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ceilidho · 2 months ago

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I’ve been watching Spartacus with my dad and I must share with you the vision I had.

Gladiator 141 and the sweet little thing they got as a reward after a fight well fought.

this is very old:

Sometimes he spends as much as an hour staring at you through the bars of your cell.

You haven’t yet worked up the nerve to say something to him. Not while he still wears the silver-plated galea that obscures most of his face. You can still see thin lips through the middle slit of his helmet, where the cheek plates don’t meet and the thin strip running down the bridge of his nose gives way to his philtrum, and the barest slivers of dark eyes.

Apart from his helmet, he wears little else—sometimes the customary leather pteruge around his waist or a simple tunic belted at the waist. Nothing that would hinder his movements. It keeps the bulk of him on display. A prized fighter then, you surmise, as if the helmet weren’t enough to make that known.

He still gleams bronze from his fights under the sun. Perhaps he’s counted at least a full hand’s worth this week alone. He comes to you sometimes after those very fights, still dripping sweat and prowling the length of your cell like one of the lions kept beneath the arena. You never know what to say to him then. There’s little you can do apart from curl up into yourself in the far corner of this cell you’ve come to know as a temporary home and eye him warily.

It’s hard to reckon with the size of him. That’s what keeps you wary, watchful of him when he comes to keep you company for reasons unbeknownst to you. He hasn’t made them known yet, in any case.

There isn’t an augur to warn you the day he chooses to speak.

“Where'd they take you from, pretty bird?”

You flinch at the sound of his voice. It comes from the pure depths of him, Tartarus deep. You think it would take nine days for it to reach you, like a bronze anvil falling alongside it. In the days that he’s spent at your side, haunting the length of your cell like a sentry bound to his post, you’ve never once heard so much as a whisper.

His words take a moment to register. Across from you, he sits back on his haunches, thick thighs bunched up under the fan of his pteruge. It’s hard to tell how long he’s been there—the hallway outside your cell is relatively dark, the only windows being on the leftmost side of the building, near the door where he must have quietly slipped in.

“East of here,” you answer hesitantly.

He hums, nods his head. Ruminates on your words.

In truth, you can only guess—the village where you grew up, where you suckled at your mother’s teat and played with the other children in the glen surrounded by mountains jutting up from the earth and ochre yellow and green wildgrass, the fog sometimes sitting so low in the valley that you could lose yourself in it, is far from here. At least a month’s walk, perhaps more (you lost time along the way). Your feet are still blistered from the march back to Rome, legs still covered in sores and bruises; even now your cell is a poor comfort, the dirt floors harsh on your knees and shins, abrasive to the partially healed skin of your feet.

You’ve never been very worldly though, never known more than the four walls around your bed. Perhaps the walk wasn’t nearly as long, as treacherous; maybe you came from the west instead, or the south. You can only guess.

“I came from the north,” he says, breaking the silence again. That startles you somehow. The thought of him under the thumb of another feels inexplicably gut-wrenching; if a man with a virile, sweat-laden chest like his, arms corded with muscle that yours will never see in a thousand years, has been yoked to Rome’s chariot, what hope do you have?

You wonder for a moment if he’ll tell you more, but he falls silent after that simple revelation. The weight of his gaze still pins you in place.

“…You’re a prisoner then?” you ask, considering briefly whether to say like I, before discarding the thought. Like I, like me. Are you too in a cage, like me?

It’s difficult to suppress the urge to ask him more, but you do. It does you no good to endear yourself to men that move and stare like beasts. There’s something malignant in him, you think, a rot burrowed in deep. You can feel it stir in you too when your eyes dip too low, halted by the muscles of his thighs and the thick slabs packing his arms. You’ve seen beasts copulate; you imagine he’d be much the same.

He tilts his head, considering your words. Wolf-like, and you’ve seen wolves before. Though the ever-present helmet obstructs most of his face, the sharpness of his eyes pierces through. “They don’t put me in a cage anymore. What would you call that?”

Your chest collapses under his words. Hopes dashed. Does he go in the cage of his own accord then? Does he lock the door himself, deliver the key to the guard standing watch? You think people taken from their homes should see their plight in each other, but the gladiator before you doesn’t look at you like the two of you share a fate.

“A slave?” you postulate, perhaps too boldly. Worry crawls inside the walls of your belly when his lips flatten, almost imperceptibly.

“Do I look like a slave to you?” he asks, and you can hear it this time. A gentle warning. A rebuke. A question that tells you all that you need to know about this man and how he sees the two of you.

You remain silent, cowed under his stare and the tone of his voice. Perhaps he’s right, in a way; he’s not the one in the cage. He seems free to come and go as he pleases, his movements unrestricted. Unlike your own. You’ve hardly left this cell once since a faction of the legionaries left you at the gates of the city to be handled by those in charge, watching slave after slave made empticii, helpless, until finally you were dragged to the stand for viewing.

You flinch when he grabs one of the bars of your cell, thick fingers coiling around the metal and overlapping easily.

“What did they take you for, pretty bird?” His fingers tighten around the bar, knuckles whitening. “Every day I fight and yet they never offer you as a prize.”

The new scars on his body make sense then, fresh lacerations across his arms and legs that have multiplied by the days since he started visiting you. Why he gleams with fresh sweat every day, correlating with the fights you hear in the arena above you, the cacophonous chants and stamping feet. You can imagine him in front of a crowd frothing at the mouth for blood and gore.

He comes stained in it sometimes. You hold your breath until he leaves on those days, reminded too much of your village in the aftermath of the plundering.

“I don’t know,” you whisper, tucking your legs into your chest and trying to get as close to the wall behind you as possible.

It’s the truth. No one tells you anything. No one told you what would happen when they ransacked your village and burnt it to ash, the bodies of everyone you’ve ever loved still burning char black in the tall grass, whittled down by the flames. No one told you what would happen after they dragged you back a thousand passus to a city scorched in white marble and stone and immaculate gold. They dragged you here and shut the door.

He seems frustrated at your words, lips thinning like he has to hold back his rage.

“I’ll slaughter a hundred more if that’s your price,” he says, his helmet knocking into the bars with a rough clang and making you jump when he leans in. His chest lifts with his quickened breaths, working himself up at the thought of more bloodshed. “Then give you their hearts. No other man will take you. I’ll rend their limbs if another man tries. Make you taste their blood on my fingers and lap it up when I split you on my—”

Your heel skitters across the ground, digging a small groove into the dirt and scattering small rocks across the cell. “I don’t k-know what they intend—”

You stare at him when he rises back up to his feet, words dying on your tongue. Standing, he towers over you, shoulders rolling back to puff out his chest.

“You wait, little bird. Flutter your wings. Soon you’ll see the sun.”

You can only imagine what he means. The thought of sunlight on your face fills you with dread for the first time in your life.

He leaves without another word, heavy footsteps carrying him to the door until you hear him pry it open, sunlight streaming in for a second before it slams shut. The silence in the absence of him feels monstrous, gargantuan.

All you can do is let out a shuddering breath.

#idk if i posted this before?? maybe i did idk #ghost x reader #ghost/reader

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good-old-gossip · 7 months ago

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He was born in war and he died in war

“He was born in war and he died in war,” said Hani Mahmoud Qishta's cousin, cradling the corpse of the six-month-old in her arms. Hani was born on 23 October, the same day that both his parents’ lives were ended by Israeli bombs.

His father, who Hani takes his name from, was instantly killed by the Israeli air strike. Hani’s mother, eight months pregnant at the time, was severely wounded in the attack and rushed to a hospital in Rafah, southern Gaza.

“They did a caesarean section and Hani was born well. The mother died hours later,” his relative, who did not give her name, told Middle East Eye.

“His grandparents took care of him after.”

“But last night a Zionist air strike killed him, his two sisters, grandfather, grandmother and other family members,” she added.

At around 11pm on Sunday, the home of Hani’s grandfather in the al-Salam neighbourhood of Rafah was targeted by an Israeli air strike.

Several members of the Qishta family had been sheltering there. “Hani was just a baby who didn't see much of life… He looked exactly like [his] father and mother,” the relative said.

“There is also Layan Fadi Qishta, another child from the family who was killed. And Hani's two grandparents. And there was Shafi Qishta, who got married just over seven months ago in September. He was killed with his wife.”

Nine members of the Qishta family were killed in total, including four children. “They didn't get to live their childhoods and marriage to the fullest. What is their crime?” asked Hani's cousin.

“It's enough. We are tired.” Just days ago, another baby died in Gaza having been rescued from her dying mother's womb following an Israeli air strike. Sabreen al-Sakani was delivered by Caesarean section in Rafah on 21 April, after her mother was killed by Israeli bombardment. Sabreen, who weighed just 1.4kg when she was born, died four days later and was buried next to her mother.

Israel’s military pounded Rafah overnight and on Monday morning, killing at least 22 Palestinians in 11 homes across the city. It coincided with Israeli forces dropping flyers ordering displaced Palestinians to leave eastern areas of Rafah near the boundary fence separating Gaza and Israel. The flyers said the military was “about to operate with force against the terror organisations in the area”.

The forced ejection comes ahead of a planned Israeli ground invasion of Rafah, where more than one million Palestinians are sheltering in tents and makeshift homes. Israeli forces have killed at least 34,600 Palestinians since the war on Gaza began in October, the majority of them women and children, while a siege on the coastal enclave has left it on the brink of famine.

✍️ by Ahmed Aziz in Gaza, occupied Palestine

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kelluinox · 1 month ago

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I just want to understand how westerners who never experienced war, who don't have anyone they know affected by war, have the audacity to sit in their ivory towers and pontificate about war. It's truly mind boggling. These pampered, privileged, spoiled little kids sitting on social media, treating wars in which real people are dying like they're a particularly interesting Netflix show, drawing anime characters with the colors of terrorist regimes.

I have family in Odesa. Practically every summer of my childhood I spent in Odesa. I went to the beaches. I stayed at my aunt's apartment. Walked around the city with my cousin. Odesa is beautiful. And I watched it be bombed by Russians with no ability to stop my terrorist government from doing so. I received text messages from my cousin, saying, "we have fireworks tonight" and nearly lost my mind every time I heard of new bombing. I didn't know if the next day I would be hearing of my relatives being trapped under rubble. I had nightmares over what the Russians did and are doing in Ukraine. Bucha still haunts my thoughts. All of this slaughter is being done by my government and I have no ability to stop it. And Russian society supports it. You know, those screaming about innocent civilians show only one thing - they don't understand the first thing about fascist societies. The innocent civilians of Russia celebrated the annexation of Crimea. They stuck Z symbols to their cars and hung st George ribbons on their clothes to support the invasion. They got their kids to record their anti war teachers to get them fired or even imprisoned. They dress up their kids in military style clothes and they invite terrorists to speak in front of class about 'patriotism'. An innocent civilian art class teacher reported a girl who drew an anti war picture in class to the innocent civilian school principal. The principal called the police. The girl was put into solitary confinement until her mother agreed to take her. Her father was kidnapped and secretly put in prison.

Some other absolutely ignorant claims I've heard are ones about "collective punishment" and "illegal blockades". Funny. I live under collective punishment - sanctions, and countries bordering Russia are closing entry to Russians, slowly forming a blockade. And you know what? Russia deserves it. Russia deserves to learn the hard way that this is what you get for being an imperialist aggressor. I don't blame the Baltics, or Finland for closing their borders with Russia. I blame Russia for being such a shitty neighbor that such measures were needed in the first place.

And for those who will say, oh but how does this relate to the Middle East. Well, first of all, I'm a jew. I care when the biggest attack on jews since the Holocaust happens and the world spends 12 months celebrating it and bemoaning that only 1200 were murdered and not 7 million. I also care because, unlike you, I know Putin's allies, I know who helps bomb my family in Ukraine. I know that Hamas and Hezbollah and numerous other terrorist organizations terrorizing Israel are Iranian proxies. And I know Iran and Russia are buddies and Iran sells weapons to Russia. I was here, in Moscow, when the PA and Hamas were here for a visit. I was in the same city as those bloodthirsty murderers who want all jews dead. And yet people will still have the audacity to tell me that I'm the one who's in the wrong. It's me who doesn't understand anything about geopolitics, you see. I'm the one who can't tell the difference between a war and genocide even though I had entire branches of my family erased by the Holocaust, have parents and grandparents who lived in the Soviet Union and watched my own government attempt a genocide in Ukraine. I'm the one who doesn't understand imperialism even though Russia is an empire. Russians believe that all post Soviet states should still belong to them and make no mistake once they have them they'll go on to grab some more. I'm the one who doesn't understand how dictatorships operate such as using outside conflicts to distract the population from internal problems and hold on to power. I'm the one who doesn't understand anything.

I don't care if anything of what I say isn't politically correct. I don't care if just being honest about reality and refusing to coddle westerners with lies loses me followers. I'm not going to lie about my life just to be accepted on social media. I don't care. I don't care what the UN says, they've shown me their alliance way back when they didn't do shit for Ukraine. They let Russia veto whatever it didn't like. Putin wasn't arrested when he visited Mongolia. What did the UN do, really? Except waste their time with Israel? I'm not surprised to learn of the complicity of UNWRA. I'm not surprised to see videos of Hezbollah tunnels mere meters away from UN outposts. The majority of countries in the UN are undemocratic and interested in pushing their own agendas. The UN has lost its purpose. I don't care about the Red Cross, who told hostage families concerned about their family members being held by a brutal terrorist organization that "they should think about the palestinians". The red cross claimed there were no installations for the extermination of jews at Auschwitz too. I don't care about Greta Thunberg who now claims that Israel is causing damage to the environment and has forgotten all about Russia that continues to bomb Ukraine. Russia blew up a fucking dam, but everyone has already forgotten all about that. It wasn't the jews who brought down the Kakhovka dam, so who cares, right? No jews, no news. I don't care about student activists demanding they be brought humanitarian aid on the steps of elite US universities. I don't care about Biden who spent more time holding Israel back, than actually rescuing his own citizens from Hamas. I don't care about the Spanish with their history of antisemitism (the Inquisition), and colonialism (that they're now trying to blame on us by saying Columbus was a jew when he was not). I don't care about the British who also have their own history of colonialism and tried to stop jews who were fleeing the Holocaust from migrating to the then British Mandate. I don't care about South Africa, who would rather distract their own people with Israel rather than sort out their internal problems. I don't care about the BBC, Reuters, CNN, NYT nazi rags that give awards to terrorists taking pictures of the bodies of dead jewish women and cry bitter tears over a murderous monster like Nasrallah. I'm past the point of caring what any of these people say. I see who they are. I see their hypocrisy. I see their blatant bias and hatred. I see all of it. I'm tired of it.

And I'm tired of being lectured by westerners who don't live in reality. Who are so morally confused and who live with such a simplified worldview that they've started supporting terrorism. I actually live these conflicts. Who the fuck are you to lecture me? Who the fuck are you to "educate" me on anything?

#vent post #antisemitism #fuck hamas #fuck russia #stop lecturing people on their own reality and lived experiences #leftist antisemitism #russia is a terrorist state

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murderousink23 · 8 months ago

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03/21/2024 is International Day of Nowruz 🌎, Mother's Day in the Middle East 🌎, Harmony Day 🇦🇺, National Close the Gap Day 🇦🇺, World Down Syndrome Day 🌎, World Poetry Day 🌎, National California Strawberry Day 🍓 🇺🇸, National Common Courtesy Day 🇺🇸, National Fragnance Day 🇺🇸, National French Bread Day 🥖 🇺🇸, Rosie the Riveter Day 🇺🇸, National Single Parents Day 🇺🇸, International Day for the Elimination of Racial Discrimination 🇺🇳, International Day of Forests 🌳🇺🇳

#nowruz #mother's day in the middle east #harmony day #national close the gap day #world down syndrome day #world poetry day #national california strawberry day #national common courtesy day #national fragnance day #national french bread day #rosie the riveter day #national single parents day #international day for the elimination of racial discrimination #international day of forests

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ladyddanger · 1 year ago

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thinking about the events of the dsmp hundreds of years later being just a bunch of stories.

In a village nestled between tall pines children play Manberg Vs Pogtopia, the names of nations and reasons for war long forgotten as they hit each other with sticks and tackle their friends to warm summer grass.

When their mothers tuck them in that night they tell them stories of a snowy wasteland, so ancient it still holds the scars of long wars forgotten. They tell them of the wasteland’s inhabitant, the greatest warrior this world has ever seen. His name is lost to history but warriors still pray to him on the eve of battle and tie ravens feathers in their hair in his honor.

If the children misbehaved that day their mothers tell them a different story, one of a masked man who steals bad children and drowns them in the sea.

There’s a crater a few miles east of the village in the middle of the marshlands up by a glittering ocean. The crater is so deep that you can throw rocks off the edge and never hear them hit the bottom. Legend says that once upon a time the goddess of death had a son who walked this earth and when he died in her rage and grief she tore into the city that once stood there with her bare hands and ripped it from the earth leaving nothing but a crater behind.

On long sunny evenings in the inns that dot the coastline bards tell stories of a cursed city of gold and glass buried in the heart of a desert where it snows. They whisper the city is full of riches but nobody who looks for it ever comes back.

On stormy nights the Bards tell a different story, a story of a town that sits over a slumbering god. Strange things happen there. Red vines sport up over night. If you listen closely, the people say you can hear them talk. Everyone there has red eyes and cold cold hands.

If you start at dawn and ride in the opposite direction of the carter you can reach the vault before nightfall. The locals claim it used to hold a faceless god guarded by a king but time has weathered the vault’s defenses and the towns children dare each other inside its walls, running though the tight passages.

An old fairytale says if you follow a small barely visible path from the doors of a vault beyond you’ll reach a forest full of trees so overgrown they block the sun. The fairytale says if you walk to the heart of the forrest there’s a prince sleeping there, nestled in the flowers and weeds. The fairytale says his true love and his knights are long dead. The fairytale says he dreams the whole world in existence. The fairytale says a lot of things but nobody really believes it.

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moosesarecute · 5 months ago

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You’re bleeding

15 years old

You had been out flying, feeling the air in your hair. It was finally nice weather in Windhaven and you didn’t waste one second. You woke up, ate breakfast with your family, hurried to do your lessons and then immediately went flying.

You took your usual route. Above the trees, towards north, then towards west, before you went south-east and towards your home. You had been flying for an hour, but you were still quite far away from home, when you suddenly felt intense pain in your lower stomach.

You became dizzy and lost control. You hadn’t even realized you were falling before you hit the top of the highest tree.

You fell in between all the branches, but luckily managed to take some control back before you hit the ground. That was before you felt another pain in your stomach and you fell the last meters to the ground.

It took some time for you to get back on your feet. You had small cuts on your arm and face, but luckily your wings seemed unharmed. Most of all you felt embarrassed.

You knew that if some of the Illyrian boys saw you lose control in such a manner, they would never let you forget it. You already had a hard time making friends in Windhaven, you didn’t want to make it worse for yourself.

You curled together on the ground as another cramp spread through your body. Within seconds you also started to smell the blood.

You had started your first cycle. And you were alone, in the middle of the illyrian woods.

You realized to had to hurry home so that no one would find and hurt you.

With one foot in front of the other you started to walk home. You had to stop every other minute when the pain became too unbearable, but you tried your best to move as swiftly as possible.

You felt like you had walked forever. Your back was killing you, your legs hurt and your stomach felt like it was going to fall apart.

But none of that mattered, because you were home.

With three slow steps you walked up the stairs to your home. You carefully opened the door and walked in.

All you needed now was a bath and your mother’s comforting embrace. Then all would be better. At least that’s what you told yourself.

However as you walked into the living room, you were not met by your mother, but rather your brother’s best friend. Unfortunately for you, it was not the friend you looked upon as another brother, of course not, that would have been too big of a favor from the cauldron. It was of course the friend you had a massive crush on, Azriel.

“This can’t be happening,” you muttered to yourself and made your way towards the stairs.

“What do you mean?” Azriel asked you and you felt your face turn red.

“Nothing,” you answered quickly and tried to get up the stairs.

Note the word “tried”.

You took two steps and a new cramp, worse than any of the previous ones, spread from your stomach to your back and legs, making you fall down the stairs.

“Shit,” you heard Azriel say and you soon felt his arms helping you stand. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

You looked into his worried eyes and deep down you knew that he only wanted to help you, but you felt more embarrassed than you ever had before.

In only one day you had managed to crash into a tree and fall down the stairs. Everyone must think you’re a fool.

“Are you in there?” Azriel carefully waved a hand in front of your face.

“I’m fine,” you answered with an awkward laugh. “You clumsy me.” You did a hand movement to emphasize your clumsiness. “This moment is going to hunt me for the rest of my life.” you thought.

The way Azriel was looking at you made you understand that he didn’t believe you at all.

That’s when you started to realize how awful you surely looked. You looked down on your arms and some of the deepest cuts were still healing. And even though you felt like you were drenched in blood, you wore dark pants, so you couldn’t see the blood. However that didn’t mean you couldn’t smell it.

“You’re bleeding,” Azriel stated.

You’re sure your cheeks were as red as the blood between your legs when you turned around, out of Azriel’s helping arms, and carefully made your way into the bathroom.

You had just laid down into bed after a long and warm bath when you heard a knock on your door.

Knowing that it was Azriel, since you hadn’t heard anyone else come home, you chose to not answer.

“Rhys is on his way home. He tried to contact your mother, but she is in an important meeting in Velaris with your father. It will be a few hours before she comes home.” He took a break. “I’m leaving some stuff here if you need anything. Or you can just ask if you want something else.”

You heard him set something down and then he walked back down the stairs.

It took you over a minute to even get out of bed. You felt dizzier and more exhausted than earlier and the pain was now constant.

Carefully, you opened the door. You didn’t want him to know home helpless you were and you thought that if he didn’t hear you, he would never know.

What you saw almost made you cry.

On a big plate you had two different types of chocolate, a pain tonic, your current book, a bowl of your mother’s soup and a cup of your favorite tea. In the middle of the plate was a note where it stood in beautiful handwriting “you need to eat something before you can take the pain tonic, if you want it of course”.

Beside the plate stood a few different period products.

You took everything into your room and suddenly the pain felt more bearable.

You woke up to the sound of your bedroom door closing. You had eaten the soup and taken the tonic and not even minutes after the tonic started to work, you had fallen asleep.

“Mind if I join you?” Your brother asked you.

You only nodded.

Your brother laid down beside you and held his arms around you in a careful embrace.

“How are you feeling?”

“Everything hurts,” you said with a whimper. “And I’m so cold.”

He tightened his embrace a little, but lifted one of his hands and held it to your forehead.

“Seems like you’re running a little hot as well.”

“I feel awful,” was all you managed to respond.

“I know, little one, I know.”

Your brother kept you company and soon both of you had fallen asleep.

Hours later, your mother came home.

“Where’s Rhysand and Y/N?” She asked Cassian and Azriel who currently were the only two in the living room.

“Up in her room I think,” Cassian said.

Your mother walked up the stairs and slowly opened the door to your bedroom.

She had to hold back tears as she saw her son and daughter sleeping, knowing that they would always take care of each other, even if she wasn’t there.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

430 years old

“What’s going on with y/n?” Azriel asked as soon as Rhys answered his mental calls.

He was out on a small mission and his mate had silenced the bond. You didn’t even answer when he tugged.

“She didn’t show up to our meeting,” Rhys said. “I haven’t been able to go check on her yet.”

“I’m coming home,” Azriel told his brother and put up his mental shields.

When you didn’t open the door when he knocked, Rhys became even more worried.

He slowly opened the door to your cottage and walked in. Everything seemed to be in order, so he calmed down a little.

“Y/N? Are you here?”

You didn’t answer.

Rhys made his way up the stairs and found the door to you and Azriel’s bedroom. He knocked on the door.

“Come in,” you answered.

When he heard the tone of your voice, Rhys immediately knew something was wrong.

He opened the door and immediately smelled the smell of blood.

“I’m sorry I missed the meeting, Rhysie. I didn’t realize I fell asleep again,” you explained to your brother.

“Can I get you anything?” Rhys asked with a worried look.

“I’m fine, I just need some more sleep.”

“Okay…but call for me if you need anything. Or want anything. I’ll get it for you.”

Rhys left the room and immediately reached out to your mate.

“She started her cycle,” he said. “I asked her if she needed anything, but she said no. What can I get her?”

Azriel cursed to himself. His mate’s cycles were never regular. This one came only 5 months after the last one. He hated that he wasn’t there for her.

Azriel told Rhys what he usually does when you are on your cycle.

“I’m on it,” Rhys answered and began looking around.

You woke to your bedroom door closing once more. Slowly, you sat up and saw your brother standing with a tray of two types of chocolate, a pain tonic, a new book, some soup and a cup of tea.

“You have to eat before you can take the tonic,” your brother said. “It should give some pain relief and lower your fever, according to Madja.”

He sat the tray down on your lap and you immediately started to eat the soup. You needed the pain tonic as fast as possible.

“Thanks, Rhysie,” you said in between spoonfuls.

Your brother stayed as long as he could, before he had to go back to being High Lord.

Azriel entered your bedroom and sat down on your bed. He had flown the fasted he could to get home to you.

He started to move some of your hair away from your face as a way to carefully wake you up.

“Hi,” he said as soon you opened your eyes. “Mind if I join you?”

You nodded and he soon laid down next to you. You moved closer to him and he embraced you with both his arms and wings.

“You took the tonic?” He asked and you again only nodded as an answer. “Not feeling any better I guess?”

“Everything hurts,” you told him and you felt his embrace tightened a little. His hand moved to your lower stomach and the other one started to brush through your hair.

Your mate’s small actions made you feel a little better and sleep found you easier than before.

You found comfort in knowing that you always had someone to take care of you.

#azriel #azriel fanfic #acotar #azriel x reader #azriel x rhysand's sister #azriel x y/n #azriel x you #rhysand’s sister

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eggtargaryenii · 14 days ago

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EAST OF THE SUN | PART III

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

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

SERIES SUMMARY & MASTERLIST.

IX. THE EMPRESS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you had no mother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How could she hate a powerless girl without a mother?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had no mother. Only she could defend you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Arthur Flowers is a bastard and a raper!”

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

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

She was a Hightower.

X. TEMPERANCE

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But we are not in the air.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“As you wish, my lady.”

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

X. DEATH, UPRIGHT

“Dracarys.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course you were not well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You bowed. “Thank you, my King.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XI. DEATH, REVERSED

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The both of them stayed silent. Waited.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart was wrenched with pain.

“Oh,” you said quietly. “Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You did not want to let her go.

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

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

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

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

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

She must have crossed the seas again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

END PART III

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

#jacaerys velaryon x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader

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secular-jew · 3 months ago

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I’m a Palestinian American. Here’s Why I Can’t Support the Anti-Israel Protesters. By Elizabeth Gillanders. August 16, 2024

Walking past Union Station in the nation’s capital, I recently was met with a heartbreaking sight. Vandals had defaced the Columbus Memorial Fountain with spray paint, writing the words “Hamas is coming” in big red letters.

Trash and signs discarded by anti-Israel protesters littered the ground. A burnt shopping cart stood off to one side with piles of ash beneath it.

Most depressing, however, were the three bare flag poles that had been robbed of their American flags. Protesters had burned the flags, the only remnant a charred piece of fabric atop another pile of ash.

This was the aftermath of the July 24 “pro-Palestinian” protests in Washington, D.C., organized in response to Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s address that day to a joint meeting of Congress.

As an American of Palestinian heritage, some expect me to cheer on these people. They expect me to condemn the U.S., hate Israel, and support Hamas, a terrorist organization dedicated to wiping out the Jewish state.

But these expectations don’t represent me, nor my family.

I inherit my Palestinian background from my mother’s side of the family; her parents emigrated to America from the Middle East. My grandma was born in Israel and later moved to Ramallah in the West Bank and eventually to Jordan.

After arriving in America in her 20s, my grandma worked hard to become a U.S. citizen. She learned the English language while raising my mother and uncle. She opened a restaurant with my grandpa, lovingly named the Chicken Pantry, in Hamtramck, Michigan. When that business closed, my grandma worked as a real estate agent before eventually retiring in the land of prosperity.

America brought my family prosperity. My grandparents taught my mother to “kiss the ground you walk on” because they knew what a blessing America is.

They passed this lesson on to me.

Although many seem to think that my Palestinian heritage should cause me to align with protests that supposedly are “pro-Palestinian,” it’s precisely because of my heritage that I cannot do that.

Israel went to war with Hamas in the Gaza Strip only after Hamas terrorists slaughtered 1,200 and kidnapped about 250 in a rampage of rape, torture, and murder Oct. 7 in southern Israel.

About 10 months later, as pro-Hamas protesters march in this country to “free Palestine,” they call for the death of America. As they burn the American flag, they burn all that my family has worked to achieve.

As the protesters pledge their allegiance to Hamas, they encourage a group that my grandmother wouldn’t hesitate to call a terrorist organization that operates with a strategy of human sacrifice.

Think about it. Why are there no Hamas military bases in the Gaza Strip adjoining Israel? Because the terrorists hide behind their own people.

They dress like noncombatants in Gaza. They establish bunkers in hospitals. They commandeer ambulances for transportation.

These actions are all in direct violation of Article 18 of the Geneva Conventions, the international pacts that set minimum standards during armed conflict for the treatment of civilians, soldiers, and prisoners of war.

One example is Hamas’ use of Gaza’s most important hospital, Al-Shifa. According to the Foundation for Defense of Democracies, Hamas uses a bunker under the hospital as a base for military operations. This not only makes the hospital a target, but takes medical resources needed for the sick.

In contrast, the Israel Defense Forces have given civilians in Gaza opportunities to evacuate and warned of impending attacks. No other nation goes this far to protect enemy civilians.

How can I support pro-Hamas demonstrators who wish to end the nation that brought my family so much? How can I back a terrorist group that uses its own people as human shields? How can I hate Israel, when the IDF has worked to keep Palestinian civilians out of harm’s way?

I believe it’s important to point out that, contrary to popular belief, not all Arabs think the same. Some of us do see this conflict differently. And our thoughts and beliefs should not be snuffed out because they go against the “narrative.”

To some, perhaps our stance makes us walking oxymorons. But we are proud ones, nonetheless.

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where-does-the-heart-lie · 2 years ago

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This is my modern/roommate au for them 💁‍♀️ I had a lot of fun coming up with the paragraph part :)

East Blue Crew Modern Au

Grand Line Crew Modern Au

Friends We Made Along The Way

Friends We Made Along The Way Part 2

Please excuse any typo’s my drawing program’s spelling check isn't the best 🙃

Some additional head-canons:

Even though they have an apartment they live and pay rent in, none of them are ever home, much. Luffy’s sleeping over his friends’ houses after hanging out with them, Ace is pretending he’s homeless, and Sabo sleeps at the hospital most of the time. sometimes two of them will be home at the same time, but its almost never all at once on any given day.

Even though they are never home, one day of the week is sacred. The day that no matter what they come home and spend the day together. Thursday. Laundry day

Luffy odd odd jobs done in the past include: possum wrangling, “get my friend out of that tree please, he’s drunk and i don’t want to call the cops”, PC setup (he didnt know anything about it, but somehow he got it all right. Somehow.), performing at a party, assisting in a lab, impromptu chore-boy, and many more.

Nami takes care of Luffy’s Odd job finances and makes sure he gets paid the proper amount. He lets her take a cut, and even though she does indeed want that money, she unfortunately knows Luffy needs that money more than she, so she doesn’t take it. The amount of self restraint she exhibits astounds even she. She is truly a saint (according to her).

The only laws that Luffy knows are 1) his friend (self proclaimed) Law and 2) the Miranda rights, as he heard them while Sabo was getting arrested that one time.

Luffy thought the Law lecture he went to was supposed to be talking about his friend (self proclaimed) Law. He wanted to support his buddy (self proclaimed), not learn about federal law!

No one has kept track of how many times Sabo has went to jail. whenever he’s asked, he changes the number every time.

Sabo had the absolute worst time getting that big ol’ tattoo across his arm. He cried a couple times through it, although he would never admit it. It was an investment that he was willing to make, however, and he thinks it turned out sick as hell. So does everyone else. Because the tattoo is sick as hell.

Ace watch shenanigans:

“hey ace, what time is it” “One sec,” he checks his watch “uhhhh 10 at night” (Its clearly the middle of the day) “Thanks, man”

Dadan calls to check in on them every Thursday night. She pretends she doesn't care about them, but the reality is not looking good for her.

Sabo has been a childhood friend to Luffy and Ace and has slept over the house they lived in with Dadan many times, but he didnt actually come to officially live with them until he was finally kicked out of his parent’s house when he was 16. Dadan has always been more of a mother to him than his biological one ever was and he treasures her even though he says he doesn’t. Actions often speak louder than words, as the two are literal besties despite both verbally expressing their disdain for the other more than praise. Sabo is clearly her favorite of the three brothers and she's the most lenient with him (which is something they all exploit).

Luffy and Ace come to live with Dadan in the au the same way they live there in canon, their fathers are not present in their lives and Garp dropped them both off at her doorstep and expected to take them in.

That’s all I got for now. These guys are fun and I love them very much :)

#my art #one piece #asl brothers #one piece fan art #flame emperor sabo #op sabo #sabo headcanons #monkey d. luffy #sabo #luffy headcanons #ace headcanons #ace fanart #op modern au #portgas d. ace #luffy #luffy’s hair is fun to draw in this version #asl au

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noirflms · 10 months ago

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A GLIMPSE INTO THE LIFE OF NOA FAMILY – noel noa

a little glimpse into the nao family. wherein you get to see a few of their daily antics.

It’s evident in the eyes of your son that he is quite not fond of his father’s affections for you. The three-year-old cannot for the fact digest that his mother is loved by his ugly father – it is his view of his dear dad. Aimé is quite literally the biggest hater of his dad. The best striker in the world – Noel Noa.

Noel kisses your cheek? Aimé is probably out and about to find tissues, dip them in sanitiser and run off to you to clean it. Noel has his head in your lap? Aimé is on his way to plop himself in that very special place. The young boy tries his all to throw his father of the edge, but the older man doesn’t budge, he seems to always shrug it off, finding a better place to hold you close and not bat an eye to his son’s intentions.

It only makes Aimé adamant on doing much more to gain your attention away from his father, and that he gets when he slides into your shared bed. Yes, that’s right. Aimé Noa slides right in the middle of the bed between Noel and you with the shit eating grin on his face, and that is the only time he irks the father of his. The veins protruding from his neck are visible but you seem to not notice that because you are too focused on your little son.

That’s right, stay focused on sweet little, Aimé.

“I’ll sleep with you and papa tonight!” The three-year-old cheers, a cheeky smile on his face. You being a mother take the ruse, for in your eyes he is but a little angel, and oh, how you love your sweet innocent angel. But that words to the opposite to Noel. They do not set well with him, nuh-uh, he ain’t letting his son get in the time he has with his wife – no, not at all.

Noel is smart. He knows of the glint in his son’s eyes, it was pretty much evident with the way he always washes you in sanitiser whenever Noel’s hands or lips land on you. It makes him annoyed to no end, but he indulges in his son’s antics, not minding much because he gets you to himself, all at night. That’s fine with him, he gets you at night so his son could get you in the day.

But oh, oh, oh, such a wolf he is in sheep’s clothing. He has started to become the bane of Noel’s existence. It feels as if his wife is not his anymore but belongs to his son. He knows you love him and Aimé the same, but that look Aimé is giving to Noel in the moment, makes Noel boil with annoyance and jealousy. Because at times he doesn’t like sharing his wife.

So when the lights are out, the young lad stuck in the middle of you and your husband. Your husband gets the most amazing ideas of all times, when he hears the little twat snoring to his comfort, Noel picks the boy up gently, and places him right at the corner of the bed – not too to the side for the boy to fall, he is loving father after all – and shifting in the middle to hold you in his arms.

Ah, such satisfaction his heart gets as he finally pulls you close. A blissful smile sets upon Noel’s lips as he feels you nuzzle in his clothes, as he himself wraps you in his arms, as he himself snuggles with you and falls into a deep slumber, not caring of what the morning brings for him.

And when the sun rises from the east, it also awaken the little boy too quick as well. Aimé rubbing the sleep away as he sits straight in bed expecting to jump into his mother’s arms, but what he sees is his father’s giant back and nothing else. Uh-oh, looks like Amié is down one point now and like father like son, he is not going to accept defeat so easily.

So, he does what he does best, he jumps with all his might on the both of you, jerking you out of your sleeping states, as you scream in shock while you husband wakes up frazzled, and for you son to be laughing to his heart’s content. It’s quite the sight for you, when you see your husband push him deeper into the quilts and tickle the boy to no end as he laughs and laughs and laughs.

You like it. The sight feels warm for Noel is out and about most of the times. But the times he spends with you like these become deeper and well cherished memories. You are well aware of the little war going on between these two, but you don’t mind, for it gives you moments like these to wake up too.

Your son’s loud laughter bounces of the walls while Noel speaks to him in french of how hurt you could have been, without stopping his tickle attack on his son. It’s funny. So, you laugh at the view set before you, and as you do, it’s your turn to be tickled by the two. They share the same brain cell at times, for Aimé is just like Noel, there is not the slightest difference between the two.

It’s fun. It’s family. So you cherish what you have been blessed with.

This is but a little glimpse in the daily life of the Noas. They are but together. They are unique in quite the amusing ways and well that is who they are.

noel is a bit ooc i think 😭 but i feel like he is a super good dad 🗣️

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magics-neptunes-things · 6 months ago

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Happily Ever After (Ready, Aim, Shoot - Epilogue)

Hello!

This is the end of my serie Ready, Aim, Shoot but I really feel like you don't have to read the three other parts to understand it :)

Enjoy!

TW : None

(1) | (2) | (3)

Loving Alexia is easy. You know that your girlfriend is sometimes describes as someone shy, socially awkward, and sometimes too serious. Those people don’t know your Alexia. Your Alexia is sweet, caring, protective, loving, and attentive. She takes care of the people she loves; never lets you carry a shopping bag when she comes shopping with you and remembers everything you prefer since day 1.

And, as you look at your girlfriend coming out from the bathroom, you wonder how you are so lucky. She’s yours, she never left you when you were a mess and stay right here every single second. You are still recovering but you are way more in a healthy state than some weeks before. And not talk about when you came back from Middle East.

You needed some time to talk again to your former colleagues and way more time to talk to the families of the one who died. You went to the funeral of course, with Alexia, but some of them had kids or lovers and you didn’t have the strength to look at them in the eyes. And sometimes you imagined Alexia at their place, and you can’t imagine the pain. You asked her one time, how she would have reacted if you hadn’t come back alive.

She didn’t answer but explain to you how she reacted when she learned that you had an accident. And that she never loses faith in your comeback, because you promised, and you always kept your promises to her. You still have the necklace she gave you; it never left your body since that day.

Even when you go showering, even if your girlfriend teases you about it.

“What are you thinking about Cariño?” Alexia asks you.

“About my perfect girlfriend. Do you know her?” you smirk.

Alessia giggles and it’s a sound that she doesn’t let a lot of people hearing and you love it. Sitting on your lap, she passes her arms around your neck.

“Tell me more about her?”

“No, if I tell too many people how amazing she is, someone is definitively going to take her away from me” you smile before kissing her.

Alessia smiles against your lips, and you deepen the kiss, not being able to resist to the attraction you have for her. The hotel Alexia chooses offers you a lot of privacy. You have your private beach, jacuzzi and swimming pool. For eating, you can choose one of the restaurants in the area or to eat on the terrace thanks to the room service.

You have a lot of things to do here, swimming, going to the spa, sun tanning, going for an excursion or even diving. But for the first days, you almost didn’t leave your room, enjoying your room and the different facilities offered in it.

(You have a lot of amazing sex too.)

With your mental health getting better, you were able to finish your book and send it to several publishers before leaving for your holidays. You still haven’t had an answer, but you’re not really stressed. You know they probably have a lot of work and it’s the holidays, a lot of people aren’t working for now.

Alexia and you decided to forget a little your phone, you only take one hour during the day to do what you want. You usually answer to your friends and family and Alexia call her mother and sister.

That’s why you are surprised to wake up because of your phone buzzing on your nightstand. You manage to get out off Alexia’s arms to be able to take it and have a look on it. You frown when you see that this isn’t a number you already know. You get up, walking silently on the terrace.

“Hello?” you say when you far enough from Alexia.

“Hi. Am I talking to Y/N Y/L/N?”

“Yes, it’s me” you frown slightly.

You are stunned to learn that this woman is working in one of the publishers where you sent your book. And that they are interested in publishing it. You are still stuttering when a worried Alexia comes looking for you.

“Who was it?” she asks right before you hang up.

“A woman working for one of the publisher.” you mumble, still looking at your phone.

“And?”

Alexia seems stressed out like hell when you raise your eyes on her.

“They want to meet me when we come back to Barcelona. They are interested in publishing it.”

“What? Cariño that’s amazing!”

She’s smiling like she just wins another cup, and you can’t help but smile too. She’s right, of course it’s amazing. You just can’t believe it. Alexia takes you in her arms and makes you spin in the air. You laugh and pass your hand around her neck. She kisses you when she puts you back on the ground and you tiptoe to be able to kiss her in her neck.

“I’m sorry I woke you up though” you say after kissing her jaw one last time.

“It’s alright” Alexia smiles. “I’m used to be the one leaving bed first, it was a strange feeling waking up alone.”

“Well maybe you’ll stop leaving me in the morning now” you smirk.

Alexia chooses to not answer and just smile at you with malice. She doesn’t need a lot of sleep to feel rested and you sometimes envy her. She usually has done a lot of things when you wake up. Sometimes she made some calls for her job, she went running or has made progress on her various projects. Yes, because your girlfriend isn’t only a talented footballer, she makes other things too. You can talk about her foundation, More than eleven.

“Do you want to go to the restaurant to eat breakfast?”

You don’t really want to, to be honest. You would rather have only Alexia for you, being able to stare at her during the whole meal without passing for a creep. Your hesitation is easily seen by Alexia who is quick to add:

“Or we can stay here, just to two of us?”

“We can go to the restaurant if you want to. We haven’t seen a lot of people since we’re here.”

You shrug and smile slightly at her. She smiles back and take you by your hand to take you again in the bedroom. The light breeze makes the curtains fly when you enter the room again and Alexia takes the menu on the table to look about their propositions for the breakfast. You look over her shoulder, kissing it when your choice is made.

“I think I’ll take the one with avocado toast.”

Alexia nods and you sneak out to take a shower while she phones reception to place an order. You haven’t decided what you will do today, you know there is some excursion Alexia is interested about, so maybe you’ll join one.

Your heard Alexia coming inside the bathroom, even if the door is open very quietly and she makes almost not other noise when she gets out of her night clothes. You smile when she joins you under the shower, passing her arms around your waist and pressing her body against yours.

Your scares aren’t as visible as they were before, but you find confidence back for several times now, thanks to Alexia. She keeps telling you how beautiful she thinks you are, so you ended up believing her. You remember how you were studying her gaze and her face when she was telling you that kind of things, looking at any trace of lie. And how you looked at her when she saw you naked, looking for the slightest disgust. But nothing ever comes.

Your girlfriend seems to be sad when she tells you that you don’t have time to have fun under the shower, because of your breakfast being already prepared. But you know it will come at some point during the day, none of the both of you seems to be able to keep their hands away from the other.

“I wanted to talk about something with you” Alexia says slowly, when you are sitting on the terrasse, eating your breakfast.

You were looking at the sea being as far as the eye can see, but you report your attention on Alexia. She’s looking at you with a caution that intrigues you. She hasn’t look at you that way since a long time.

“Ok? Should I be worried or…?”

“I don’t think so” she smiles, and you feel relief almost immediately.

Alexia never lied to you.

You enjoin her to continue with a nod, posing your knife and fork next to your plate half-eaten. You are still very curious to know what can be in your girlfriend’s mind.

“I know I wasn’t really a lot at home lately, with my foundation and the others different things I was doing in addition of football” she begins “But now that everything is launched, I’ll be able to be home sooner and more. I’ll still have meetings or something, but I would be able to make it by video conference a lot.”

“Ok?” you answer, not really seeing where she went to go.

There is a moment of silence before she talks again.

“I want a baby.”

You blink several times, not really prepared to that. Sur you talked about having kids, but it was before your accident, and it doesn’t really come back in your conversations those past months. You were thinking that Alexia thought that you weren’t able to have a baby right now. Seems like you were wrong.

“I…”

“I know that maybe it’s a little bit precipitate because of what happened lately and that I was a lot away, but I swear that you always have been my priority and if we start the process to have one, I’ll be nothing more than my job at Barca and taking care of you.”

“Ale –“

“And I really think it’s the good moment. You’ll be able to write another banger while pregnant, I’ll install a desk on our room if you need to stay in bed. And I’ll cook everyday if you want me to.”

“My first book isn’t even published. And since when do you know the word banger?”

Alexia rolls her eyes and you smirk at her.

“What do you think?”

She looks almost shy, one thing she hasn’t be with you since your first dates. You don’t have to think about it for many minutes to be honest, you know she’s genuine about everything she just said. And you already can figure how much she will be protective over your child.

“Ok” you just answer.

“Ok?”

“Yes. Let’s have a baby.”

********

Alexiaputellas

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alexiaputellas Another Putellas is expected this summer🤍

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janafernandez3 My baby brother or sister 🥰

yourinstagram I love you 💜

yourinstagram

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yourinstagram Soon 👶🏼🍼

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alexiaputellas 💜🥰

claudia.pina I'm so excited for this

fan1 I want to know if its a girl or a boy 😭

Alexiaputellas and yourinstagram

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alexiaputellas After 9 months of wait and 29 hours of work, you are here. I can't explain how much I love you and how I'm proud of your Mami.

Welcome to the world Alejo Jaume Putellas Y/L/N.

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jennihermoso the feet of a future great striker 👀

elialexiaalba 🩵🩵🩵

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