#music to write fanfic to

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[sigillite]

music (fanfiction) writing challenge!!

use your music taste to write a fanfiction or any story in this challenge!

first open your music app of choice and make sure your playlist is on shuffle -- then the first 5 songs that pop up will determine your:

Premise -- What your story is going to be about in the first place. What is going to be the main "selling point" of the story that sets it apart from the rest.

Main character -- Your main character's personality or inner struggle.

Main conflict -- The main conflict that drives your story and becomes an obstacle for your main character.

Vibes -- Is this going to be a light-hearted story? Angsty? Romantic? Whatever matches the vibe of the song.

Ending -- How this story is going to end.

yes, this is very vague, but that is the point! this can give you some ideas of what to write while also leaving plenty of room to be creative. feel free to switch up what songs represent what or even shuffle them a couple more times!

[gwenpoolsaesthetic]

Hey you! Yes, you!

Would you like your creation on display in a museum?

Would you like to help a super awesome PhD candidate complete her dissertation?

Would you like a great excuse to further procrastinate that thing you've been procrastinating?

All of these and more are great reasons to participate in Affirmation/Transformation: Fandom Created, an exhibition at Marquette University's Haggerty Museum of Art. (You do NOT need to be an artist, or even someone who creates art to participate!) Write a story, write a song, design a cosplay, create a fancy manicure, make a meme, make a stop-motion video, choreograph a dance, make a SuperWhoLock gif fic, or anything else your heart can dream up.

Your creation must follow only one rule: It must be inspired by a fusion of 1. any fandom of your choice, and 2. one of the featured Haggerty pieces (click the link to see them!)

Completed works are due July 1, 2024. The exhibition will run August 23rd-December 22nd, 2024, and will be available to view in person and online.

To see the Haggerty pieces, and to sign up to receive email reminders about the fan event, visit https://epublications.marquette.edu/fandom/Affirmationtransformation

[winxanity-ii]

could i request hermes headcanons with a male lover?

of course! sorry if not the best, just the concept of hermes taking one of apollos followers 😩

THAT BOY IS MINE

ship: hermes x male!apollo devotee!reader warnings: non-explicit word count: 861 a/n: my first male reader request hehhehe; i lowkey wanna make a full one-shot..

★·.·´🇪‌🇵‌🇮‌🇨‌: 🇹‌🇭‌🇪‌ 🇲‌🇺‌🇸‌🇮‌🇨‌🇦‌🇱‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

Trickster god Hermes, who first noticed you during one of Apollo's grand performances, as you stood in the crowd, bright laughter escaping your lips.

He didn't think much of it until he saw how you looked at Apollo—admiration clear in your eyes—and suddenly, the idea of getting your attention and challenging your admiration for Apollo was too irresistible for him to pass up.

Trickster god Hermes, who slips beside you during festivals, the kind of presence that catches you off guard.

He'd grin, that troublemaker smile of his, leaning in to whisper something sly about Apollo's radiance. "You think he's the only god worthy of your gaze?" he'd murmur, his eyes glinting with mischief as your cheeks warmed under his gaze.

Trickster god Hermes, who made sure you couldn't ignore him.

At first, it was harmless jokes, a teasing smile from across the temple grounds, or a comment as he materialized at your side, seemingly out of nowhere. But soon, he was there more often, lingering in your shadow. He loved the way you stiffened when he appeared, as if he had found a crack in your composure—and he intended to widen it.

Trickster god Hermes, who brushed his fingers against yours when you were organizing offerings in Apollo's temple, just to see the way you startled, your eyes meeting his in confusion.

He grinned, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "How devoted you are makes me envious, little muse. Would you give the same amount of devotion to me?" His words held a challenge, and for a moment, you wondered if there was more than jest in his eyes.

Trickster god Hermes, who knew how to make life an adventure, began slipping into your routines with ease.

He whisked you away from your duties, convincing you to join him on escapades across hills, through rivers, and into places you were not supposed to go. He showed you joy beyond Apollo’s measured perfection—the kind found in laughter that left you breathless, in the thrill of racing the wind, in moments stolen away just for yourselves. He made the divine feel real, imperfect, and you couldn't help but love that.

Trickster god Hermes, who was unpredictable, daring, and somehow made you feel seen.

He didn't look at you as merely another worshipper. He looked at you as someone he wanted. It unsettled you, the way he lingered too close, the intensity of his gaze following you as if you were the only one that mattered in a room full of people.

Trickster god Hermes, who found you alone in a grove, your shoulders slumped in loneliness as Apollo was too busy for you.

Instead of his usual antics, Hermes simply sat beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. He didn't say anything—he was just there—and for once, his presence wasn’t meant to charm or impress; it was just... real. It was the first time you saw something other than playful mischief in his eyes—it was care, and it unraveled something inside you.

Trickster god Hermes, who watched you with a longing that was hard to ignore.

He'd catch you glancing at Apollo from a distance, and his jaw would tense, that smile dropping for a heartbeat before it returned, sharper. He'd then make his presence known—his fingers skimming your waist, or his lips brushing your ear as he whispered something that made your pulse quicken. You were never just a follower to him, and he needed you to understand that.

Trickster god Hermes, who, for all his confidence, had waited for you to come to him.

He bided his time and made sure you knew he was always there. He listened when you spoke, his gaze never leaving your face, as though everything you said was the most important thing in the world. It wasn't Apollo's grandness, but it was real—and you found yourself seeking out Hermes more and more, your heart pulling toward the trickster who seemed to understand you in ways others didn't.

Trickster god Hermes, who watched with a soft smile the day you gave in.

When you leaned in to kiss him, he wrapped his arms around you as you kissed him, his lips curving against yours, the playful grin giving way to something deeper. Hermes held you close, as if you were the greatest treasure he had ever stolen, and he had no intention of letting go.

Trickster god Hermes, who made no secret of your connection afterward.

He'd drape himself over you in the presence of Apollo, his arm snug around your waist, whispering something teasingly possessive just loud enough for the sun god to hear with a knowing grin, as if to say, "He's mine now." There was no malice in it, only pride—pride that he had managed to steal your heart and that you had given it willingly.

Trickster god Hermes, who stole your heart in the most unexpected way, not by charm alone but through his laughter, his warmth, and his genuine affection.

He saw you not as someone worshipping from the shadows but as someone deserving of the spotlight, deserving of a love that was wild and unrestrained, just like the wind.

[httpiastri]

lando norris x reader, 18+

"i'm bored."

lando's head shoots up from below you. your head is tilted to the side, gazing out the window as if you can't be bothered to care about the man between your legs; as if anything, even the gray skies outside, is more interesting than this.

but you're just pretending, of course.

there's no doubt in the way that your body always trembles under his touch, or the way that your cheeks grow hot when he just looks at you. he may be slow and careful, taking his time with his touches instead of rushing into things, but he's never been boring to you before, and he sure isn't now.

"what?" lando asks, frowning. he's a bit confused – after all, you were the one who called him up half an hour ago, begging him to come over – but he's not completely sure he believes you. he knows the effect he has on you. "you're talking nonsense."

you shake your head slightly. "no, this is boring..." you mutter, letting out an exaggerated sigh. his kisses still linger where he left them on the inside of your thighs just moments ago, and you already regret making him halt his actions.

"god, you're so bratty."

your eyes dart back at him. there's a teasing grin on his lips, and his fingers on your thighs suddenly make themselves known again. one thumb draws circles into your skin, as the other hand moves up to swipe just along the edge of your slit. "i- i'm not." the instability of your voice is clear to lando, and it's easy for him to take notice of how your legs have tensed up in just a moment. "i just... want you to..."

your eyes flutter closed when one of his fingers makes contact with your clit. "hm? what do you want me to do to you?" he increases the pressure, casually circling your bud as your hips buck up slightly. "for you to feel less bored?"

"you- you've said that-" a whine escapes from your mouth, not able to form your sentences when he's teasing you like this. he notices and slows down his movements to let you speak. "you said that you like to make my eyes roll," your eyes find his the moment you open your eyelids. "do it."

he cocks an eyebrow at you. "alright, then." his lips trace down from your stomach to right above your core, kisses still feathery yet carrying more purpose than before. "your wish is my command."

[chippedshake]

Ponyboy, eight years old, meeting Sodapop's new friend Johnny from school, who has bright, black eyes and a bruise on his cheek, and has just as much trouble reading as Sodapop.

Ponyboy, eight years old, going to the movies with his parents, his brothers, and Johnny, who his parents insist on inviting everywhere, and talking everyone’s ear off about what he liked about it. Johnny, just shy of ten years old, being the only one to respond as excitedly.

Ponyboy, eight years old, walking home with Darry, Steve, Soda, and Johnny, making quiet conversation with him about the kids at school and trying to convince Johnny that Darry isn't as scary as he seems, just older and trying to be intimidating.

Ponyboy, nine years old, glued at the hip to Johnny, hardly spending a minute without him despite the age difference.

Ponyboy, nine years old, waking up to a knock on the door in the middle of the night and finding Johnny, barely able to hold himself up, face swelling, blood pouring out of his nose. Mrs Curtis coming out and patching Johnny up and telling Ponyboy to go back to sleep, but Ponyboy refusing because Johnny's his friend, so he stays with him for hours, whispering assurances, telling him he's going to be fine as he tries to ignore his shaking hands and the tremble in his voice. Rage sweltering in his chest and realising that at that moment he could kill someone.

Ponyboy, nine years old, falling asleep at Johnny's side, curled up against him in his room, Johnny's arms wrapped around him, tissues and gauze and medicine bottles littered around them.

Ponyboy, ten years old, reading the books Johnny's been assigned at school out loud because "they seem interesting, Johnny, it has nothing to do with you". Johnny pretending like he believes him when Ponyboy says he's just in the mood to read the chapters Johnny has for homework.

Ponyboy, almost eleven, telling Johnny over and over that he isn't stupid, school just isn't made for him and it doesn't matter that he's being held back, but knowing that none of it is getting through to Johnny.

Ponyboy, eleven years old, spending hours upon hours alone with Johnny in silence, doing their homework or drawing or reading or just thinking, living in a bubble where words aren't necessary to talk. Walking away with a greater understanding of each other than anyone else has.

Ponyboy, eleven years old, showing Johnny his drawings of the gang, trying to ignore how Johnny's face is appearing twice as often as everyone else's, and Johnny stopping on one drawing in particular, his breath caught in his throat. The drawing being one that had taken Ponyboy days to finish, Johnny's face as he watched the sunset, calm and awed by the beauty. The drawing matching Johnny's face at that moment exactly. Johnny asking to keep that one and Ponyboy not doubting it for a minute and ripping the page out.

Ponyboy, twelve years old, going to his first official fight against the Shepard gang and teaming up with Johnny against a medium-sized guy, working together seamlessly and practically reading each other's minds

Ponyboy, thirteen years old, finding out his parents are dead and going numb, unfeeling, not knowing what's happening. Not coming out of it until late at night, when he wanders downstairs and finds Johnny patching himself up and wonders why his mom isn't there, helping him. Holding back tears – for himself, his parents, his brothers, for Johnny – as he cleans Johnny's wounds and promises everything will get better.

Ponyboy, thirteen years old, falling asleep in Johnny's arms again, but they've done it so many times it's second nature to readjust themselves so they both feel protected.

Ponyboy, thirteen years old, finding Johnny in the lot with the rest of the gang and being beyond horrified, frozen with shock, unable to do anything but stare as Soda holds Johnny and they get him back to their house. Johnny asking him, in a croaky voice just before they fall asleep, to go get his jeans jacket. Ponyboy finding his drawing of Johnny, folded into neat quarters in the pocket and Johnny smiling softly when he sees it and whispering "thank you" and both of them knowing it's for so much more than bringing him the drawing.

Ponyboy, fourteen years old, blond and quietly crying himself to sleep in a church far away from home. Johnny waking up and comforting him like Pony's done for him so many times. Both of them pretending it's too cold so they have to sleep huddled up, acting like it has nothing to do with comfort

Ponyboy, fourteen years old, screaming, pleading for Johnny to come out because all the kids are out already, come out, please, Johnny, it's not safe

Ponyboy, fourteen years old, visiting Johnny in the hospital and knowing he won't make it, but shoving it down because he can't imagine a world without him.

Ponyboy, fourteen years old, sending Two-Bit to go get a book so he can have alone time with Johnny, and not needing to say anything for both of them to know this is probably the last time they'll be together.

Ponyboy, fourteen years old, pouring all his frustration and rage into the rumble.

Ponyboy, fourteen years old, not being able to break down next to the hospital bed because if he doesn't go get his brothers, Dally might do something stupid.

(It doesn’t make a difference.)

Ponyboy, fourteen years old, sick with grief and not knowing how to tell people that Johnny wasn't just his buddy, they had something different.

Ponyboy, fourteen years old, opening a letter and finding another sheet of paper that falls out. Knowing what it is before he opens it. Tear drops staining the drawing, making Johnny cry as he watches the sunset at twelve years old.

Ponyboy, fifteen years old, forced to pretend like nothing happened and dating a girl – Cathy – even though he knows he doesn't feel the way he should towards her.

Ponyboy, seventeen years old, realising he was now older than Johnny would ever be.

Ponyboy, eighteen years old, getting married to a girl he definitely doesn't feel the way he should towards.

Ponyboy, twenty years old, running to the hospital because Soda was in the wrong place at the wrong time in a rally in New York of all places and now they don't know if he’s going to make it and oh god, not another one.

Ponyboy, twenty years old, holding his breath until his brother answers him and tells him to stop worrying with a forced smile.

Ponyboy, twenty-two years old and realising that he's never loved anyone the way Sodapop loves Steve and loved Sandy, not Johnny, not Cathy, not anyone else, realising he's broken.

Ponyboy, twenty-five, having his second child but first son and not doubting for a moment as he calls him Johnny despite the fact that he can't remember his voice and needs the drawing to remember his face.

Ponyboy, thirty years old, sitting his wife down because this isn't fair to her, telling her he doesn't love her like that, but he does love her. He loves her but the same way he loves his brothers and Steve and Two-Bit and–... and all of them. Her, breaking in front of him, but putting up a strong front and telling him they'll stay together for Johnny and Kristen.

Ponyboy, forty-two years old, finally getting a divorce now that their kids don't live with them anymore.

Ponyboy, fifty years old, happier than he's ever been, living with a group of friends and calling his children regularly.

Ponyboy, sixty-five years old, watching his brother legally marry Steve and shoving down the familiar twinge of not being able to feel any of that.

Ponyboy, seventy-three years old, with a grandchild coming out to him with these words he's never heard before and his mind is swimming with aromantic and asexual and queer-platonic.

Ponyboy, seventy-three years old, talking to his grandchild about something that isn't platonic and isn't romantic, but something different, not less, not more, but different. A bond that runs deep and doesn't fall into these easy categories and Ponyboy holding back tears as he remembers painstakingly drawn pictures and night spent wrapped around each other.

Ponyboy, seventy-three years old and breaking down in his room because he finally found the words to say what he felt and Johnny wasn't here to find them with him, and he would never know that was what it was.

Ponyboy, seventy-three years old, being found by his brothers as he sobs with the drawing in his hands. Soda and Darry sitting down on either side of him and wrapping their arms around him and Steve rubbing circles on the back of his hand and Two-Bit telling him stories about Johnny because even if he didn’t say why he was crying they all knew.

Ponyboy, seventy-five years old, meeting his grandchild's partner and damn near crying but holding back the tears and wishing the two of them the best before pretending to need to take his heart medicine.

Ponyboy, eighty-three years old, going in his sleep, dreaming of tending to wounds and carefully drawing soft faces.

I'll see you soon, Johnny

[mer-acle]

Imagine this.

Hera never saw Athena as her own. She's at least not a bastard child technically but it's not her biological child so who cares about her.

And now she's hurt. Athena is lying on the floor of the arena and she's bleeding.

Hera is staying because it's what Zeus expects and she manages to calm him down some.

Athena wakes and Zeus bows down to her and Hera sees that she's terrified. Breaths hitching as she tries not to cry. And Hera sees the way Athena looks away, how she flinches when he gets close and she sees Ares gripping his chiton because he's nervous, and Hephaestus struggling to meet his father's eyes. She sees, for the first time, that Athena, too, was a child who needed protection. Who needed a mother.

That Athena should have been a part of the family she is supposed to protect. That all of his kids should have been.

[blooms-in-april]

Obsessed with the idea it's illegal in Oxenfurt to execute or arrest someone while there is a theatre performance going on. So when Jaskier is finally arrested for being the Sandpiper and an associate of the fugitive Geralt of Rivia, all his students band together to perform the longest musical the Continent has ever seen.

Yes, it's about his life. Yes, it's very personal. And yes, fugitive Geralt and Ciri end up in the audience, of course they do.

[lambmotifz]

always thinking about the fact that eric kripke ethel cain and richard siken ship wincest

[plutoispurplw]

Fresh Out The Slammer

Summary: You're going to see Spencer after he spent three months on the prision.

Couple: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Little angst, mention of prision and murder.

A/N: Hi everyone, guess who is back to write like is running out of time! Someone has to take TTPD away from me, now this is an addiction.

Sorry if this doesn't have to much to do wuth the song and remember, english is not my first language, so please tell me if I have an error.

Plss reblog it and request are open!

Masterlistᝰ.ᐟ

When Spencer was being held in custody in Mexico, you were anxious, you visited him and he was completely different from who you were accustomed to.

It was like he wasn’t mentally there, he looked like a mess and his mental stability was almost inexistent, you almost broke down when you saw him in that state.

After that visit, he didn’t let you go again to see him, he didn’t want you to see him in that state and was worried about your mental health even if he was worse in that matter.

You felt hurt at that moment but you decided to understand him and didn’t visit him again but you sent him letters, the first few letters he didn't respond to you, after some time he started to respond to your letters.

You have been feeling down all the time, being in your apartment made you feel miserable knowing he wasn't there, it felt lifeless there without his presence.

Your bed that once was your favorite place in the world became the worst place to be without his arms around you holding you and protecting you from all the things that happen out there.

You were cleaning the apartment when your phone started to ring, you took it to check who it was and when you saw his name you let out a scream. You quickly answer the call.

“Spencer, are you okay?” You said immediately when the call started, your voice was full of worry for him.

“Yes, I’m already out and I’m alright, don’t worry angel.” His voice sounded reassuring, even if he wasn’t alright he wouldn’t have told you but something inside you told you to believe him.

That calmed you instantly, knowing he was alright made your mind at peace, and the overthinking in your mind stopped even if it was for a moment.

“I’m going to be there in a couple of hours.” His voice sounded tired, knowing him you know that he hadn’t slept more than two hours or less in those three months

Now you were waiting for him in your apartment, sitting on your couch trying to read a book, but that task seemed impossible right now, your mind was only focused on the clock in the living room, checking it every few minutes.

It felt like the minutes were slowly becoming eternal, your heart was beating like it was going to get out of your chest, and your mind was running through a million thoughts at the same time.

Then you heard the door opening and you ran towards the entrance just like a little kid, when you saw him you just hugged him while tears began to spill from you’re eyes.

“I missed you so much.” You whispered against his neck, your voice breaking with every word you spoke. His hands were rubbing your back in a calming notion.

When you pulled back enough to see his face, you noticed that his face had tears spilling from his beautiful eyes, you removed them with your thumbs while you held his face in your hands.

“You don’t have any idea of how much I thought about you, All those nights, you kept me going. I read every letter you sent.” He pulled you towards him for a kiss. When his lips touched yours it was like being in heaven again.

You pulled away a little and put your head on his chest “I’m sorry that you had to go through all of that.” Your voice was weak and filled with sadness thinking about all the things that he had suffered, you looked to another side.

He pulled away a little and took you by the chin to make you see him, he started to speak again. “Even if I go through all of that, knowing that you were here is enough compensation for all the things that I had suffered in my life.”

You kissed again but with time it was more slowly and gently, the kiss was filled with the love that the two of you had for each other. You were sure that the love would never end between you two.

He was the one who you want to spend the rest of your life with him.

[writingwenches]

Aemond x Peasant OC

synopsis: Aemond leaves the comfort of the Red Keep to trek around the backwoods Riverlands, where an annoying peasant doesn't believe he is a prince. Then they do hand stuff near a lake.

themes: brat!Aemond, spoiled!Aemond, mixed race main character, mc grew up in a westeros version of a nunnery, surprise trans side character~ this is just the start of a larger “rewrite HOTD” type story.

word count: 10k (i hate me too.)

warnings: 18+ MDNI, no targcest, hand stuff, mouth stuff, mommy issues if you squint, mentions of sex work, mentions of child death and pregnancy complications. Religious nonsense.

PART TWO OUT NOW

Freedom From – Act One

Charity is the only hope for useless girls, and not enough to go around. The Maidenhouse of Haronfall was an ancient structure, run by the Faith for centuries as a place to send discarded girl-children, forging useless girls into something worthy. It was their true calling, regardless of what those girls’ wants. 

For unwanted men of the realm, there was the Night’s Watch. Some unwanted boys are sent as soon as they were old enough to lift a sword. They were raised and trained to be useful along their brothers, forged to the sole purpose of defending the realm and never to be left wanting. 

The Septas of the Faith of the Seven recruited woman of fine birth, in want of a life not owned by a husband, and those who’s families were willing to pay handsomely for a life of purpose for their unfortunately female child. Women worked and clawed and won their way into the duty of a Septa, the Faith had no use for useless girls. 

There was no place in the realm for unwanted girls. Brothels did not want them. They already had enough bastards, and young flesh did not turn enough of a profit. Girls were not wanted unless they were useful, and many unuseful girls found themselves living on the streets or dead in a ditch.

That was what would befall Lyn is she were ever to be found wanting, of something more, of something else. She was lucky to have been given her place amongst the holy woman of the Faith, even if she was not going to benefit from their handouts much longer. Lyn had been found wanting at an early age, never reaching the hidden marks required to be gifted a role as a Novice. Those girls found wanting were given hard work of servitude, waiting on the Septas that filled the halls of the Grand Motherhouse, constructed around the ancient order’s orphanage, nestled in the swamp lands of The Bite. 

The prayer before work was never ending, but no one had the heart to interrupt the young girl, hands clasped together, eyes stitched shut, conversing with the gods in earnest. Lyn tried to shake her mind from racing at the thoughts of the future, focusing on the task at hand. House Erenford was not able to keep a staff his large permanently, but they would take every chance for a few strong-backed girl servants from the Faith to tend their Keep during festivals and feasts. House Erenford honors hard workers, and knows that the serving girls’ would be in need of work away from their lands as soon as they could find it. The elderly Lord Erenford would always put in a good word with visiting households in need of additional servants. 

Lyn tried to for her back to appear straight, as she lowered herself enough to reach the basket of herbs that needed plucking. Her fellow maid, Hanna, peeled potatoes below the table and out of sight of piety. This was not the first time the group of maids had been contracted to work during a feast at House Eronford’s keep, and Lyn knew that they did not have time for endless prayers and blessings if they were to keep their schedule. Their traveling party lost many hours to traveling from the Motherhouse, where the young maids hailed. 

Lyn’s eyes remained downcast, she was raised by the Septas of the Faith of the Seven since as long as she had memory. She had learned to pray before she could do any other task, it took many years to learn how to appear to be praying, which is much more efficient. 

Her small movements had been noticed, however, by the Lady Aeditya Mallister. She had been raised on a far-off world, at a distance Lyn could not properly imagine, away from the tradition of the Faith. 

Lady Aeditya cleared her throat, trying to get someone’s attention, her empty cup dancing in her hand.

For years, Lyn assumed Aeditya was of mixed peoples, like Lyn herself, with skin of a strange middle ground between dark and light. But, after serving the lady on numerous occasions, she was assured that Lady Mallister was of impeccable birth, thought to possess ravishing beauty by her entire nation, a nation where all peoples looked like her, but obviously less beautiful. 

Lady Aeditya exhaled loudly, and no move was made to fill her empty cup while prayers were still being pledged.

Lyn agreed that Lady Aeditya was beautiful, but knew that her distant land would not welcome her for her skin alone. Their features were completely different, were Lyn was plump and sturdy, Aeditya was slim and narrow. 

“LYN!” the lady finally shouted. The prayers abruptly stopped. “My cup is empty. Where is the wine?”

“Of course, Lady Mallister,” Lyn said dutifully, flicking away the moist bits of shredded herbs from her fingers, glad that the room burst to life as work for the feast could finally begin. Behind the pillar of the wine cellar, Lyn suck a few gulps from the pitcher to warm her belly before returning to fill the lady’s empty cup. 

—

“Ugh!” Lady Aeditya huffed, as she lounged on the stone hearth, stroking her distressingly pregnant belly. “It’s too quiet in here, someone speak,” she ordered, her wine cup almost empty one again. 

“Is the duck ready for the oven?” Hanna chimed, thinking her thoughts aloud as she passed. 

“No!” Lady Aeditya stamped, “The babe grows ears! Do not speak of things I know nought about!” Her words staccatod for emphasis. “It is isolating to me, we must not encourage such things for the babe,” she said as if it were obvious. “Lord Ryver and Waltel Frey are sparring, as always, and I did not come here to be bored.”

Lady Aeditya came to Haronfall, along the edge of The Bite, all the way from Seaguard, the western most point before the Iron Islands. It was the only area of land Lyn had ever known. It was more than a week’s journey between the two settlements, and every pregnancy, Aeditya seemed to spend the majority of her time away from her lord husband.

“What would you like to speak of, Lady Mallister?” Lyn asked, sharing smiling glancing to the other girls working. She tried to get the savory herbs from beneath her fingernails, to not spoil the sweet pie filling she was mixing. 

Lady Aeditya signed again. “it is always up to me, the true burden of being a lady.” She sat up straighter and addressed the help with her eyes. The Lady Aeditya saw an unorganized gaggle of unmarried maidens, who were long old enough to bare children of their own. Poor, former infants that were abandoned by their destitute mothers at the Faith’s doorstep, now traded around as extra help for a few measly coins. Aeditya say little difference between this and woman who sell their bodies in other ways. She could never imagine sullying herself with such unfulfilling work with a true lack of purpose. She pitied them in some ways – an envied them in others. “Girls, be thankful your minds are not always at the helm of every stimulant in conversation.”

Honestly, Lyn was thankful as her brain was far away from the dank kitchens, hidden below the gathering hall. The windows were scarce and to allow only for light, rather than a beautiful view of the fertile swamplands surrounding the keep. Lyn’s mind was free to soar and wonder, watching a bale of turtles balancing on a single log as they competed for the best spot in the sun. Lyn often wished she were a simple turtle, floating along the creeks and bogs, armored against chomping lizards and long beaked birds. She was free. 

Very much unlike Lady Aeditya. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed, both hands reaching for her overlarge belly. “Come hither! The babe! He kicks!” 

The room flurried with rushing girls and dropped buckets. 

Lyn did not think Lady Aeditya so bad. Lyn was present at her last birth, as Aeditya’s labors began in Haronfall, and lasted days. The boy was born asleep, the Septas said, wrapping him in cloth and not allowing the mother a single look before carting him away, leaving Lyn and the other girls to hold Aeditya close as she wailed. At the request of Lord River, Aeditya remained in Haronfall to give Lord Mallister’s temper time to subside. 

Lyn smiled as she felt the babe kick, before other girls pushed her palm away to feel for themselves. Lyn didn’t know how much she believed in the gods, but she prayed to all of them on behalf of the Lady Mallister, prayed that they would finally bless her with a single child that lives, if only to spare her from her lord husband’s much-gossiped-about wrath. 

Lyn was very thankful she was a poor maid, with no hopes and no prospects. She had seen first hand what prospects could do to a woman. 

— 

Whatever the reason for Cinda Lannister’s personal crest being a lioness fighting a diamond snake, many speculated that she was much more the snake than a lioness. Perhaps the speculation began from Cinda herself. 

“My prince,” she curtsied impeccably. “Oh, how I wish you’d allow me to call you ‘my favorite prince,’” she teased, snaking her hand around Aemond’s arm, without him offering it. 

“As I have told you since childhood, you are allowed to do no such thing,” he scoffed, wishing he could shake her arms away like he could his mother. Cinda Lannister was a high-born lady, not something that could be manhandled, so he allowed her closeness begrudgingly. “What is it you want this time, Lady Cinda?” 

The younger sister of Master of Coin, and personal possessor of the largest sapphire mine in all of Westeros, threw her head back with a laugh, allowing the tall prince a better view of her bare neck and low-lying neckline. “You are always a laugh, my prince!” she mused, “I do not want anything from you. I simply wish you tell you of a surprise gift I have found for your dear, sweet, sister, the Princess Helaena.” 

“What is it?” he asked plainly, wishing the halls of the Red Keep were shorter, or any other reason for this conversation to end. 

“Well, it wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you!” she jested back, “no, I will not tell you what it is, simply where to find it, if you would wish to help me fetch it for her.” 

Aemond offered Cinda his hand at the end of a long staircase, as any proper gentleman should, and she gracefully accepted it. “Fine,” he held his tongue in anger, “where is it?” 

“Haronfall,” she replied quickly. 

“Heronhol?” he had heard, expecting the gift to be some haunted tree spider. 

“No, my prince. That is a common miscommunication. Haronfall, along The Bite, Near The Twins, but not quite. Ruled over by Lord Eronford. It is far older than Haronhol and some say it could be the inspiration for Lord Aaron’s naming of his own Keep.”

It was not often when Aemond took more than a thought to remember the heraldry of a house. “A heron on a pink banner?”

“Correct, my prince!” Cinda used this as an opportunity to giggle. “That is correct?” Cinda asked, turning towards Aemond’s back.

Aemond had not noticed the girl following behind, a girl, barely old enough to be called a lady, clad in bright red rubies and lace. “Yes, aunt,” she replied meekly, not looking up at Aemond. The daughter of the Realm’s Lannister Master of Ships. 

“Thank you, Cordelia,” Cinda said. 

Aemond had been offered the young Lady Cordelia on numerous occasions since her birth. The second-born prince had no interest in playing nursemaid to a child, or bedding one. 

“Haronfall is where I shall be traveling to, unfortunately I shall be missing the King’s nameday festivities, but as you know, your sweet sister’s own nameday is so soon after, that she rarely receives much fanfare.” Cinda said. 

“And with all of the troubles she has had of late with those nasty girls from the Stormlands. I simply shudder to think of the vile insults thrown her way.”  

—

In the past, Helaena’s ladies forced her around the keep, the princess’s feet dragging paces behind the ladies’ closely fortified wall of linked arms. They had all hailed from the Stormlands, a great honor bestowed by the crown. Jena Estermount, the eldest daughter to the second richest house in the region who openly mocked the gods, Arianna Tarth, a half-dornish girl, and Corenna Storm, a noble bastard of House Baratheon.

As they wafted through the walls of the Keep, Aemond thought it plain to see that the princess’s ladies were not interested in the princess at all. Helaena did not seem at all bothered when the Queen dismissed the group of catty ladies from court after she discovered them mocking the princess behind her back. Queen Alicent distrusted each girl for their own glaring flaw, and only had the prejudices enforced through the girls’ actions.

In reality, Helaena had not minded the names they called her. Some of the names were quite clever. One of the girls, the bastard, had called her “Batty.” Helaena had never given much thoughts to bats before that name, and since has discovered she finds them quite fascinating.

—

Cinda had always seemed to have the Queen’s interest at heart. Aemond figured Cinda was a child when his mother was married, basically offered as a gift from the Lannister family. Cinda was a Lady in her own right, the rightful daughter to the Lord Paramount of the West, and had the authority born from her great house, to assist the queen with any ladyly matters that concerned women. 

Aemond wasn’t sure what ladies did all day, but he supposed planning gifts for a princess was a worthy endeavor. 

Aemond had only known Cinda to honor his mother in whatever way necessary. He liked the way she made people squirm. 

“Careful, Lord Larys,” she quipped once, while his mother and the clubbed foot whispered in the corner. “If you aren’t careful, I shall marry you. And I shall keep my husband on a much shorter leash.” 

Cinda was young enough to be a proper match to marry Prince Aemond, but old enough to lack many more fruitful child baring years. It would basically be admitting to the realm of his care for the woman, which he had none, no matter how many times he returned to her bed to lay his head upon her chest. It meant nothing, he told himself, even as the tears stung the corners of his eyes as he burrowed himself into her. 

Cinda was just a teen, helping the Queen Mother after Aemond’s incident on Driftmark, letting the small boy lay on her chest as he was sick on milk of the poppy. 

His mother was there, asleep on the chair near his bedside, but she could not bare to touch him. The last time she cradled his face, the night it happened, she erupted with rage and she was horrified, afraid she would lash out at the boy with her anger like she had attacked her once best friend. 

It was Aemond that snuck into Cinda’s chambers a few moons past when they stopped sleeping in his own chambers. It was the first time he had seen a lady without a corset, when he climbed into her bed, teary eyed and pouting about the pain his family was tired of hearing. She let the pitiful boy sleep on her chest, Aemond thought her was much more comfortable without her corset. 

Cinda had never changed the way she looked at him. He had always been the poor, second son that she loved to dote upon. Even after gaining Vhagar and losing his eye, she never faltered in her incessant mothering of him, always to his annoyance. 

The winter following his lost eye, Cinda had made sure to strap him into his winter coat personally, buttons, belts and all. So many, the young boy would grow too impatient every time he attempted to shrug it off. 

Aemond would threaten to feed Cinda to his new dragon at her every annoyance, and every time she would hug him close, and before long he was tall enough to get a face-full of her ample chest. 

It had become a game for him, without him realizing what he had been up to, with his newly formed fascination with women’s breasts. 

Cinda was the first to notice his little scheme, calling him out in their quiet place, “I thought you my favorite prince for being so different from your elder brother, His Grace. I can’t have you being a leacher as well.” Her thumb as passed over his lips as she caressed his cheek and he felt every inch of skin set aflame. 

He legs stormed him out of her room and down two corridors before he was able to hear the world again. The blush did not leave his flesh for weeks, as every time the young boy caught a glimpse of a red dress, he was reminded of her alluring words. 

Aemond had been panicked for so long that Aegon noticed. When Aegon approached Cinda about the incident, she licked her thumb to wipe away from dirt on Prince Aegon’s nose. He lost interest quickly, not enjoying her mothering the way others did. 

His grandsire had even requested to speak with him about something important. Aemond was enameled by the strategic maps and sums that scattered the office of Hand to the King. 

It was a meeting, much worst than he could have ever feared. Otto thought it had been time that the young prince he spoken to about urges. Aemond thought about jumping from the Hand’s Tower, surely death was better than this. 

“I don’t…” Aemond was cut off, Otto was not going to let him get out of this one. 

A large, ancient tome was presented to the young prince. Aemond closed the book as quickly as he opened it, after seeing the crude drawings of nude bodies. “I don’t want this,” he said, pushing it back to his grandsire, not making eye contact. 

“Think of it as an early nameday gift,” Otto patted him on the head, not allowing Aemond to leave without the book. 

The young prince held the tone like it was covered in acid, not wanting it to suddenly burst into flames. That was until he noticed Aegon a floor below, and Aemond hid the book under his shift, tucked into his breeches to unsuspiciously walk past his elder brother and little cousins. 

It obviously did not work. 

It never worked. 

He stopped seeing Cinda unnecessarily after that, only allowing a passing conversation at a mutual dinner or ball. It wasn’t something he needed, he reminded himself, with his hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the Harvest Ball in the Red Keep. The festivities were distracting his brother and his club of suitors from The Reach, all who took great pleasure in Aemond’s discomfort. If the Reach Ladies ever found out about his secret nighttime travels to Cinda’s chambers to be swaddled with a babe…the only option would be to sacrifice himself to the Old Valyrian gods by Vhagar’s dragon fire. 

Even as a man grown, Aemond could still picture the sting of Lady Ivyanne Tyrell’s voice in his imagined scenario that he allowed to play on loop every night. 

“By the gods, One-Eye, do you love Cinda Lannister?” He could feel their laughter, even without it ever happening. 

Not that he had thought about the exact scene in his loneliest hours of sleep, Cinda was never at a lack of quips and womanly come-backs. Lady Cinda Lannister was not afraid to call out Ivyanne for the sapphic invert she truly was. “Have fun with your Game of Flats, I’m sure Prince Aegon enjoys watching.” 

Not that Aemond ever imagines such things, especially right after he had just finished his imagining. It was always the last time, every single time. 

Lady Cinda Lannister bathed in the morning, before the sun is fully risen, beginning her day before some of the Keep’s servants. Aemond knew that much about her routine, after being gently woken and forced to trek back to his own chambers before the castle was awake. 

The early morning after his thirteen nameday festivities Aegon had talked him into, Aemond found himself in Cinda’s chambers once again. She did not have to ask, his tears could not be controlled. 

Cinda had derived a way to lock the doors from the inside, she was never one to to be caught off guard. 

They both bathed in their shifts. Aemond cried into her neck as she washed his hair and sponged his face. She distracted him with Lannister family histories, courtly gossip she had overheard, talk about her excitement for his sister princess’s new ladies-in-waiting arriving from the Stormlands soon.

They couldn’t stay there forever, as Aemond would have wished. The dream between sleep and awake evaporated together into the cloud of his memory. Aemond could not remember if he asked Cinda to marry him that night, or if it was only a fleeting dream. Regardless, there was a sweet declaration of her painless rejection. Aemond had not minded. 

— 

“I hope you are daydreaming of me, my little prince,” Cinda laughed, grazing his cheek with her fingernail. 

The waking nightmare had been so real that Aemond started back to attention, tripping young Cordelia, who was following him too closely.

“You will be gone for weeks,” Aemond continued forward, leaving the young Cordelia to pick herself up from the floor. 

“I hope you do not miss me too fiercely while I away,” she shined. 

“I never do,” Aemond blanched as she pressed her lips to his cheek. 

— 

Aemond could not withstand another moment of his father’s sixtieth nameday celebration, and took to the skies before the great hunt had finished. He had been given his heading of The Bite, and he had studied the wastelands of the kingdoms in his youth for this very reason. He had no need for a map. 

Vhagar circled the estuaries trickling out of The Bite, the bitter air of the cold swamp fluttered upwards, the smell of fresh death, and decay played inside him. Only a place like this could grow the strange bog creature his sister was surely going to cherish from Lady Cinda. 

The settlement had been easy enough to find, after a few hours of searching the shores. Vhagar’s legs sank into the muck as she landed, the elderly she-dragon grunted with every movement, refusing to lean on her wings for support. She took two additional landings for Aemond to calm her enough to dismount.

Before his dragon had disappeared from view, tall, squawking birds had found perch upon her wide back. Aemond was sure her dragon fire would not find purchase amongst the brush and trees, the place was too dank to be set ablaze. 

By the time he reached the settlement, Aemond had cursed every rock and root he had passed for the past few miles. He wished Vhagar had roasted the entire countryside rather than spend another moment knee deep in cold muck. 

— 

“Ryver has gone mad yet again,” Lady Aeditya’s slurred down the stairs, she risked tumbling for a change at her favorite exaggerated eye roll, marking her judgement on others. “He thinks there is a Targaryen prince at his door.” 

The work in the room stopped at once. 

“…another one?” Hanna asked, her hands almost burning on the pan she paused handling. 

“It seems so,” Aeditya shook her cup until it was filled. 

“This shall be the fourth ‘prince’ to show at up his door, correct?” Lyn asked, she could not hide a smile stretching over her lips. 

“When his Lord father is away, Ryver will open the Keep to anyone with silver hair and a claimed title.” 

“What do you think this one will be like?” Hanna asked, “handsome for once?” 

They all had a laugh at that. 

“This one is different,” Aeditya answered, “Or so Ryver claims. This one…has lost an eye.” The lady stretched out her iris as she drained her cup. 

Lyn did not understand the gesture. 

“The prince,” a quiet maid said, “one of the prince’s is missing an eye. They call him ‘One-Eyed!’” 

There was mumbling amongst the ladies, Lyn even joined in. 

Aeditya could not help but be correct in all things, “Girls! Do not be such gullible lambs! Are we really to believe there is only a single silver man in the entire world and he lives at the king’s palace?” 

The new mumbling confirmed that the Lady had a point, as she usually did. Lyn was glad that her worldly education was being put to good use somehow. “Girls these days–” Aeditya said, ignoring their clearly overlapping ages, “–are so quick to believe whatever best suits them. Back when I was a maid, girls were instructed on forming more than the quickest of opinions.” Her hands were at her belly, wishing her wisdom above all for her future son. Wisdom and breath. 

“And besides, I’m sure he would have been born without the eye. Marrying one’s brother dilutes health, it is a simple matter of nature. And besides,” Aeditya looked over the gathered foods. “How would a young princeling lose an eye to begin with? They own the strongest guards on the continent” 

“Perhaps it could have been an accident?” Hanna asked, seeing it as a reasonable offer. 

“No.” Aeditya put down her goblet. “I saw the creature’s face, that scar was no accident.”

— 

Lyn did not want to admit to herself that she wanted a peak at the potential prince herself. If only for the chance to see a nasty scar. Lyn wasn’t one for violence, but she did think the human body a fascinating thing. She sometimes forgot about the prominent marks that scar her own face, a thing that some Septas preach as a consequence for a mother’s sinful life. She was only reminded by her betters. When a traveling Septon instructs her to stand as an example for his sermons on the ill-effects of sin on the body. Lyn did not mind the occasional Maester passing through their congregation asking to examine her. She had been assured that there was nothing malicious about the marks on her face. 

Lyn likened her marks as her calling card, she was an easy face to remember a few summers past, it was what helped her gain her odd-jobs, helping rebuilt fences and carrying stone for ailing paupers. Most in the Realm would scoff at the offer of manual labors from a woman, but those in need are much kinder. They they are not always grateful, it is not because of her sex but because no one wants to turn beggar. Though, accepting help from the Faith was always easier on an ailing conscience. 

For as long as Lyn could remember she had been amongst the statues of the Seven Gods, and the Septas of the faith. She had learned to clean herself by them, she learned discipline by their rods, she learned how to be of use to the world.

Lyn was grateful for her life amongst the Septas, but was glad to be away whenever possible. Lyn thanked the gods that they only appear in Haronfall for the markets, and only require novices to accompany her during work in the Erenford’s Keep.

Lyn surmised most of the Septas had not imagined ending up in such a cold, dank place in the middle of the Kingsroad. The western shores of The Bite was unforgiving terrain, a swamp of brackish, mud-colored water that every structure eventually sinks into. The Reverend Mother often reminded the girls of her life in the southern Reach, of the endless summer days and sweet smelling grass. The wet, grey skies where the North, Riverlands and Vale meet leaves much to be desired for a southerner. 

Lyn was not meant for a life as a Septa, as was foretold since her youth. The maesters and Septons tested the young girls as they came into the charge of the Faith and Lyn, and the other girls of the Maidenhouse, left them unimpressed. She had not shown intelligence, or gifts for art, or sums, or memorizing prayers. So, she was ranked amongst the useless girls who needed to be molded into something more.

Lyn knew of the dangers of a beautiful face, the Septas told them every tale that could exist of beautiful girls being dragged away and savaged by men of all ages and sizes. It was horrifying. Lyn was glad that no man would ever want to drag her away or trap her in a tower. Lyn did not mind being disgusting and ugly because of the marks on her face. 

Besides, girls did not care about such things as ugly, they cared about her all the same. So, she was glad the world was not ruled by women, just like the Septas they would force a use for her in their world, no matter what she looked like. 

“You can really give it to him, my Prince!” The eldest child of the current Lord Erenford called. “We Riverman can handle our own!” Lord Ryver shouted, as he hurled his sword into the guarding shield of his companion Waltel Frey. 

The two young men began fighting in earnest, as a third party looked on. The Supposed Prince. Lyn assumed.

A small boy ran into the fray, wooden sword blazing and iron helmet blocking his line of sight, requiring a few strikes to properly attack his opponent’s buttocks. 

“Yes Robyn! Attack!” Ryver shouted, “Go for the legs!” the small boy wrapped himself around the Frey’s knees as the clang of realm swords sounded until Waltel Frey yielded, which was traditionally followed by a rant of Red Ryver from the Erenford boys.

“Oy!” Waltel called from his chosen place to end his tragic death rattles for the amusement of Little Lord Robyn. 

“Well, isn’t it my favorite grayscale woman!” Robyn leaned against the fence encircling the training yard. 

“Have you ever seen greyscale?” Lyn asked, her tone trying to convey that this was not her favorite greeting. 

“Obviously not,” Robyn answered, he might have been known as the Red Ryver, but he didn’t have a death wish.

“It does not look like this,” Lyn pointed to her face, “I know this because Maesters have shown me their drawings.” 

“Do you speak to Maesters often?” It was the turn of the Supposed Prince to speak now. 

Lyn regarded him, with her eyes. “Charmed,” she stated, echoing the word of Lady Aeditya to denote that she was less than pleased.

 “Lyn lives at the Motherhouse!” Little Lord Robyn added, firing an arrow into the fencepost Lyn was standing in front of, thankfully his ever present helmet did not effect his view, this time.  

“The Maidenhouse?” Waltel questioned.

“Maidenfort!” Ryver echoed his common words for the Faiths Cloisters. 

“We get plenty of Maesters there, if it please you,” she stated, bowing slightly in the presence of Supposed royalty.

“Are you a Septa?” Aemond regarded her this time. She had a ruddy face covered in mess and sweat, brought upon by the brisk pace of a servant’s life. Her hair was braided down slick to her head, it was either flecked with blonde or dirt. What Aemond first guessed was mud on her face turned out to be her, freckles could not contain the black stains that blotched her cheeks. “You are dressed like a child servant.”

Lyn’s skirts were inches shorter than the noble ladies and their proper servants, “It’s easier to walk,” Lyn stated the obvious. She did not need yards of extra fabric mucking about her purpose in life. “And I am no Septa,” Lyn clarified, though not wanting to explain her life any further to this imposter.

“So…it seems the Prince of the Realm has come to Haronfall.” Just as Aeditya had many times before, Lyn brought the conversation to the group. Ryver had wasted no time to clasp his hands upon the Supposed Prince’s shoulders. He did not seem to like that. “That is exciting. What brings you here Ser–Prince?” Lyn had never thought how to address a royal before.

The Prince scowled, “I am here to fetch a gift for my sister,” he answered plainly. 

“I make baskets!” Lyn could not help but exclaim proudly. The Septas had instructed her to always he in search of work, then one would never be wanting for it. “If your sister is in need of a gift.” 

The Haronfall boys were dutifully thrilled at the suggestion. 

“–no,” the Supposed Prince chuckled the word with an arrogance Lyn had not experienced in a man of his young years. 

“Alright!” Lyn did not need to defend the usefulness of a basket very often, and her blood was beginning the boil.

“You make baskets?” he mused in her direction, not lowing himself to speaking directly at her.

“I do. I make them all m’self, I do. I harvest the grass, I dry them, I weave them, without help from no one,” the words bubbled from Lyn’s mouth. “Unlike the looks of you, who could nought tie his breeches alone.” 

Aemond did not like when she pointed to his breeches, or their ties, or the general area in which they reside, in some field, in the damned Riverlands. It was unseeingly! Prince Aemond Targaryen was a god amongst men, the rider of the largest dragon in the world and he would not have his manhood regarded by some peasant. 

“I am a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms–”

“More like six,” Lyn said loudly enough for Ryver and Waltel to stifle a laugh. Ryver’s only respite was promising to explain the jest to little Robyn at a later time. 

Lyn pointed at his breeches straps again, just to watch his face twist in annoyance. 

“I could have you whipped for saying that,” Aemond spat, nearly disrupting the wooden fence separating him from the swampland creature that dared to grace his–

“If you were the real prince–“

Aemond’s mind echoed the if, convulsed his annoyed face into confusion. 

“If!” Lyn repeat to overpower the groans from Lord Ryver, who had thought the group was at a place far past this. He had only been wrong three times before. That did not denote a pattern. Yet. 

Lyn looked the supposed prince in the eyes, a gaze devoid of any reverence or interest. “If you were the real prince, you could have me whipped no matter what I say,” she regarded the man no further. “If it please you, I have a job to return to.” 

Aemond’s hand was on his dagger, he had every right in the whole of the realm, on any continent on this earth to carve a hand from the woman’s body and feed it to Vhagar on his return to the Crownlands. 

“But! He had one eye!” Ryver called after the disappearing peasant. 

A shiver dripped down Aemond back like a bead of sweat on a hot day, his body defensively braced himself for a jest at his own expense. 

“Everyone here seems to think,” Lyn turned and shouted across the lawn, “that the prince was born with only one eye! So, perhaps, have your tale at the ready for your…situation,” Lyn mimed his injury with her giddy hands. 

She was too far away for a sword, but Aemond was sure he could hit her if he pried the bow from the little boy Lord’s hands. 

In reality, Aemond was greeted by the stare of Haronfall boys who seemed to think the peasant woman had a point to make. 

Aemond could feel Vhagar rushing through him, she was far from this place, instantly disliking the frigid swamp mess. The easiest option would be to cart the nonbelievers to his dragon, but he knew he would be too tempted to order Vhagar to feast upon them before taking to the skies to burn the village to the ground. 

It seemed that the truth was taken as fact relatively quickly, with little questioning. Both Lord Ryver Erenford and Ser Waltel Frey seemed to ponder a vague memory of their fathers reading a message over dinner, some years ago, regarding the tale.  

It seemed that the lowborn, lord, peasant men and the helmet clad child believed him long enough for supper and a bed, though he was growling unsure he even wanted that.

— 

Prince Aemond had never been to such a disorderly affair, seated as one of many at a large cypress table that curved around the hall. The food was served in no rememberable order, plates of meats and desserts lingered together on the table. 

Lord Ryver regaled his guests with the grand tale, depicted on the keep’s newest addition to the tapestry gallery. In the threads it told the story of renowned warrior, The Red Ryver, and House Erenford’s defeat of some Rivermen, somewhere. Even Ryver’s younger brother, little Lord Robyn, was featured, wearing the iron he has refused to remove for the past six moons and his miniature bow. 

Aemond watched as the help gathered around the table, listening to Ryver climb upon the hall’s table to reenact memorable battle moments.

The servants were dressed in an array of clothing clothes and fabrics, as if the group had been bandied together for this night alone. Most of the maids wore a grey dress fit for a child, the length only reaching to their mid-calf. Aemond had a mind to walk back to Vhagar and never leave the comfort of King’s Landing again, Cinda could fetch her own surprise. 

Aemond did not make himself sick from wine and exotic liquors often, but this was a specific situation he wished to forget his memories as he went about making them. 

—

There was dancing after the meal, and the maids joined in on that as well, acting as if they were High Born ladies, dancing with visiting lords and 

Lyn stepped out of the overly warm keep, to get a deep breath of the fresh night air. It smelled of rotting plants and decaying leaves, like the smell of new life sprouting from under every stone. She noticed that she was not alone. 

“I see we both needed time away,” she said to the figure, clad in leathers like he was ready to ride away given the slightest reason. 

The prince had just excused himself to be sick on the grassed levee fortifying against the encroaching swamp. 

Prince Aemond scoffed at the girl, his mouth foal with the taste of wine and sick. The peasant girl’s skirts were riding even higher on her legs from the dancing, her leggings as disappeared hours ago as the temperature of the kitchens rose and warmed the entire keep. She looked like someone begging for his coin. 

“Hello, Greyscale,” he retorted, his mind shifting to the quick insult. 

“Hello, Cripple,” Lyn barely tolerated the language from her friend and employer, this man would get no sympathy. 

Aemond did not like that. He did not like a single moment. His skin lit up in a drunken daze as if he were standing on guard for a fight. His hazy mind did not know where he had placed his weapons. 

He opened his mouth to speak, but thankfully was interrupted, for he would not have been able to swallow his sick back into his stomach in that moment.

“Listen closely, Silver-boy,” Lyn began, as Aemond gripped the hilt of an imagined dagger. 

“As I am sure you are well aware,” he started. The moon was mostly full in the sky, but the torchlight of the terrace was not enough to see his lavender eyes sway drunkenly as they attempted to focus. “Your brothers have visited here. Three times now, I’d wager.” 

“What?” That made no sense to Aemond, as his mind reeled to Cinda. Had she charged Daeron and Aegon into her mission? She would never do that to him. 

“And I think it only fair, seeing that the last Targaryen Princeling to weasel their way into these walls stole a favored sword of the Lord Erenford!” Lyn’s tale weaved itself. She was sure Haronfall had been the talk from the North to the Vale after the beating Ryver’s Lord Father gave him after that. 

“I just think,” Lyn continued, “That after the feast, you should just take your leave. Lord Erenford need not know of this feasts guest of honor.” 

“I will not be ordered about by some–“ Aemond was sick again. 

“You’ve filled your belly, just leave quietly,” Lyn laughed at his misfortune, “It was smart of you to come during the King’s nameday celebrations. The Septas told us of the King’s nameday and all of his grand plans. And I would assume…” Lyn moved closer, clasping her hands behind her back. “…That you knew Lord Ryver would be left alone and… vulnerable, with Lord Erenford traveling to the capital…where I would assume the true prince is,” Lyn enjoyed immensely being right. “–celebrating his own father’s nameday?”

Never in Aemond’s life had he needed to prove his lineage, it had been clearly written on his face and stitched into his clothing. The green of House Hightower was as thick in his veins as the blood of dragons. And yet here, he was some imposter.

And he was growing tiered of this ruse he was seeming to play. He was growing tiered and perhaps too drunk. It reminded him far too much of the time a young Aegon recruited the Reach Girls and his cousins to pretend that he had been rendered invisible for weeks on end one boring winter in their shared youth. 

“Fine!” Aemond had been many things in his life, he had been a failure, a twat, an annoyance, a disappointment, but never…no one. “Fine! I shall leave! Just stop with the ceaseless tales, of rivers and princes! My head is spinning.” He could walk to Vhagar and leave this place and no one would never know or believe that a real prince had graced their halls.

It could have been the wine, or the company, but Aemond could not prevent a laugh when regarding his current fate. 

“I’m glad that you agree,” Lyn was pleased. “I was a good plan. Little Robyn even believes he saw your dragon fly above the keep.” The deep breath of the night air carried with it something that she had only smelled somewhere in the memory, that she could not place. 

Aemond could not stand the taste of sick in his mouth and fished a forgotten fruit from his coats pockets. 

“What is that?” Lyn asked.

“What?” Aemond asked, as the woman pointed to what he was idly palming between his hands. 

“Is it something for your dragon?” she laughed.

“This?” he asked, “is an orange.” Aemond was sure he recalled his mother telling a story about it being one of his first words as a babe. 

“An orange? Like the fruit?” she asked.

“Yes, you imbecile.” 

“Well, where did it come from? Was it a gift from The Twins? Ryver has never–– it seems so–“ The wine rushed through Lyn’s system, and the beautiful smell embolden her. 

“No, I thought it for my travels,” he quipped. “I am glad of it. I was not aware the Riverlands to be such a dreadfully barren place” 

“The land is plenty fruitful here, when it wants to be,” she replied, holding out her hand. “Now, give it here, I want to try it.” 

The fantasy played through Aemond’s head that it pulled a smile onto the corners of his face. The image of himself offering her the fruit, and just as it graced her palm, he would use his entire strength to throw it into the fucking swamp. His glorious vision was interrupted by the disappointed eyes of his mother. Her furrowed brows were too vivid from much wine. Aemond groaned and handed over the mysterious fruit.

Lyn inhaled loudly, the smell like she had never experienced before. It filled her nostrils and woke up her blood. 

Aemond’s hand twitched slightly as she prepared an opened mouth bite into the skin. His hands were then crossed under his arms. 

“Is it safe to eat?” she asked, stepping forward to eye him in the dim lamplight. Aemond felt the stone wall of the terrace against his leather clad back. 

“No, it’s poison, I will gladly watch you die.” 

Her laugh sounded like a pigs snort. Her smile was quickly replaced with a scowl as her teeth peeled a thick membrane of skin into her mouth. “It’s–delicious,” she forced herself to say, open mouth chewing the bitter bite. 

“No! You fool,” he wrenched the fruit back before she could cover it in any more of her bile. “It must be peeled first.” 

Aemond was so glad of the dark night’s lack of light upon their shadowed corner of the terrace as the woman spit the bitter taste into the dirt. The Prince nearly dropped the orange in disbelief of a lady performing such a disgusting act. 

She laughed at him once again. 

“Here!” He huffed, as he had picked away the disgusting bits. His bare fingers gripped the dripping fruit as he held it out as an offering. 

The blood drained from his body and disappeared deep inside of him at the contact of her tongue on the tips of his fingers as she took the fruit from his offered hand with her mouth. Aemond had not been aware of the deep breath that had been held up inside his lungs, but they emptied as the girl’s eyes flashed in the torchlight, the color of honey passed before a flame. The prince watched the endless dance of emotions over her face as she experienced the flavors for the first time. 

“Its a mess!” The fluttered giggle that left her made him offer another piece without thinking, and she took it the same way. 

He responded somewhere between a right and a yes as he tried to memorize the coloring and ridges and valleys of her face, as if he would need it later to solve a life threatening puzzle. He wanted to lick the juice that he had watched drip down from her chin, to the place under her clothes. 

He felt things under his own clothes stir. 

“Come swim with me,”

“What?”

“Its the least you can do after eating all the food I helped prepare,” she said, beaconing him away from the terrance and into the expanse of the night. “A prince would be in want of a bath, I am sure,” she laughed, for she nor any other servant would be prepared to carry water up stairs after a feast like tonight. 

Aemond allowed himself to be led away. His hands still grasp around an imaginary dagger, at the prospect of her robbing him blind. 

“I do not plan to steal your virtue, princeling” Lyn’s words had a drunken edge in their own right. She did not often partake in wine, as it was not offered to her as it could take away from the Septas reserves. 

Aemond’s hand released the dagger that had never been there, as his eyes played their way over her body as he followed her into the moonlight. He played the scenes of her trying to overtake him and none seemed to have purchase. Unless she attacked him with a stone, but Aemond was sure his arms were longer. This had not been the first time since they met that he had imagined choking her. 

“So, where are you from?” Lyn asked, flexing her lady-like conversational skills that Aeditya spoke so highly of. Lyn allowed him some time to answer, as they maneuvered past a precarious log. 

“A Valyrian bastard,” he replied, just like his nephews. “I hail from Dragonstone. It is an isle in the mouth of Blackwater Bay. Near the capital.” He got close enough to see her face in the dark, adding on more information until he found recognition take root. 

“Could you see the palace, from your isle?” she sounded eager to be fed more.

“From my own palace?” he felt something inside of him at her gasp. 

“Did you really live in a palace?” 

Aemond could not begin to guess what she had been imagining, but he liked watching the wheels turn in her mind. “When I was a boy,” he did not want to get too far from her now. 

“What was it like? Could you simply ask for an orange and it would be fetched for you?” He nodded until she continued. “And there would just be oranges in the kitchens? And what if the kitchens run out? Would they–“

“They would be punished severely,” he added, strangely not enjoying her new gasp as much. “But–“ he had to think quickly to play her throat like an instrument. “We could never run out of oranges, they grow on the island.” She enjoyed this more, he enjoyed when she licked her fingers at the lingering taste. “Giant orange bushes, all along the ocean’s edge, too many to ever eat in all the feasts of the year.” 

She touched him with her next astonished laugh.

“And when you needed clothes they would clean it? And when you wanted a bath…would they bathe you?” her last words were a whisper, a topic proper ladies should not be speaking about.

The Septas and girls of the House of the Faith all bathed together. It was a cloister of women, no one had anything to hide. And Lyn had once heard Lord Erenford state that men should not sit in stagnant water, it unaligned the humors. 

“Yes,” Aemond whispered back. “They would bathe me every day.” 

“Would they only bathe you? Or would there be–?” 

Aemond licked his lips as he watched the moonlight dance on the dipped juice along her chin. “Would there be what?” he could barely hear himself speak over his heart beating. “What could they have done?” he played dumb, he could smell the orange on her breath. 

“They would have…” Lyn eyed his lips, his eyes far too towering above her head. She guessed that he liked being tall. Lyn could not help but laugh. “… they would have stolen your virtue!” 

“The servants did not bathe me!” He admitted, rolling his eyes at her naivety. “They were servants, they only fetched water.” 

Aemond would mow anyone down with his sword if they overlord the ‘wow’ that left his lips as the girls twirled in the moonlight. 

“We are here!” she announced, it seemed to be a river. 

“Turn around! It is too dark to see anything!” she called, her hands moving to unclasp her work clothes. 

“If it it too dark, when why must I turn around?” 

“Valyrian gentlemanly duty?”

He turned without much fuss until he heard her body splash into the water. He had been a gentleman and not looked, he had given his word. 

His eyes fell on her discarded clothes and drifted to her swimming form. He did not know the state of her, but from the pile she left behind it didn’t seem she have many options to be left wearing. 

“Now you turn around,” he ordered, as he kicked off his shoes. 

He watched her turn, not knowing when to stop himself in his state of undress. 

Aemond watched as her head turned over her shoulder. He undressed completely and wadded into the water. He had not taken a breath the entire time. The water was warmer than he expected.

They spoke about the sky, and the weather, and whatever other topics that flattered them, their distance ebbed and flowed like the tides, inching closer to one another and then pulling away. 

“Ryver is a bastard?” Aemond asked, his toes could feel the bottom of the lake if he put his mind to it. 

“No. Ryver is the first true born child of Lord and Lady Erenford,” Lyn explained. “But, little Lord Robyn is the heir because Lord Ryver was born…as Lady Ryver.” 

There was a pause in the air as Aemond let it all sink in. 

“The Lord Erenford allowed it, and all will be well as long as Robyn lives to inherit after their father dies.” 

“And if not?” Aemond asked.

“Lord Erenford’s brother does not approve of…any of it. And he is next in line after Robyn. But! Even before then, The Red Ryver wishes for a Keep all his own. ‘Feast Keep’ he calls it. A place where all and everyone are welcome. Fortified to withstand any threads from his uncle and…those would you see them all hang. Away fro the Septas…”

“Away from King’s Landing,” Aemond added, understanding her meaning, forgetting his imagined birthplace. He turned his body in the water to face her. 

His hands floating in the water to support himself, just as she did the same in the moonlight. He had washed his mouth out of the water many times over, he smelled her beautiful orange breath, assuming his own was foul. The orange juices had been long wiped away, but Aemond will imagined her lips would taste of sweetness.

He was brought back to reality when she spit a mouthful of water into his face. 

“That’s disgusting!”

“We’re in a lake,” she shrugged one arm above the waterline. 

Aemond eye was at the water’s edge when he saw the moonlight glisten off the skin on her bare shoulders. She had marks there too. He wondered where else on her body she had them. He watched her skin disappear below the water, like a beaconing ancient puzzle. 

“You’re disgusting.” Perhaps for the first time in his life, he did not mean that has an (entire) insult. 

“And you’re a liar,” she pointed out. 

Aemond enjoyed being a low-born, if only because he knew it was entirely temporary. He let out a laugh and a breath at a realization he had yet to make. 

“You’re naked with a liar,” he whispered, if he could see her bare shoulders then what else could she be wearing. 

“Well!” she laughed, “You are to, I’d say.” 

“But–“ That was entirely different.

“Because I’m a girl,” she barked back.

Aemond swam after her. 

“–a woman,” she corrected. “A lady, even!” 

“You are no lady,” he was enjoy this game that he could not tell you last time he had ever been angry. 

“How would you know?” she teased. 

“Because–” they had stoped swimming, just treading water, his toes dipped to the pebbled floor if he covered his nose. She was close enough to touch. Aemond reached his hand out and brushed her bare waist. “I’ve met ladies, and they would never be so–” 

Did she not notice his touch to not flinch away? Or did she simply not care? There was no word for this feeling. He had felt it above the clouds, away from the red keep, and now between his toes in the muck. 

“Ladylike?” she offered.

Aemond watched as her her hand breached the water, like she was trying to not frighten her prey, and rested itself atop his shoulder. 

“What are ladies like?” she repeated herself, after her second hand touched his shoulders. He had not heard her the first time. 

“They must…” he tried to remember anything else that wasn’t here, in this lake, under his moon. “Beautiful, and well-read. They should sing, and dance, be pious, but not overly-so. Painting, embroidery…drawing, even, an art is important for ladies to be accomplished with.” 

Lyn was surprised there was even more.

“She should know her histories, and geographies, and sums so she might not bleed her husband’s purse dry. And, there is just something about her,” he almost sighed, “in her manner, and walk. Her air should be build to maintain her husband’s social and political alliances.”

“All at once?” She removed her hands from his shoulders. “All the time?” Lyn could not help but laugh.

“Not all the time, but yes! All at once! Some try and many fail,” he scoffed. 

“You seem pleased with the failures of women,” she mocked, stretching herself backwards to wade towards the shallow edge. Her back arched and she felt cold air on her chest.

There was a pause in Aemond as his brain worked, a whisper brushed against his mind that reminded him of Aegon. “…What women?” he asked, closing the distance between them. 

Lyn was pleased, this time, she wrapped her arms around his neck, not close enough to touch him. She nodded her head, and he copied, she shook it and he did too. 

“Good boy.” It was as quiet as the wind. He could stand easily, and palmed her waist with a sigh. 

There was a long silence.

“…have you…?” she asked, he felt it in his chest, as if she had said it in any worldly tongue he would have known what she was asking. 

“Yes. Once. A long time ago.” The words came out, slowly, one at a time, but it was said. “My brother, took me to a brothel on my thirteen nameday. And…never again.”

“Oh,” she only said, her tone dipped in sadness at the edge of the sound.  

“Have you?” his brow furrowed, in a genuine question. He had never given much thought to the purity of lowborns.

“No,” she answers firmly. “…yes,” but she corrected. “He…It wasn’t my…” she sighed into the story, never having told it before. “Last winter,” it had been over a past year, “A friend got sick, the Septas wanted us to pray but, she a needed medicine, and there was a man…and he was very handsome…so I…got the coin…” She picked her fingers behind his back. “But at least…I did not lie to a Riverlord for a free meal?” 

“But aren’t you worried the Septas will check you?” Aemond heard her attempt to make light, but ignored it. 

“I don’t think they can tell,” she answered.

“What?”

“I grew up with girls, and some went out and…had their fun, and some were taken before getting there, and some swore to have never and…I think the Septas feel what they want to fell.”

“So you think they're lying about it all?”

“Maybe!” 

“You think everyone is lying,” he teased. 

“Perhaps, sometimes, they are!” 

He wanted to kiss her, to feel her lips on his, but she stopped him.

“Come sit on the dock with me,” she motioned, they were back where they started. Her hands gripped and pulled herself out of the water in one fluid motion, to sit atop the dock, bare as when she was submerged. 

Aemond watched the watch drip from her hair down her neck and disappear into the shadows of the night, if only he could see in the dark. He was at her knees, standing in the waist deep waters, he could rest his chin on the dock if he liked. He liked his lips and place his hands on the girl’s knees. 

“Have you ever seen a lady like this?” Lyn asked, she shoulders swayed in the sticky night air and her should feel her breasts shake as they lay on her crossed legs. 

He shook his head in answer. 

“What about this?” she asked, moving her hands with her knees and she spread her legs wide, exposing her cunt to him. 

She had something else snarky to saw, but Aemond did not hear it. The moon and the stars would not support his endeavors to drown in the sight of her. Where his hands had been idle before, he gripped her knees to pull her further spread before him. 

“What are you–?” 

He was close enough he could almost…His tongue licked up her core and she played him music with her voice. He moaned into her as his tongue explored the raised flesh where her opening met. His tongue circled whines and moans around the bundle of nerves until he kissed her clit with his lips and didn’t let go. He suckled the bud, as he had wanted to suckle hard nipples of bellowing beasts in his sick fantasies. Her hands are in his hair, Aemond would not be freed from his prize, leaving Lyn to fist his hair like reins of a saddle. Her moans were shaking her entire body.

His finger played at her entrance. “Have you ever touched yourself?” he finally relented, for his desperate question. 

“No!” she shook her body. “It’s…messy and wet and,” she could never bring herself to do it, and he did not let her finish. 

His two fingers sank in, “You are wet.” She spread her own legs now, bucking against him as he returned to lapping at her clit while he coiled his fingers in side of her. “And messy,” he pumped in and out, his free hand twisting her nipple in his hand. He had never seen it gentle, but she clasped both hands over her own mouth to scream. 

Aemond felt her clenching around him fingers as his mouth continued its attack. She bucked and tried to press her legs together, but he would not allow it. “Ahhhg!” she moaned, into the air, and slowly her quakes came to and end. 

“Stop, stop…please–” she panted, her back layer against the dock. 

Aemond did not like his lack of a view, and joined her on the platform, his own breath panting as he studied her face like a treasured map. She breathed, and her chest rose up and down, the water had dried from her skin but dripped from her hair. Aemond’s hands were firmly planted on the dock besides him, not wanting to touch something to fragile that she might run away. 

“My turn,” she finally said, sitting up and catching his lips in a kiss. He had tried kissing before, but not often, mostly in games of children who could still play innocent. His mouth opened slightly and her tongue licked at the entrance. 

He moaned into her as she wrapped her hand around the base of his cock. Lyn nipped at his lips lightly as she began to pump him, she could feel his skin tighten with every stroke, growing longer, and wider, filling her hand.

His mouth was useless for her kisses, she licked his tongue as his mouth hung open in pleasure. Aemond’s head found the crook of her neck and moaned into her skin. Her free hand fingered the strands of his silver locks. He was a shivering mess as he pumped his hips into her firm palm. 

“Mmm,” he moaned as her free hand found his balls, palming them with every trust of her hand. He matched her pace and trust himself with her, she breathed heavy in his ear to match the pace. 

“Lyn!” a voice called out from the darkness.

“What?” she shouted back, the loudest and sweetest sound Aemond had ever heard.

“Where are you? It is the Hour of the Owl! We must be going!” The ghost voice cursed them. 

She moaned. “I am coming! I shall be there! Away! Please!” she begged.

Aemond had lost his pace, his head was shaking, he could not do this anymore. 

“Wait,” Lyn hushed him, “Shh, shh, wait.” She was assuring, her strokes still strong as she could feel him hardening into her hand again. 

“Let me,” she moved herself to between her legs and lowered her face to his cock. Her tongue starting at his base and licked up to twirl his head around her lips. She peppered kissed down his length as her hand returned to stroke him. Her kissed reached the base and went lower, kissing and sucking in the skin of his balls as he trust himself into her hands. He did not last long, the naked girl with her mouth on his cock. He trust and whine and pumped and he could hear her laughing and sucking and breathing and he came shaking on his chest. 

They breathed together, and their breathing turned to laughter. Their discarded clothes still in the same pile it was forgotten. 

“You’re called Lyn?” he said, praying to whatever god allowed him to remember her name. “I’m called–“ she interrupted him with a finger over his mouth.

“I don’t care,” she said, kissing his cheek and disappearing into the darkness, leaving Aemond a mess of himself.

//authors note – thank you SO MUCH for reading! This is the first project Im posting that I am proud of. It is barely edited, so I will eventually work on that. But, this is the beginning of a story worked out well. Plenty of twists and turns to come! I am always here for encouraging words, fic recs, headcanons, questions, and anything else~

My work on this fic inspired THIS POST. I’m just fascinated at HBO’s lack of “courtly ladies”, especially in a family where sisters are born to marry their brothers. So, I changed that and made some angsty mean girls to make fetch happen

[frommybedroom]

inspired by this post

Even after he turns in his essay, he can’t stop. It’s not like he’s never written anything before, but those were the silly daydreams of a little boy with his head in the clouds, who dreamed of movie stars and damsels in distress. What he’s doing now is important. What he’s doing now is necessary.

On the third day in a row that he’s late to dinner—so late that Soda has to reheat his plate—Darry says, “What you been writing about, Pony?”

“Yeah,” Soda says, bringing the plate over and setting it down. “You’re always still up when I try to go to bed. I’ve had to replace the batteries in your flashlight twice now. Are you writing another story?”

Pony shrugs. Suddenly, all the words that pour out of him so easily onto the page get lodged in the back of his throat.

How to describe it to them? The urge—to not forget, to hold onto what was. To wring out the words and distill them into a watered-down version of his friends. Those measly words the only things left of Johnny Cade and Dallas Winston.

“Hey, Ponyboy, what’s wrong?”

Pony blinks, and Soda’s blurry face peers at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Darry scoot his chair closer to the both of them. Both wear matching expressions of concern.

“I just—” He swallows past the lump in his throat. “I just want to remember them.”

His brothers don’t say anything. So he keeps going.

“I—I can’t let them just disappear. They were here. They were real. And now they’re not. And I can’t let what their tombstones say be the only thing people remember about them. They were more than just a date.”

Soda leans over and ruffles his hair. It’s starting to grow out again finally, the natural dark roots beginning to peek through. “Don’t worry about that, Pony. You’ll never forget them. None of us will.”

“Yeah,” Darry agrees. “Dallas and Johnny were family, and family don’t—”

“I can’t remember what Mom’s perfume smelled like,” Pony bursts out. “I don’t remember what her high heels sounded like on the floor or the slight burning smell when she would curl her hair. And I try real hard to remember what it was like waking up and hearing Dad make coffee, but it’s gone. They’re fading. Like they were never actually here at all.” He clenches his fists, and there’s still a faint ache in his wrist. “I’m not gonna let that happen to them.”

He doesn’t tell them that sometimes at night, after Soda’s fully asleep and snoring like some dang bear, he sneaks out of bed and into the closet where they’ve kept Johnny’s clothes folded in a neat pile. Sometimes he holds them, brushing his fingers over the ripped jeans; sometimes he can’t bear to sully them. Which doesn’t even make sense because the shirt’s still got some of Johnny’s blood on it so it’s plenty dirty already, but he still feels like he’ll ruin it if he touches them too much or for too long.

He’s broken out of his thoughts by arms wrapping around him. A moment later, another pair of arms joins the first. And then he’s clutching onto Soda’s elbow and Darry’s forearm, and once again they’re all holding each other.

He wonders what this scene would look like to an observer: three boys in a rundown kitchen with grime caked under their fingernails and wearing clothes that don’t fit quite right. Unwanted tears escaping from tightly squeezed eyelids. A forgotten plate of food sitting on the table. No parents or friends anywhere to be seen.

He thinks they would see grief. And heartache and loneliness and pain. But maybe also hope. Maybe also love.

[ao3-crack]

(x)

[winxanity-ii]

WASHED UP [1/2]

ship: odysseus x fem!calypso!reader warnings: non-explicit word count: 7.3k (strap up, babes, this is a long one~) a/n: Y'all forgive me, i have been horrible and abandoned the fandom 😔💔; i swear it wasn't on purpose, i just haven't been bit by the inspiration bug, but nevertheless, here i am getting inspired, so enjoy my twist on odysseus w/ calypso, no worries there will be a prt.2

★·.·´🇪‌🇵‌🇮‌🇨‌: 🇹‌🇭‌🇪‌ 🇲‌🇺‌🇸‌🇮‌🇨‌🇦‌🇱‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

The sea spat him out like an unwanted secret. You watched from the cliffs as his body was tossed against the sand, limbs splayed like a broken marionette.

Thunderheads still roared in the distance, but the storm had spent its fury, leaving only the shattered remnants of his ship and the limp figure of its captain.

His first breath on your island was a gasp, harsh and desperate, followed by a violent cough that shook his entire frame.

Water poured from his mouth, a relentless cascade as he heaved, clawing at the sand with shaking fingers. He turned onto his side, retching, purging the sea from his lungs.

Each convulsion seemed to rip through him, leaving him weaker, more drained, until he collapsed back onto the shore, chest heaving, eyes shut tight against the grit and salt.

Above, the clouds began to peel away, the black and bruised sky giving way to a faint glimmer of sun.

The wind, once howling, softened to a mournful sigh, as if the island itself pitied him. Waves lapped at his feet, gentle now, apologetic, as if seeking to soothe the very man they had tried to destroy.

His eyelids fluttered open, the sky above a blur of gray and gold. He groaned, the sound raw and broken, the cry of a man who had seen too much, lost too much.

He lay there, sprawled out on the sand, staring up at the heavens with eyes full of disbelief and despair. His voice, hoarse and cracking, clawed its way out of his throat.

"Why?" he croaked, the single word carried away by the wind. "Why do you forsake me?"

He tried to rise, muscles trembling as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. He looked around, taking in the unfamiliar shore, the jagged rocks jutting out like sentinels, the dense forest looming beyond. He was alone—utterly, helplessly alone.

The Gods had abandoned him here, cast him away like a piece of flotsam.

"Have I not suffered enough!?" he shouted, the words rasping against his parched throat. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms. "Is this my reward for years of service, for blood spilled and honor upheld?"

The sky remained silent, indifferent to his plea. He dropped his head back onto the sand, teeth gritted in frustration, the last remnants of strength draining out of him.

The silence that followed was suffocating, pressing down on him like the weight of his failures.

You could almost feel it, that heavy despair that hung around him like a shroud. A warrior undone, not by the sword or the spear, but by the endless, unrelenting cruelty of fate.

You knew that look—had seen it before, in the eyes of those who had washed up on your shores, broken and lost, only to be healed by your touch, only to be bound by your love.

But this one… He was different.

His suffering was like a beacon, bright and piercing, pulling at something deep within you, something you had buried long ago.

And so you watched, unseen and silent, as he lay on the shore, a man shattered, calling out to Gods who would not answer.

You wondered who this man was, what sins he must have committed to be cast into your lonely exile. Another soul, shattered and lost, delivered to you by the cruel whim of fate.

Was this the Gods' twisted sense of humor, to send you the broken, the despairing, and then sit back and watch as you tried, again and again, to piece them together, knowing each time that they would eventually leave, taking a piece of you with them?

It had been that way for as long as you could remember. They arrived on your shores, eyes wide with fear or despair, bodies battered by storms both within and without.

And you, like a fool, took them in, healed their wounds, offered them solace. You let them weave themselves into your heart, into your very soul, only for them to tear themselves free when the time came, leaving you bleeding and hollow.

Was he any different, this man with his piercing eyes and voice full of sorrow? Would he be the one to break you completely? You don't know. But as you turned away from the beach, you couldn't help but feel that this time, the Gods had sent you a different kind of suffering.

You moved through the familiar paths, the underbrush parting easily beneath your feet. It was an old routine, gathering the essentials—just enough to keep them alive until they could find the will to keep themselves going.

Your hands worked mechanically, filling a small basket with a jug of water, a bit of bread, some fish you'd caught that morning. It was more than they ever needed, really. Most of them wouldn't even look at food when they first arrived, the shock still too raw, too immediate.

As you made your way back, the weight of the basket a comforting presence against your hip, you tried to steel yourself for what you would find. But when you reached the beach again, your breath caught in your throat.

He was sitting up now, his back to you, shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world still pressed down on him. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, empty and unfocused, the eyes of a man who had seen too much.

What remained of his clothes clung to him, tattered and soaked through. His armor—what little was left of it—gleamed dully in the fading light. A breastplate, once magnificent, now dented and scarred, a single pauldron hanging by a thread, the gold tarnished and scratched.

The rest had been torn away by the sea, leaving him exposed, vulnerable.

He looked every inch the hero brought low, a man stripped of his glory, left with nothing but his pain and regret. His dark hair clung to his forehead, still damp with seawater, and his hands rested limply on his knees, fingers digging into the sand as if he needed to feel something solid, something real.

You stopped a few paces away, your shadow stretching out before you. He didn't notice. Didn't even flinch. You could see it then, the full extent of his despair, etched into every line of his face, every weary slump of his shoulders.

He was beautiful, in a tragic sort of way, like a statue of a fallen God.

And you knew, as you stood there watching him, that this one would not be easy to heal. This one had a wound that went far deeper than flesh and bone.

You took a step forward, and then another, until you were close enough that your presence cast a shadow over him. He blinked, as if just now realizing you were there, his head turning slowly, eyes lifting to meet yours.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you was heavy, laden with the unspoken, the unknown.

You held out the basket, your heart pounding in your chest. "You need to eat," you said softly, your voice barely carrying over the sound of the waves.

He didn't move, just stared at you with those piercing eyes, eyes that seemed to see right through you.

And for a moment, you thought he might refuse. That he might just turn away, let himself be swallowed by the sea again, and you would be left standing there, holding out something that could never be enough.

But then, slowly, he reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he took the jug of water from your grasp.

"Thank you," he murmured, the words rough and uncertain, as if he hadn’t spoken in a long time. He took a small sip, then another, his eyes never leaving yours.

You watched him, this broken man, and wondered what kind of suffering had brought him to you.

And what kind of suffering he would bring in return.

The days here had a way of slipping through your fingers, soft and warm like the sands on your island. It was easy to lose track of time, lulled by the rhythm of the waves, the steady pulse of the tides.

You had left him to his own devices, giving him the space he needed to come to terms with whatever fate had led him here. Most of them needed that—time to break down, to cry, to rage at the Gods.

But not this one.

When you returned the next day, basket in hand, you stopped short at the sight before you.

He was shirtless, skin bronzed and gleaming with sweat, muscles taut as he hammered a spike into the ground with a makeshift wooden-mallet. His remaining clothes and battered armor were piled neatly to the side, along with a few other scavenged materials.

The sound of wood striking stone echoed across the beach, a steady, determined rhythm that spoke of purpose.

There was the frame of a hovel half-built, crude but sturdy, the beginnings of a shelter taking shape where there had been only barren sand.

A small pile of freshly caught fish lay nearby, their scales glinting in the sunlight. You could still see the blood on his hands, fresh from gutting and cleaning them. He worked with an intensity that was almost mesmerizing, every movement precise, controlled.

"Wow," you murmured, stepping closer, setting the basket down at your feet. "I'm impressed."

He stilled at the sound of your voice, shoulders tensing as he glanced over his shoulder. Sweat dripped down his brow, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at you, assessing.

You gestured to the hovel, the fish, the evidence of his labor. "Most who arrive here are still crying or lost, not knowing what to do with themselves. You're already building shelter."

His eyes sharpened, his expression shifting from guarded to curious, almost suspicious. He straightened, rolling his shoulders, the muscles in his back shifting under his skin as he set the mallet down. "There have been others?"

You snorted softly, crossing your arms as you looked at him. "Of course, there have been others. Did you think you were the first to be sent here?" The question was almost rhetorical, a simple truth that hung in the air between you.

He frowned, his gaze turning thoughtful, troubled. "Where is here?"

You hesitated for a moment, then took a few steps forward, your eyes flicking to the sword he had tossed carelessly to the side, half-buried in the sand. You reached down, your fingers brushing over the hilt. "This is Ogygia," you said, the name slipping easily from your lips, as familiar to you as your own. "A place of exile, for those the Gods have no more use for."

You were still tracing the hilt of his sword, fingers brushing over the worn leather grip when he spoke again, his voice tight and strained. "Is there a way off this island?"

You stilled, your gaze shifting from the sword to him, catching the desperation in his eyes through your lashes. For a moment, you considered lying, spinning some tale of escape, but you’d seen that look before, and you knew what would follow.

"You can try," you said, your voice calm, almost detached as if you'd had this conversation a thousand times before. "But once you get at least five feet from the shore, the waves will rise and destroy whatever you're floating on to pieces."

The truth of your words hung heavy in the air, a quiet certainty that left no room for hope. His face twisted, the anger and helplessness flaring in his eyes as stared at you.

You could see the way his jaw clenched, muscles ticking beneath the stubble on his cheeks, his fingers flexing and unflexing at his sides as if he wanted to hit something, anything.

He turned away, staring at the horizon as if willing it to yield some answer, some solution.

He was the very picture of a man caught in a trap he couldn't break free from.

"Excuse me," you murmured, pushing yourself up from the sand and brushing off your hands, wanting to give him space to process the reality of his situation.

"Wait!"

The word came out sharp, almost desperate, and you paused, glancing back over your shoulder. He was looking at you, really looking, his eyes piercing, searching for something—anything—that made sense of all this.

"Who are you?"

You could feel the laugh bubbling up inside you—a tired, almost bitter sound that you suppressed, forcing your expression into something calm, something almost serene.

It was always the same: this question, the disbelief, the desperate need to know why they were here, why you were here.

"Calypso," you said, the name falling from your lips like a sigh. "Daughter of Atlas and Pleione."

He blinked, the words clearly not the answer he had been expecting. He stared at you for a long moment, his brow furrowing as if he were trying to piece together a puzzle with missing pieces.

"Calypso," he repeated softly, your name unfamiliar on his tongue. There was a softness to it, a kind of reverence that almost made you want to laugh.

You hummed, a sound low and almost mournful. "Aye, cursed to carry the brunt of my parents' sins."

You saw the way his jaw tightened, the flicker of something like pity in his eyes before he looked away, his gaze shifting to the sand at his feet as if he couldn't bear to look at you.

You wondered what it was he saw, whether he saw you as a jailer or just another prisoner in this place of exile.

He cleared his throat, the sound rough, hesitant. "My name is Eperitus," he said, the words slow, deliberate, like he was testing them out. "From a small village in Thessaly."

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head slightly as you watched him. The name meant nothing to you, but the way he said it—the slight hesitation, the almost imperceptible shift in his posture—it was a lie, or at the very least, not the whole truth.

Still, you nodded, as if you believed him, your lips curving into a small, knowing smile. "Very well, Eperitus," you said, the name rolling off your tongue with a hint of amusement. "I suppose I will leave you to it."

His eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest flicker of suspicion in his gaze, but you didn't give him time to question it. You turned, your bare feet barely making a sound on the sand as you walked away, leaving him there, alone with his thoughts.

You could feel his eyes on your back, the weight of his gaze heavy, but you didn't look back. You had seen this play out too many times before—the hope, the despair, the bargaining with fate.

Each time, it was different, and yet, always the same.

And this man, this Eperitus, whatever name he chose to call himself, was no different.

You just wondered how long it would take him to realize it.

The waterfall cascaded down from the rocks above, the sound a constant, soothing roar that drowned out everything else. The water sparkled in the late afternoon sun, clear and cool as it pooled into the pond below, a hidden sanctuary nestled within the heart of your island.

You stood in the shallow waters, the hem of your white slip floating just above your knees, the fabric clinging to your skin in places where the water lapped gently against you.

The air was sweet with the scent of jasmine and wet earth, the leaves above casting dappled shadows across the surface of the pond.

You hummed softly under your breath, an old song your mother had taught you long ago, a tune that spoke of faraway places and dreams that never seemed to come true.

The melody blended with the sounds of the waterfall, a quiet lullaby that wrapped around you like a warm embrace.

It was peaceful here, a place untouched by the outside world, a place where you could almost forget who you were and why you were here. You dipped your hands into the water, scrubbing at a piece of cloth, the rhythm of the motion almost hypnotic.

Then, a sharp crack echoed through the grove, the sound of a branch snapping underfoot. Your head snapped up, your heart skipping a beat as your eyes scanned the treeline.

It took only a moment for your gaze to settle on him, partially hidden behind the bushes, his body frozen in a half-crouch, as if he had been trying to sneak away unnoticed.

"Eperitus?" you called out softly, your voice carrying easily over the sound of the water. He flinched, his eyes wide, a startled, almost guilty look on his face as he straightened up. He took a step back, his gaze darting around as if he were trying to find an escape.

For a moment, you thought he might run, but then he seemed to gather himself, his shoulders slumping slightly as he stepped forward, pushing through the bushes. "I didn't mean to startle you," he said, his voice low, almost apologetic. His cheeks were flushed, whether from the heat or embarrassment, you couldn’t tell.

You offered him a small, reassuring smile, setting the cloth aside as you turned to face him fully. "It's alright," you said gently, wiping your hands on the slip, the water dripping from your fingers. "I wasn't expecting company, that's all."

He nodded, his eyes flicking to the ground, then back to you, a hesitant, almost bashful look on his face. "I just... I was looking for you," he admitted, his voice barely above a murmur. "I thought I'd, well... check in."

You tilted your head slightly, studying him.

It had been a few weeks since your last conversation on the beach, and in that time, you had kept your distance, letting him find his footing, so to speak. He was more self-sufficient than most who ended up here, resourceful and determined in a way that spoke of a man who had spent years fighting to survive.

You had stepped back, observing him from a distance, only intervening when necessary.

You'd seen him sitting on the shore more than once, staring out at the sea with a look in his eyes that made your chest ache. A kind of yearning, a quiet desperation that seemed to pull at something deep inside you.

Other times, you'd found him working tirelessly on his shelter, hammering away at the wooden frame with a focus that bordered on obsession.

You shrugged lightly, the gesture casual, as if it didn't matter to you either way. "You've been doing fine on your own," you said, your tone light, almost teasing. "Didn't think you needed my help."

His lips twitched, the ghost of a smile passing over his face before it faded. He glanced down at his hands, rough and calloused, the fingers still smudged with dirt and sawdust. "I wasn't sure if I was... interrupting," he said awkwardly, his gaze flicking back up to meet yours.

You laughed softly, the sound echoing through the grove. "You've been here long enough to know I'm not that easy to disturb," you said, amusement coloring your words. You glanced at him, taking in the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the awkwardness that seemed almost out of place on a man like him.

"Besides," you added, your voice softening slightly, "I've been keeping an eye on you. Just to make sure you didn't do anything foolish."

His eyes widened slightly, and you saw a flash of something in his gaze—surprise, maybe, or something close to it. "I've been that obvious, have I?"

You shook your head, taking a few steps closer until you were standing just at the edge of the pond, the water swirling around your waist. "You're not the first to end up here, remember?" you said quietly. "I know the signs."

He looked away, his jaw tightening as he stared at the ground, his hands curling into fists at his sides. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he seemed to hold himself together by sheer force of will.

"I'm sorry." He glanced back at you, his eyes dark with something you couldn't quite name. "I didn't mean to—"

"To what?" you interrupted gently, your gaze softening as you looked at him. "You've done nothing wrong, Eperitus."

He flinched slightly at the name, and you saw the flicker of guilt in his eyes before he quickly looked away. It was almost imperceptible, but you caught it, that brief hesitation, that moment of uncertainty.

You hummed softly, waving him off with a light smile. "No worries," you said, your voice easy and warm. You turned away, wading through the cool water to where the last cloth floated lazily on the surface.

The fabric clung to your fingers as you lifted it, squeezing out the excess water, your movements slow and deliberate. Droplets slid down your arms, glistening like tiny jewels in the fading light as you made your way back to the shore.

Setting the damp cloth gently in the woven basket with the other clean clothes, you straightened, brushing a few stray strands of hair from your face. "I was meaning to tell you, there's fresh water here. You can come and bathe; clean up a bit." You tilted your head, a playful smirk tugging at your lips as you shifted the basket to the side. "Unless you're the type of Greek who doesn't do that."

He let out a short, surprised chuckle at that, the sound rough and genuine, his shoulders relaxing just a little. But then his laughter died away, the words faltering on his lips as he looked at you.

You stepped out of the pond, the water cascading down your legs, the sunlight filtering through the leaves above, casting a soft, golden glow over your skin. Your white slip clung to you like a second skin, the wet fabric almost translucent, outlining the curves of your body in a way that made his breath catch in his throat.

His eyes roamed over you, unbidden, as if drawn by some unseen force. Your smooth, sun-kissed skin glistened with droplets of water, each one catching the light, making you look like you were carved from marble, like a statue come to life.

Your hair, damp and wild, was adorned with small pieces of coral and tiny flowers—a crown of nature's bounty that seemed almost otherworldly.

By Aphrodite's grace…

The thought struck him like a blow, and he had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from letting the words slip past his lips. He watched you, mesmerized, as you moved with an effortless grace, your bare feet barely making a sound on the moss-covered stones.

Every step, every sway of your hips, seemed to pull him in deeper, into a trance he couldn't escape.

You seemed almost unreal, as if the Gods themselves had sculpted you from the very essence of desire.

His gaze lingered on your lips, soft and full, naturally pouty in a way that made his mouth go dry. He thought to reach out and feel the warmth of your skin beneath his fingers, to trace the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck.

He swallowed hard, his pulse thrumming in his ears, his hands clenched into fists at his sides to keep from losing himself completely.

His breath hitched, his mind spiraling, teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something he shouldn't be thinking, shouldn't be feeling.

He had a wife, a son, a home waiting for him, a life he had fought tooth and nail to return to.

Penelope, with her quiet strength and unwavering loyalty, the woman he loved more than life itself.

And yet, here he was, staring at you like a starving man, drinking in every detail, every inch of your body with a hunger that burned in his veins.

It was wrong, all of it, and yet he couldn't look away, couldn't pull himself free from the spell you had woven around him.

You were beautiful, achingly so, and in that moment, he knew he was treading dangerous ground.

And for the first time in a long, long time, he truly felt afraid.

"Eperitus?"

Your voice, soft and lilting, broke through the haze in his mind, snapping him back to reality. You were looking at him with those wide, doe-like eyes, your gaze gentle, curious, your lips curved into the barest hint of a smile.

He cleared his throat, the sound rough and strangled, his eyes wide as if he'd just snatched Persephone from Hades' very arms. He took a stumbling step back, his hands raising slightly as if in surrender, his gaze darting away from you as if your very presence burned him.

"I—I'm sorry," he stammered, his voice uneven, breaking on the last word. He shook his head, the movement almost frantic, as if he could shake free of whatever spell you had woven around him. "I didn't mean to—I should—I should go."

He gestured vaguely toward the forest behind him, his hands trembling ever so slightly. "Fish," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the word itself was a lifeline, something to hold onto in the chaos of his thoughts. "I need to— I'll go fish. Or forage. Or fix something. Yes, I'll— I'll go do that."

He took another step back, almost tripping over his own feet; his cheeks flushed a deep, mortified red. His eyes flicked back to you, just for a moment, and then away again before hurrying off like a man fleeing the scene of a crime, the ghost of your beauty chasing him, haunting his every step.

You watched him go, an amused smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You almost felt bad for him.

Almost.

The sun dipped low on the horizon, its light spilling across the sea in a riot of colors—gold and crimson bleeding into the darkening blue of the water, the water shimmering like liquid gold beneath the dying light.

You sat with your legs curled up beside you on the cliff's edge, the wind whispering around you, soft and cool, tugging gently at your hair as if trying to coax you closer to the edge.

This was your favorite place on the island, the place where the land met the sea, where you could sit and lose yourself in the endless expanse of water and sky. It was where you had seen him, Eperitus—his body limp and broken, washed ashore like so many others before him, another lost soul thrown at your feet by the whims of the Gods.

The ocean stretched out before you, vast and endless, its beauty a cruel mockery of the cage that held you.

For as long as you could remember, this had been your only view, the only sight that had remained unchanged through centuries of exile. The sky, the sea, the stars—eternally bound to this lonely rock, this place that was both your sanctuary and your prison.

The water was so close, just a few feet away, and yet it might as well have been a world apart. You could still feel it, the pull of the tides, the longing that thrummed in your veins, the memory of what it was to be one with the sea.

You sighed softly, your gaze following the path of the sun as it dipped lower, the sky turning from brilliant orange to deep purple.

Once, you had swum through these waters as freely as the dolphins, your body slicing through the waves like a silver blade. The ocean had been your domain, your home, every current and tide a part of you.

You were a sea nymph, a daughter of the sea, wild and unbound, but the water no longer sang to you—no longer held the promise of escape.

But that was before.

You closed your eyes, the memories crashing over you like waves, each one more painful than the last.

The Titanomachy. The great war that had torn the heavens and the earth apart, that had pitted brother against brother, father against son.

You had watched from the sidelines, powerless to intervene, to stop the destruction that had swept through your family, your kind. And when the dust had settled, when the victors had claimed their spoils and the losers had been cast down into the darkness, you had been left behind, forgotten.

Or so you had thought.

The punishment had come later, delivered with the cold, indifferent hand of justice.

You, the daughter of Atlas, the child of Pleione, had been deemed unworthy, a threat to the new order of things. And so you had been cast out, not to the depths of Tartarus, but to this island, this paradise-turned-prison, to live out your days in endless solitude.

You had not wept, not then.

You had been too proud, too defiant to show the Gods your pain. But as the years had passed, as one by one, those who washed up on your shores had come and gone, the loneliness had seeped into your bones, a slow, insidious poison that sapped your strength, your will.

You had not been broken by the war, but by the endless, unchanging years that followed. You had stopped counting the days, the years. Time had lost its meaning here, each day bleeding into the next in an endless, monotonous cycle.

You had grown numb, your heart a hollow thing, a fragile shell that you guarded fiercely, lest it shatter completely.

And yet, there were moments like this, rare and fleeting, when the ache became too much to bear, when the weight of your exile pressed down on you like a physical thing, crushing the breath from your lungs.

You missed it… the life you had once known—the feel of the water around you, the way it had held you, cradled you in its depths.

The life that you would never get back.

Your eyes stung, the salt of unshed tears burning as you blinked furiously, refusing to let them fall. What good would it do? What good had it ever done? The Gods did not care for your tears, your pain.

They had made their judgment, and you were bound to it, bound to this place, this fate.

You glanced back over your shoulder, towards the fire, towards the small, simple home you had made for yourself on this cursed rock. You had tried to build something, to find some small measure of peace, of contentment in the simple things—the warmth of the sun on your skin, the sound of the waves, the smell of the salt air.

But it was never enough. It would never be enough.

A soft, bitter laugh slipped past your lips. How foolish you had been to think you could defy them, to think that you could carve out some semblance of a life here.

A soft "hey" broke through your thoughts, the voice low and tentative. You blinked, your gaze shifting from the horizon to find him standing a few feet behind you, his posture stiff and uncertain. Eperitus looked like he was at war with himself, his eyes dark and troubled as they searched your face.

"Hey," you replied softly, your voice barely carrying over the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below.

You studied him for a moment, taking in the subtle changes—the way his skin looked cleaner, the faint smell of salt and fresh water clinging to him. He must have taken the time to bathe at the spring, washing away the grime of his journey.

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips, and you raised an eyebrow, a teasing lilt in your voice. "I see you took my advice?"

He chuckled, the sound a bit awkward but genuine, as if he were unused to laughing. He took a few hesitant steps closer before lowering himself beside you, his legs dangling off the edge of the cliff.

For a moment, he said nothing, just sitting there with you, watching as the sun dipped lower, its golden light spilling across the water like liquid gold.

You followed his gaze, the sight of the setting sun a familiar comfort, yet tinged with the ever-present ache of longing. "Helios is resting now," you murmured, your eyes softening as the last sliver of the sun slipped beneath the horizon, casting the world into the gentle embrace of twilight. "Even gods need a reprieve from their duties."

His gaze remained on the horizon, the light from the fire behind you casting shadows across his face. He let out a deep, weary sigh, as if the weight of the world had finally caught up to him. He turned to you then, his eyes searching yours with a vulnerability that made your breath catch.

"Look, Calypso…" His voice was strained, rough around the edges, as if the words were being dragged out of him. He swallowed hard, his gaze darting away, unable to meet your eyes. "I haven't been truthful with you." He ran a hand through his still-damp hair, his fingers trembling slightly. "My name… it's not Eperitus. I'm not some soldier from a village in Thessaly."

He paused, drawing in a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of his own lies were too much to bear. "My name is Odysseus," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking it aloud might shatter the fragile peace between you. "I'm a king—from Ithaca."

You watched him, your expression unreadable, your heart beating steadily in your chest as his words settled in the air between you.

Odysseus.

The name hung there, heavy with meaning, with the weight of the legend that preceded him. A name that had been whispered on the lips of sailors and soldiers, spoken with reverence and fear, a name that had traveled farther than the man himself.

He turned his gaze back to you, his eyes filled with something like regret, like guilt. "I gave you a false name because I… I wasn't sure if I could trust you. I didn't know if you were friend or foe, if you were another test from the gods, another trial to endure."

He swallowed again, his throat working as he struggled to find the right words, the right way to explain himself. "But your kindness… the way you've treated me, even when I didn't deserve it…" He trailed off, his eyes searching yours, pleading for understanding. "I'm sorry, Calypso. I've spent so long fighting, lying, doing whatever it took to survive, that I forgot what it meant to be honest, to trust."

You let out a sharp snort, then burst into a fit of giggles. The sound caught Odysseus off guard, his head snapping over to you, eyes wide with something like panic. He clearly expected anger or disappointment, but you waved him off, your hand covering your mouth as you struggled to stifle your laughter.

"I-I'm sorry," you managed to say between chuckles, your shoulders shaking as you tried to catch your breath. "It's just… 'Eperitus'? Really?" You let out another peal of laughter, the sound almost musical in its lightness. "I mean, really? 'Man of Strife'? I may have been stuck on this island for eons, but even that sounds fake! You're lucky I'm polite enough not to have called you out on it."

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and before he could stop himself, he was laughing too, a deep, genuine sound that seemed to surprise him as much as it did you. He rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head in mock defeat. "I suppose you are the first to see through it so quickly," he admitted, his voice warm with reluctant admiration.

You hummed, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you leaned back on your palms, the firelight casting a soft glow on your face. "Those around you must not have been that bright to believe it," you teased lightly, watching as his laughter grew, the sound carrying out over the darkening sea.

Odysseus chuckled, shaking his head again. "You'd be surprised," he said, his voice warm with shared humor. "Sometimes, people believe what they want to believe. A name is just a name, after all."

You nodded, the laughter slowly fading as a comfortable silence settled between you, the sound of the waves filling the space left behind.

You glanced at him, the firelight casting his face in soft, flickering shadows, highlighting the lines etched into his features, the weariness in his eyes.

You found yourself wanting to know, to understand, what had brought him here, to your shores, so far from his home.

"How did you find yourself here, Odysseus?" you asked quietly, your voice carrying a note of genuine curiosity. "A king of Ithaca, so far from home."

His smile faltered, the light in his eyes dimming as his shoulders slumped under an invisible weight. He let out a long, weary sigh, his gaze dropping to his hands, his fingers tracing absent patterns in the sand.

"It's… it's a long tale," he murmured, his voice heavy with the weight of too many memories. "One filled with more suffering than I care to remember."

You shifted slightly, turning to face him more fully, your eyes fixed on his as you waited, patient, giving him the space to begin.

He drew in a deep breath, as if steeling himself, and then he spoke, his words slow, deliberate, carrying the weight of years of pain and regret. "It all began with a war," he started, his voice low, almost reverent. "Helen of Troy, they called her. The most beautiful woman in the world, stolen from her husband, Menelaus, by Paris of Troy."

You nodded, familiar with the tale. It was a story that had reached even the shores of your island, carried on the whispers of the waves.

"I was tasked to join the rescue," he continued, his gaze distant, as if he were seeing those events play out before him, the battles, the bloodshed. "I sailed with six hundred men, my loyal soldiers to reclaim her and bring her back to Menelaus. We stormed the beaches of Troy, built walls of bodies and dreams, all for the sake of one woman."

He paused, his jaw tightening as he struggled to find the words. "We fought for ten years," he said, his voice raw with emotion. "Ten long years of death, of suffering, of loss…" You could see the pain, the regret, etched into every line of his face. "And when we finally breached the walls, when we finally stood victorious, I thought… I thought that would be the end of it. I thought I could go home…"

He laughed then, a bitter, hollow sound. "…but the Gods had other plans."

You watched him, your heart aching with a sympathy you couldn't quite explain, couldn't quite contain. "What happened?"

He shook his head, his gaze dropping to his hands, his fingers twisting together as if he were trying to hold onto something slipping through his grasp. "We set sail for home, but the winds were against us. We were thrown off course, tossed from island to island, each one more cursed than the last." He swallowed, the sound thick and heavy in the stillness. "I made… unsavory decisions, angered those who should not be angered," he admitted, his voice cracking just slightly, the words dragged from some dark place deep within him. "I sacrificed my honor, everything, all for the sake of returning to Ithaca."

You listened in silence as he recounted his tale, the trials and tribulations that had followed—the blinding of the Cyclops, the enchantment of Circe, the deadly song of the Sirens. Each word, each memory, seemed to take a piece of him, leaving him more worn, more broken.

"I lost good men. Friends. Brothers…" he whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of his grief. "I lost them all... Every single one of them…"

You were silent for a long moment, studying the way his shoulders were hunched, his hands clenched into fists on his lap, the way his eyes shone with a pain you could almost feel. He was a man broken by war, by loss, by the endless trials the gods had thrown at him.

A man who had forgotten how to be anything but what the world demanded of him.

And here he was, baring his soul to you, offering up his truth like a fragile, precious thing. You would have gave your sorrows, but from what you've known of him, it wouldn't do any good.

A sigh escaped your lips, soft and resigned, as you turned your gaze back to the sea, the waves rolling in gentle, rhythmic swells, the last of the light fading into the deep, dark blue of the coming night. "Odysseus of Ithaca," you murmured, the name tasting strange on your tongue, heavy with the weight of all that it carried. "You're not the first to wash up on my shores, lost and broken," you said quietly, your eyes fixed on the horizon, your voice carrying a sadness that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the endless, unchanging cycle of your existence. "And you won't be the last."

He looked at you then, really looked at you, as if seeing you for the first time, his eyes tracing the lines of your face, the curve of your shoulders, the way the firelight played across your skin.

You could feel his gaze like a physical thing, warm and searching, and for a moment, you almost believed that he could see you, not as the myth, the story, the cursed daughter of Atlas, but as something more, something real.

But you knew better.

"You're right not to trust me, Odysseus," you continued, your voice steady, calm. "I'm bound by my curse, just as you're bound by your fate. We're both prisoners here, in our own way."

He opened his mouth to speak, to protest, but you shook your head, a small, sad smile playing at the corners of your lips. "You don't owe me anything," you said softly, your eyes meeting his, holding his gaze with a quiet intensity. "But thank you, for your honesty. For your truth."

He stared at you, his eyes dark and unreadable, the silence between you heavy with the weight of all that remained unspoken. And then, slowly, almost hesitantly, he reached out, his hand hovering just inches from yours, the warmth of his skin a tantalizing whisper against your own.

For a moment, you thought he might take your hand, might bridge the distance between you.

But then he hesitated, his fingers curling into a fist, and he drew back, the moment slipping away like sand through your fingers.

You looked away, your heart aching with a familiar, bittersweet pain, your eyes drifting back to the sea, to the endless, unchanging horizon.

And so you sat there, side by side, two souls bound by the whims of the Gods, watching as the last light faded from the sky, as the stars began to bloom overhead, bright and cold and distant.

Together, yet worlds apart.

A/N: ahhh! not me falling in love with this lil one-shot. anywho, had to cut this in half cuz it was getting ridonculusly long... prt 2 shall be here soon tho, also, would you guys be cool if i added smut to it or nah? cuz i feel like the smut between these two will be so angsty cuz deep down odysseus ass still loves penelope, so calypso!reader is really just getting used, ma babieee 😭😭

[awarnin]

I want to please you | DOM!DYLAN MINNETTE X FEM!READER

synopsis: you need to get the stress out of him...

warning: SMUT! p in v, unprotected sex, dom!dylan, thumb sucking.

author's note: FUCKKKK. a lot of people asked me for this and it took me way too long to develop it. i'm sorry because I know it's not my best piece of art, i'm still trying to improve. !!

wordcount: 10.8k

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The door closed softly behind Dylan, the sound echoing through the room, causing a quickening of the heartbeat in your chest. You knew what it meant: his day had been long, exhausting, and now he just wanted to get away from it all. You’d seen him arrive before, exhaustion etched on his face, but this time, the tension was palpable, as if all the stress of the week had been piled on his shoulders.

You watched him from the couch, your body already prepared for what was to come. He walked over to you, his blue eyes darker, heavy with silent need. Dylan let out a deep sigh, tossing his keys on the table without even looking at you. He plopped down on the corner of the couch, the leather of his jacket creaking as he slid it down his arms and tossed it aside.

“This week has been crazy,” he muttered, bringing a hand to his face. “I can’t keep going like this. Work is driving me crazy.”

His voice was low, and though he tried to sound calm, you could feel the weight of each word. There was something in his tone that turned you on, a mix of frustration and desire that was reflected in his tense posture. You wanted to relieve him, to make him forget about everything, even if it was just for tonight.

Your eyes followed him, and when he looked at you for the first time, you felt a rush of heat run through your body. You knew what he was asking for, and you bit your lip, trying to control the anticipation that was already taking over you.

“Come here,” he said softly, his hand coming up to brush your cheek.

You leaned into him, your heart racing as you moved closer. His thumb caressed your skin, and then, without another word, he brought it to your lips. You knew what he wanted. He didn’t need to ask out loud. You opened your mouth, allowing his thumb to slowly enter. The first touch of your tongue against his skin made you shiver. The taste of him, the heat, was exactly what you needed.

Your tongue ran slowly and deliberately over his thumb, tasting every inch as you sucked gently. Your lips closed around his finger, and the heat in your belly grew, a dull throb that echoed with every movement you made. Every time your tongue brushed his skin, you could feel his breathing getting a little heavier, though he tried to remain calm, watching the TV as if nothing was happening.

Dylan was relaxed, his head resting on the back of the couch, but his eyes followed you out of the corner of his eye. You knew that, although he seemed distracted, his attention was completely on you, on the way you sucked on his thumb, on how your lips slid wet and soft over his skin. You focused on the act, on the feeling of having something of his between your lips, on the way it made you feel more connected to him.

Time passed, and the heat in your body continued to grow. Every time you moved your tongue, a small moan escaped your lips, almost inaudible, but there, marking your surrender. Saliva began to pool in your mouth, and though you tried to control it, you soon felt it begin to drip, slipping down his thumb and onto the couch.

You didn’t care. You were completely absorbed in the moment, in the feeling of being at his mercy, in pleasing him. The world outside of that couch ceased to exist, and all that mattered was him, and the way he made you feel just by being so close to him.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Dylan moved his hand, removing his thumb from your mouth slowly. The wetness of your saliva glistened on his skin as he took in the mess you had made. His gaze lowered to the couch, where a small smear of saliva marked the spot where you had leaned in. You held your breath, knowing he had noticed.

“What is this?” he asked, his voice low but with clear intent behind it.

Your body tensed at his tone. You knew what was coming, and part of you was looking forward to it. Your cheeks heated, and your eyes dropped, following his gaze to the stain you had left behind. You didn’t know what to say, only that you had lost control, giving yourself over completely to this moment.

“I told you to be careful,” he murmured, his voice still soft, but firm. It wasn’t a real reprimand, but there was a clear warning in his tone.

Before you could respond, he took you by the waist and lifted you firmly, placing you on his lap. You felt the heat of his body beneath yours, and a shiver ran down your spine as he adjusted you, making sure you were completely under his control. You felt vulnerable, but that vulnerability only added to the intensity of the moment.

His hands slid to your hips, adjusting you on his lap as he held you still. His lips brushed your ear, his warm breath sending waves of desire through your body.

"You know what happens when you're not careful, right?" he whispered, his tone low, heavy with expectation.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice shaking slightly. You couldn’t hide the tremor in your words, a mix of nervousness and desire that ran from your stomach to the base of your spine.

“Sorry isn’t enough,” he said, a dangerous calm in his tone. His fingers slowly moved up your jaw, holding you gently but firmly, forcing you to look him straight in the eyes. “You have to learn to control yourself.”

You shivered under his gaze, feeling the control slipping completely from your hands. You were at his mercy, and that realization made you feel more alive, more aware of every little touch, every shared breath. Dylan leaned you in close, his lips so close to yours you could feel his hot breath, but he didn’t kiss you right away.

“Tell me what you need,” he said in a whisper, his low tone echoing in your ear like a soft command.

“I want to please you,” you replied, your voice shaking with desire. You knew that every word you said brought him closer to what you both wanted.

His lips finally found yours, deep, firm, and filled with all the control he had maintained up until that moment. The kiss left you breathless, and as his hands began to move over your body, you felt every inch of you respond to his touch, to his dominance.

Dylan stared at you intently, his blue eyes shining with a desire he could no longer contain. He held you firmly in his lap, his breathing heavy and his chest rising and falling with each quickening heartbeat. You knew what was going to happen, you felt it in the way his hands gripped your hips, controlling your every move. His control was absolute, but you also felt him vulnerable, given over to this moment as much as you were.

With a slow, determined movement, he guided you along, positioning you right above him. The heat between the two of you was almost overwhelming, and the air in the room seemed to charge with electricity. Your bodies aligned perfectly, and you could feel the tension building between the two of you about to explode.

“Relax,” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear, his voice low and full of promise.

You shuddered at the contact, closing your eyes as you focused on every sensation. The moment you connected with him was gentle, but full of intensity. You felt Dylan plunge into you with a mix of slowness and firmness, the heat of his body invading yours in a way that made you arch your back. A moan escaped your lips, as he let out a stifled growl, feeling how you two fit together perfectly.

Every movement of his was measured, controlled, but at the same time filled with a desire he couldn’t repress anymore. His hands on your hips kept you in place as you moved to the rhythm he set, each breath synchronized with his, each sensation intensifying as you sank deeper into the moment.

The rhythm between the two of you quickened, and the heat grew, enveloping you in a feeling of absolute fullness. You could feel every part of him, and the way you clung to his body made you lose yourself even more in the connection you shared. The room seemed to fade away, and the world narrowed to those moments, to the caresses, the whispers, and the moans that filled the air.

Finally, when the climax came, it was like a wave that swept the two of you away. You felt complete, vulnerable, and strong at the same time, as he held you tighter, as if he didn’t want to let you go. Both of your bodies shook, and the air around you filled with the heavy satisfaction of what you had just shared.

Dylan held you gently, his breathing slowly returning to normal. He let you fall against his chest, his arms wrapping around you as you both let yourself drift away in exhaustion and satisfaction.

“That was just what I needed,” he murmured, his lips brushing your forehead in a gesture of tenderness.

You smiled against his skin, feeling the ease he had finally found in you, and you in him.

.

[daydreamingatnight209]

Me actually writing and posting? What??? 😱😱😱

Enjoy some Colson content my lovelies 🥰

As usual Feedback is welcome, HATE is not ; if you don’t like it, don’t read it. ✨💕

“I’m Here, Go Back to Sleep”

MGK x Female Reader

Warnings - None. Just pure fluff!

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Waking up to an empty bed these days wasn’t unusual these days, with the album deadline slowly creeping up day by day, Colson spent almost all of his hours in the studio, working himself to the bone to produce an album everyone can enjoy.

With your own workplace continuously overworking you, sleep or time didn’t come easily to you either. You couldn’t remember the last time both you and Colson had actually spent more than a few minutes at a time together in the same room and it was starting to become very lonely.

Leaving the cold and empty bed, after another night of hopeless tossing and turning, you sigh and drag yourself downstairs to the kitchen. Preparing for another day to survive on coffee you make one for both yourself and your boyfriend who didn’t even leave the studio last night. It was most likely he fell asleep there in the very early hours of the morning.

While the lack of sleep wasn’t new for Colson, it certainly was for you and you could feel it slowly starting to affect your mind and body.

You grab him a change of clothes, a blanket for yourself and his favourite aftershave before crossing over from the house into the converted studio space.

With the band already in session, you slipped in almost undetected, but as always, your eyes caught Colson’s immediately. You give him a small smile and walk over to give him what you had brought over.

“Babe, what are you doing up so early? You look exhausted” he whispers as he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

You let out a small laugh and set yourself down on the closest chair.

“Gee, thanks Col”

After a quick clothes change and the others leaving in search for food, Colson calls you over to the desk he’s working at.

“Come, let me hold you” he mumbles, stretching his long arms out in your direction.

Wrapping the blanket tightly around you, you walk over to your lover and wrap yourself around him so you were straddling him. He holds you tightly and sways gently.

“You need to get some proper rest, baby, you are going to make yourself ill” he tells you softly.

You giggle to yourself at his concern for you, knowing full well he wouldn’t take his own advice even if you begged him.

“I’ll rest when you do” is your answer and you can practically feel him rolling his eyes at you, despite not actually being able to see him as you rest your head in the crook of his neck.

The two of you sit there quietly, as colson continues to sway you and hum a track from the new album into your ear.

Despite not being able to sleep properly, something about being in colson’s arms after so long, settles you and you cannot fight the call of sleep that beckons you. Your eyes close slowly and without protest as you rest against the frame of your man, the feeling of safely enveloping you.

Colson smiles down at you, tenderly, the look of frustration and stress leaving your features as you snore lightly.

He would be lying to himself if he said he hadn’t missed these small intimate moments with you and did feel quite guilty for not making more time for you while in the process of doing this next album. You never once complained and took everything in your stride which is on of the many things he loved about you.

He couldn’t wait to look after you and treat you to something special as a way of thanks for all your support when the album was complete.

His train of thought was interrupted as he heard everyone coming back to continue the session. He panicked slightly as they all barged through the door and glared at them in an effort to silence the rowdiness they were currently displaying.

“Shhh! She hasn’t slept properly in weeks and I swear if any one of you wake her up! …” Colson hisses at his friends, before looking down at you to ensure you were still peacefully sleeping.

Slim is the first to put his hands up in mock surrender, a smirk plastered on his face as he leads the group back out the door, but he was secretly glad that this would mean Colson would be forced to take a break, even if it was just an hour or so. He knew he definitely needed one.

Once alone again, Colson lifts you up with ease and carries you over to the sofa, laying you down and climbing in beside you. He wraps his arms back around you settles in. The movement causes you to stir slightly, your eyes still closed you mumble for your boyfriend not to leave you.

“Shh baby, I’m here, go back to sleep”