-new-breed-of-superpredator/

Copyleft trolling is an absolutely depraved practice, a petty grift practiced by greedy fuckwads who are completely indifferent to the harm they cause – even if it means bankrupting volunteer-run nonprofits for a buck:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/02/commafuckers-versus-the-commons/

Pixsy claims that it is proud of its work "defending artists' rights," but when I named the personnel who signed their names to these profoundly unethical legal threats, Pixsy CEO Kain Jones threatened to sue me:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/13/an-open-letter-to-pixsy-ceo-kain-jones-who-keeps-sending-me-legal-threats/

The expectation of corporate anonymity runs deep and the press is surprisingly complicit. I once spent weeks working on an investigative story about a multinational corporation's practices. I spent hours on the phone with the company's VP of communications, over the course of many calls. When we were done, they said, "Now, of course, you can't name me in the article. All of that has to be attributed to 'a spokesperson.'"

I was baffled. Nothing this person said was a secret. They weren't blowing the whistle. They weren't leaking secrets. They were a corporate official, telling me the official corporate line. But they wouldn't sign their name to it.

I wrote an article about for the Guardian. It was the only Guardian column any of my editors there ever rejected, in more than a decade of writing for them:

https://memex.craphound.com/2012/05/14/anodyne-anonymity/

Given the press's deference to this anodyne anonymity, it's no wonder that official spokespeople expect this kind of anonymity. I routinely receive emails from corporate spokespeople disputing my characterization of their employer's conduct, but insisting that I not attribute their dubious – and often blatantly false – statements to them by name.

These are the greater corporate fuckwads, who commit their sins from behind a veil of anonymity. That brand of bloodless viciousness, depravity and fraud absolutely depends on anonymity.

Mark Zuckerberg claimed that "multiple identities" enabled bad behavior – as though it was somehow healthy for people to relate to their bosses, lovers, parents, toddlers and barbers in exactly the same way. Zuckerberg's motivation was utterly transparent: having "multiple identities" doesn't mean you "lack integrity" – it just makes it harder to target you for ads.

But Zuckerberg couldn't enshittify Facebook on his own. For that, he relies on a legion of anonymous Facebook managers. Some of these people undoubtably speak up for Facebook users' interests when their colleagues propose putting them in harm's way for the sake of some arbitrary KPI. But the ones who are making those mean little decisions? They absolutely rely on anonymity to do their dirty work.

Name your price for 18 of my DRM-free ebooks and support the Electronic Frontier Foundation with the Humble Cory Doctorow Bundle.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/04/greater-corporate-fuckward-theory/#counterintuit-ive

[revelboo]

went through all of "everything is alright" and I'm far too attached to it already (and also heartbroken as of the current chapter 💔💔), thank you for the amazing writing and quick updates!!

(also you made me finally purchase some of the blokees I had my eye on🫶)

Thank you for reading my nonsense! The Blokees figures are some of my favorites- I love little figures

Everything is Alright Pt 80

IDW Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader, Megatron x Reader

• “Everything.” One little word that sends cracks running through him, lets the ice seep in. The numb anger. Because he knows the things he’s done to further the Decepticon cause. Some of them of his own volition to enhance his position, others under Megatron’s name. Your eyes looking up at him, hurt and almost pleading with him to deny it. To tell you it’s all a lie, because you don’t want to know the truth of him. That he did the hard things, he did what was necessary. You hadn’t resisted when he’d picked you up. Maybe as broken as he feels. No matter how much he’d wanted to shield you from the reality of this war, to let it be something you don’t need to think too much on, there’s no hiding it anymore.

• “Now you know,” he growls, rasping voice colder than you’ve ever heard it. Wishing he’d denied it even if it was a lie. You’re not a child, it’s not like you don’t understand that they’re at war, but some of those things were just cruel. Violence for the sheer delight of causing pain and you don’t want that to be who he really is. Don’t want to love someone who could do that. Want to pretend that it’s still alright. That it’s just you and him learning each other, growing closer without reality slipping in. Because right now, your heart is breaking.

• Watching you hurts, because Soundwave can feel that despair, that aching sting of grief. And he doesn’t know how to fix this. If it even can be fixed. As Starscream turns to leave with you, he reaches out, catches his arm. “Wait,” he says. Wanting to take you, keep you with him, because right now he doesn’t trust the Seeker’s mindset at all. And Starscream rounds on him, denta bared and a cannon in his face. Realizes that the SIC has nothing left to lose, optics furious with hate. So it’s a surprise when Starscream lowers his arm and walks past. As if he’s not even worth the bother. Taking you away as his spark aches, because this isn’t what he wanted at all.

• It’s oddly freeing realizing it’s all gone, everything taken away from him. You’re still there in his hand, but that trust is broken. And he just wants to scream, to destroy something. Because having you with him and so distant and quiet is worse than just losing you. Wonders if you’ll be able to bear looking at him anymore. If you’ll speak to him or just hide from him. See only a monster. Entering his quarters, he looks down at you, meeting your eyes. Megatron said the words, but this is the culmination of a lifetime of his decisions. “Talk to me, please.” Those soft words make his spark ache. Cut through the indifference he wants to protect himself with. “Star?”

• “Do you want me to deny everything?” He asks. And you really do, but you just shake your head. “I made mistakes. I was cruel and ambitious,” he says slowly, a servo sliding against your hip as he keeps you trapped in his hand, standing in the middle of his habsuite. Like he’s afraid to put you down in case you try to get away. “And I’m not entirely sure I can be anything else at this point.” Jaw working like the admission cost him something, you close your eyes. But… That’s not exactly true is it? He’s been changing, softening every day. Those big hands capable of violence, but never towards you. If he’s been monstrous in his past, that’s not the him you know. Even if those horrors laid out for you can still hurt you, they’re not him anymore. Right? Because you need to believe that or you’ll come apart completely.

• “I want to hear it all from you. The truth, good and bad,” you whisper, a tear sliding down your cheek. Not pushing him away or abandoning him. Not yet and he doesn’t know what to make of you. You already know. Megatron would have told you in grisly detail, so why ask for more pain? Are you trying to understand him? Making an effort to reach out to him still? Servo sliding over your cheek to wipe away the tear, you touch his hand. Remembering your hesitant admission that you liked him what feels like forever ago. He’d never told you how he felt about you in return, though. Not really. Unable to bring himself to admit that he needs you beside him, to make himself vulnerable that way with words. That he can’t sleep without you there, that you’re everything now, his world narrowed down to you, tied to the beat of your heart, to your smiles. It’s why he’d bonded you to him without asking, because he needed you and he was afraid of being denied so he’d taken. Optics shuttering, he sits on the berth with you. And slowly, hesitantly, he begins to speak. To get all the awfulness out.

• It’s funny. Breaking the Seeker’s little pet didn’t give him the satisfaction Megatron expected. Only left him more exhausted than before. Sitting on the edge of his berth, he keeps picturing your eyes leaking. Your pain. And it doesn’t matter. You’re just a human, you’re nothing. But he keeps thinking about it all the same. Telling himself that he doesn’t care. That you’re one more casualty of the war and that those ghosts don’t bother him.

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