#not that she didn’t love my brother or cousins to pieces too

[zaddyazula]

first grandchild and “only granddaughter” combo was really the end for my brother and cousins

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

can you do a part two to the imagine about conrad bringing his new gf to belly and jeremiah’s wedding??? i’m so curious to see what happens next lol

Request: Can we see more of conrad and his Stanford tutor girlfriend at cousins? Like him showing her around and they run into Nicole and everything. He's just so in love he doesn't notice anything or anyone but her. Maybe we see a family dinner

I had no intentions to, but after the crazy amount of demands for a part 2, I caved in…and here it is

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

Conrad didn’t want to deal with everyone’s questions about you right when you got to Cousins, so you snuck out by the beach after dropping your bags in his room. He felt like he was fourteen again, sneaking out to catch the early waves. 

Neither of you had swim clothes on, so you just walked along the sandy shoreline while Conrad shared all sorts of little stories about Cousins.

‘’This is where you learned to surf?’’ you asked, gesturing toward the water.

Conrad hummed, his hand holding yours. ‘’And where I got stung by a jellyfish.’’ 

‘’A jellyfish?’’ you echoed, a touch of concern in your voice. That sounded pretty serious.

‘’Yeah. Steven kept telling Jeremiah that he had to pee on my leg so I wouldn’t need amputation and I did not want that,’’ he recounted with the same disgust as that day. ‘’Never do that, by the way. It can do more harm.’’ 

You nodded, though you doubted you would ever need that piece of information.

You walked and talked some more, until a playful glint of mischief flashed in Conrad’s eye and he turned to you, lifting you over his shoulder and taking you to the water. A squeak left your lips, caught off guard, and then you instinctively clung to his back, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as he threatened to drop you in the water fully clothed. 

‘’If you drop me, I swear I'll—’’

Conrad cut you off with a mischievous grin, his laughter mixing with the soothing sounds of the ocean. ‘’You’ll what?’’ His voice was filled with playful challenge, and he took a few steps deeper into the water. 

*

When you came back to the summer house, Laurel whisked you away and Conrad went looking for Jeremiah. Unfortunately, someone found him first. 

‘’I don’t want her here.’’ Belly's voice hissed, her eyes glaring at the one she used to call her’s. ‘’This is my wedding, I get to decide who attends.’’ 

Conrad knew this wouldn't be easy for her — seeing him with another girl —, but he didn't expect Belly to behave like a child. She made a choice two years ago, she made a choice weeks ago when she decided to marry Jeremiah. 

‘’If you want her to leave, I’m leaving too,’’ he replied firmly but calmly. ‘’Good luck explaining to Jeremiah why his brother and best man is not at his wedding.’’

Belly sighed, accepting the lost battle. ‘’Fine. She can stay…’’ It didn’t enchant her, but there was no way she was risking Conrad leaving. Jeremiah was so happy when he got his RSVP response. ‘’Did you bring her here just to spite me?’’ she demanded, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and hurt.

Conrad couldn't believe her accusation. He took a deep breath, struggling to maintain his composure. ‘’Are you being serious right now? You're getting married, and you still think I came here to get you back? It’s been two years. I moved on, Belly.’’

She met Conrad's gaze with a mixture of frustration and defiance. ‘’I did too. I’m getting married.’’ Belly smiled, the ring on her finger suddenly feeling heavy. 

‘’Then why are you so bothered that I’m dating someone else?’’  

Belly opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. 

‘’How can you do this to Jeremiah?!’’ 

Conrad was exasperated. Him and Jeremiah had tough moments, but he was his little brother and he promised their mom to take care of him. And that included making sure he’s not marrying someone who doesn’t love him the way he deserves. 

‘’He's inside, helping Taylor with the center-tables while his fiancé is having a jealousy fit over her ex boyfriend’s new girlfriend. You can’t have everything, Belly. You picked Jeremiah, you made that choice—’’

‘’And you left!’’ 

‘’Because you picked Jeremiah!’’ Conrad spit back, plunging back into old feelings. ‘’There was nothing left for me here.’’ 

‘’You didn’t show up on the 4th of July. Everyone was there, but you weren’t. How can you miss Susannah’s favorite holiday?’’

‘’How can you announce your engagement on her special day?’’ 

‘’It was Jeremiah’s idea—’’ 

‘’I don’t care! I don’t care whose idea it was,'' Conrad cut. ''Just like I don’t care that you’re jealous I came here with Y/N. You always said you don’t like the attention, but it’s bullshit. You crave attention, but you’re no longer my center of attention and that’s something you have to accept.’’

*

An undeniable tension hung in the air during dinner. Everyone was sitting outside, discussing around a light meal Laurel had prepared — with your offered help. The conversation was mainly around the soon-to-be-weds, but eventually circled back to you and Conrad.  

‘’So, Connie, how long have you been hiding her from us?’’ Laurel asked, a light teasing tone in her voice. 

The attention shifted to you and Conrad, who immediately felt uncomfortable. Unlike some people around the table, he didn’t like being the center of attention. ‘’I haven’t been hiding her,’’ he defended, shaking his head, trying to downplay the situation. 

‘’Then why did you miss the last Christmas?’’ Steven questioned, giving Conrad a knowing smile. 

Conrad glared at him, cursing his big mouth. ‘’Med school is hard, Steven. And Y/N is tutoring outside her classes, so she can’t just leave whenever she decides.’’

‘’What about the skiing pictures I saw? I doubt there’s skiing resorts in Palo Alto.’’ 

‘’It was a last minute thing,’’ you explained, helping Conrad against Steven. ‘’My parents rented a cabin and invited us for a few days. We would have loved to come to Boston for Christmas if we had time.’’

It wasn’t the full truth, but Conrad was grateful for your quick lie. You did go on a ski trip with your parents during winter break, but Conrad had no intention of coming to Boston for the holidays. He didn’t want to spend Christmas at home without his mom. 

‘’Well, I'm glad you both could make it for the wedding,’’ Jeremiah said, smiling warmly at you and Conrad, his gaze lingering on his older brother for a moment. ‘’It means a lot to me — to us. Right Bells?’’ He glanced at his fiancé, who was visibly unhappy about your presence.

She had made no effort to engage conversation with you — nor Conrad — during the whole dinner.  Even her friend Taylor had been whispering in your back with Belly. It was such an unclassy teenager behavior. You personally didn’t care.You weren’t there to make friends, you were Conrad’s guest. 

Belly forced a smile, stabbing at her food with her fork. ‘’Yeah.’’

—

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[tariah23]

Like???

Again, the fact that Naoya has fans 🗣️🗣️🗣️

[toodelusionalforreality]

Azriel x OC | Chapter 4

Shadow

Both his brothers are mated. Both his brothers are happily in love. But after five centuries of rejection, Azriel doesn’t hope for such luxury in his life. When he meets the bar owner who is too mysterious even for the spymaster to decipher, his intrigue turns into more. Lines between mystery and secret blur. The closer he gets to her, the more his instincts warn him to stay away.

Previous Chapter: Bastards

Word count: ~6k Warning: None

A/N: This is an experimental piece of work. I'm testing a writing style, so feedback is welcome. This is a half-baked version which I may edit later. This was supposed to be two separate chapters which I compiled into one. So the style difference may come off a bit strong, my apologies.

The gelding, as dark as midnight sky, stood with an unearthly stillness under the shade of the stable. Its beady eyes followed Mor as she circled the building for the second time. Grateful for the boots she exchanged her sandals for, she stepped along the edge of the bank. Soil crumbled under her feet setting off ripples in the shallow waters. Pushing the hair out of her face, she peered around. Her fingertips trailed along the stone wall allowing the ragged surface to chip at her skin. No trace of magic. No hint of a hidden room. Not an inch of window on either side. 

Sensing its unwavering stare on her back, Mor turned to the horse with narrowed eyes. She teased the ends of her braid between her fingers. ‘You wouldn’t know of a secret room back there, would you?’ 

The beast didn’t even breathe in response. Mor let out a long sigh.

The meadow stretched for miles in every direction with nothing in sight except for the smithy. Gentle breeze chilled the sweat coating her neck. Thunder clapped at a distance and the scent of impending rain sweetened the air. A single droplet fell on her cheek and she looked up at the darkening skies. Maybe a summer drizzle would be a blessing. It would save her the effort to cloak what she had been up to before Ayla returned.

As she walked back, Mor studied the closed doors again. Painted in blue as bright as the ocean in the west, the carvings seemed to blend and merge into waves, chaotic and restless, as though the rustle of Sidra poured life into them. The longer she stared, the harder it was to break her gaze.

Then she felt it—a quiet call beckoning her forward, promising her. . .something she couldn’t name.

In that moment, Mor knew only one thing. She had to own it.

She inched ahead, and a low grunt warned her. The waves froze. So did Mor’s breath. The horse now stood at the doorstep. She hadn’t seen it move.

‘Hey,’ she muttered under her breath, ‘I don’t want to do this either.’

. . .

Her cousin’s smile vanished as soon as Feyre left the room. Alone in his study, Rhys finally turned to Mor. 

Ever since the three brothers returned from Mother knew where a week ago, none had been the same. Only when Rhys found his mate in front of a fire cradling their babe in her arms that night, his love for them chased the darkness away from his eyes. Creases marked his tunic and his usually impeccable hair was dishevelled. Az didn’t enter past the foyer while Cass stood guarding the door after him. The two stared at each other. Az waited for another minute before he stepped to his brother and hissed under his breath. Shadows wreathed around him. But Mor caught glimpses of his leathers ruined with dirt and splattered blood.

‘It doesn’t feel right, Rhys.’ Mor found his eyes devoid of any emotion.

Perched on a simple leather chair, Rhys radiated the power of a High Lord making a throne for himself no matter where he was. He fixed her with one of his rare stares that left no room for argument. ‘We don’t have the luxury to discuss what’s right.’

Mor didn’t need a reminder of what entailed when Az wanted something. She had seen it for five centuries—the ruthlessness behind those kind eyes, the raging fire behind the cool facade.

‘Do you think she’s dangerous?’

Rhys paused. ‘I don’t know.’

Mor couldn’t tell if he meant the mystery woman or Ayla. Perhaps, both. ‘Let’s wait a couple of days. See what happens.’

There had been no news of a missing fae or attack anywhere in the city. Somehow it didn’t offer comfort to either man as she had expected.

‘Would I be asking this if we could sit and wait?’ His shoulders drooped as he heaved a heavy breath. ‘I can barely hold him off from tearing Hewn City apart.’

‘Then let him,’ Mor shrugged. ‘He’d be doing us a favour anyway.’

She would have done it herself, she should have done it herself centuries ago. But she was a coward. The thought of returning to that place even to reduce it to rubble and dust made her blood run cold.

Rhys dismissed her. ‘She was intent on making a bargain. Sounds like an awful trouble for a simple bladesmith, don’t you think?’

Mor gaped at him. He never ignored her whenever that hell was involved. Never. Not only did he speak the city’s name with carelessness, but his eyes lacked the softness they always held when he approached her on its matters.

She squared her shoulders. Her cousin had a point, though she wouldn’t admit it yet. ‘We shouldn’t be making assumptions. It could be nothing.’

But Rhys pressed on, ‘We were in the next room. She wanted the fae. She hurt Ayla.’ He leaned back in the chair. ‘I’m not willing to gamble with their lives.’

Mor hated that Az was caught up in it. She hated it more that she was dragged into it. Az hadn’t been himself the past few days. Damn, he hadn’t been himself for the past few months.

At first, Cass and Mor bet how long his affair with Ayla would last. Az rarely ever shared more than a night with one woman. A few hours at her place, but at the end of the night, he always returned home. Ayla was supposed to be one of his blow-off-the-steam flings. Mor claimed it so, a phase. But Cass was certain it was a mild attraction. I’d never seen Az smile like that at a woman who drew blood from a man, he had said.

Then he returned to the bar again and again. It was a jolt to both of them—at least Cass ended up five gold marks richer. If Ayla had such a hold over Az, if she had meant anything to him, one expected him to tell his friends about his budding feelings. But he kept his escapades a secret, kept her a secret.

Ever since the night, Az had been more distant, more aloof. When everyone went out, as far as going to Ayla’s bar for his sake, he wished to stay home. When everyone stayed the night in River House, he preferred his room in House of Wind. No amount of coaxing convinced him to stay longer than dinner. Nothing satisfied him anymore. 

Since he wished to be anywhere but Velaris, Cass and Mor had planned a whole weekend in the mountain cabin. Yet, Az declared he was going to Day Court on a mission, and Rhys refused them specifics. 

That was before the bond snapped for him. Mor didn't blame Ayla. Still, she couldn’t stop the resentment festering in her heart either. The man she knew all her life, her friend who saved her and brought her back home, was being ripped away from them. Slowly and steadily. She wanted him to be happy. But what if the price was to lose him to a woman they barely knew, to someone who stood to break their family apart? Or worse, break his heart? One day with her had left Az a wreck. What would a lifetime with her do to him? It almost happened once. But Cass and Nesta were one thing.

This was Az.

Getting up from the chair, Mor turned away from Rhys and his hard stare. ‘Didn’t you say the wards are ancient magic?’ Her fingers tugged at the gold chain around her wrist, ‘And Ayla can fight. It will be fine.’ 

She couldn’t go down that road, not even for Az. Let him deal with Ayla and the danger surrounding her. If the worst came to pass, she couldn’t bear to watch it destroy him. She couldn’t get in the middle of his love affairs. But it wasn’t an affair, was it? No, this was his mate. His one true match.

‘Mor,’ called Rhys, kind and gentle that it stopped her pacing. ‘He’s waited long enough. He deserves better.’

There it was, the jab she had been waiting for. Mor kept her breath and voice steady. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means we look out for our friend.’

A lie. A pathetic one at that. She knew what he meant. They blamed her for breaking Az’s heart. They believed Ayla couldn’t do worse than what she did to him. It wasn’t her fault Az held onto hope. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t love him the way he wanted her to.

‘It’s a mating bond,’ she stated calmly, ‘We shouldn’t be meddling.’ Maybe rationality would earn a sway with Rhys. He always put reason first anyway. ‘Besides, Az wouldn’t appreciate you scheming behind his back.’

‘It’s for him I’m asking.’

. . .

‘I only need a peek inside,’ Mor said.

She revealed her open palms to the black guardian in a peace offering. But it stood unmoved. She took a careful step towards the door—that unknown magic summoning her again. 

Another grunt, and she halted.

Damn you, Rhys!

A gentle murmur closed in on them. Mor looked over her shoulder. She had lingered for too long.

‘Don’t tell on me,’ she whispered to the beast and hurried to the stable.

Ayla wore a ridiculously large shirt that swallowed her frame. The fabric swayed in the breeze and clung to her toned thigh and the graceful swell of her hip. Every inch of her body—except for her face and hands—was hidden. She lovingly looked at the mare limping beside her. As it slowed, Ayla grazed her fingers along its neck and followed its gaze. Her pretty, serene smile faded.

Daylight did her justice, unlike the dim glow at the bar. Ayla was attractive, criminally so. But she wasn’t Az’s type—so simple and. . .forgettable. She was beautiful, and yet her face barely left a mark on one’s mind. As if she merged with the very air surrounding them, invisible and intangible. Unless one knew what they were looking for, they wouldn’t spare her a glance.

The night they found Az in the bar alone—Ares or Larus, all Mor remembered was the ugly creature and her incessant knitting—none of them suspected his reason to be a woman, let alone her. 

One had no say in how Mother chose their mate. Still, Ayla was a far cry. Az instead liked women who were. . .Mor frowned. She realised she didn’t know. Her friend was lucrative about his partners, especially with her. Did Rhys or Cass know of his preferences? Something worse dawned on her. Would he have told her about his mate if Cass hadn’t blabbered in his drunken haze?

Without breaking her stride, Ayla walked past the blonde ignoring her friendly wave and smile. She smelled sweet—like cardamom and something exotic.

The gelding finally moved from its spot and approached her as she reached the stable. It stood by the entrance even when its companion sought the shade inside, its beady eyes only on Mor. 

‘You need anything?’ Ayla peeked at her visitor before crouching by the door. Lustrous strands slipped loose from the messy knot at the nape of her neck. She brushed them away with the back of her hand and reached inside a bucket on the ground. She tossed something at Mor, ‘It’s clean.’

Mor caught it before it hit her in the face. Rude!

It was firm and cool and. . .red. She threw an apple at her.

The mare trudged back to Ayla, looking down over her shoulder. A leather brace encased its right forelimb, winding up from hoof to knee. When Mor moved closer, drawn by its beauty, it whipped its head away and backed into the shade. 

Ayla got to her feet with a dancer’s fluidity, an apple in her hand. ‘I got you. You’re safe now,’ she cooed. ‘No one’s going to hurt you.’ 

She hushed softly. The mare stilled under her touch. She brushed her fingers through its mane, the hair shifting like spun silver. As she breathed, the horse breathed with her.

‘What happened to her?’

Mor couldn’t take her eyes off them. Over the centuries, she had witnessed many fae and humans alike attempt to tame a beast and waste years to earn its trust. She had never seen anyone so in tune with a creature before. Or rather, a creature in tune with a fae.

‘Her owners weren’t kind to her,’ Ayla held the fruit out. The mare caught a sniff before sinking its teeth into its flesh. ‘When she couldn’t breed anymore, they worked her until her leg gave out. They ignored her when she started showing signs. She was in much pain.’

The creature shuffled closer, eager for her touch and words.

Ayla smiled, ‘But that’s the past. She’s making a recovery now. Brave girl, aren’t you?’

Something deep inside Mor cracked and ached. She swallowed, turning to the male horse. It bore no sign of illness or injury. ‘What about him?’

The silver one wearily made its way to a corner hiding from the stranger. But the darkness couldn’t hide the glow in its watchful blue eyes.

Ayla cared neither about Mor nor the threat her horses seemed to sense. She inspected two more apples between her slender fingers as she carried them to the gelding. ‘You’re not here to discuss horses with me. I know who you are, Morrigan.’

A chill went down her spine. No one called her that anymore, at least not in Velaris. She was Mor—Mor who escaped her father and her fate. Mor who freed herself from the darkness from which she was born.

She opened her mouth, unable to resist the urge to correct the woman in front of her. Distant thunder rumbled above the mountains like a warning. A reminder from Mother herself to speak true. Her words halted. It wasn’t the name that unsettled her. But the way Ayla spoke it, the quiet command in it.

Mor mustered the smile she reserved for the courtiers and nobles. ‘Then I guess it makes this less awkward. Tell me about the fae.’

‘What fae?’ Ayla petted the dark coat of the horse. It shimmered like starry smoke under her fingers, and Mor longed to feel its softness on her skin.

‘The one you’re hiding in a secret room back there,’ Mor pointed at the smithy, though Ayla didn’t bother to look at her, unlike her horses who wouldn’t take their eyes away from her.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Seriously?’ Mor snorted, ‘Is this what you want to lie about? Rhys was inside that room.’

‘There’s a room, but it’s no secret.’

Mor rolled her eyes. She regretted not asking Rhys about her first. ‘Fine. Why don’t you tell me about this not-a-secret room and the child you’re harbouring?’

‘She’s not your concern.’

‘Of course, she is. She lives in this court.’

‘No, she’s not.’ She smiled, a twitch of her lips in mockery. ‘Despite what your High Lord believes he heard, that child was never in danger. Regardless, she can protect herself.’

‘Mine?’ Ayla’s chin dipped ever-so-slightly, her gaze shifting. Mor pressed, ‘You said my High Lord.’

‘I’m not mistaken.’

‘Where are you from?’ 

Ayla stayed silent. Mor studied her. Her hair, lighter than a raven’s, a deep brown shone with a tinge of coppery sheen in the sunlight. Her eyes matched her hair, deep and intense. Her skin had a golden hue to it, not tan like the three Illyrians she knew, and not fair like the Archeron sisters. Somewhere in between. Her body showed no hints of other courts’ blood.

Right when she was about to press again, a cool calmness that was the essence of her cousin nudged her mind. 

He’s home.

Keep him busy, she told him. If Rhys were to be believed, Az clung to a delicate thread of restraint from shadowing Ayla day and night. And when that snapped, she wanted to be as far away as possible.

Mor tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘So, Rhys says you’re a weaponsmith.’ 

Ayla pursed her lips, resisting a smile. She petted her gelding, running her nails over its glossy coat, and coaxed it to accept her offering. It hung its head low, careening into her hand.

Mor sucked in a breath. ‘You’re going to ignore me?’ 

‘It’s pointless to state the obvious when you came here knowing who I am. And,’ Ayla drawled, ‘you’re standing in front of a forge.’

Mor snapped her mouth shut at the sound of her cousin’s chuckle in her mind. She almost forgot he was witnessing her trial. What did you do to her that day?

I can’t take credit for this. It’s all her. His amusement was loud and clear. Did you get anything yet?

Mor looked down at her hands. She gave me an apple. Does that count? He laughed again.

‘I understand why you won’t work for other courts. But why refuse your own High Lord?’

Ayla shrugged, ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

Mor tugged at the bracelet coiling around her wrist, almost as tight as the words in her throat. ‘Would it hurt you to give me one straight answer?’ 

Ayla didn’t utter a word. Her gaze drifted to the mare at the tone only for a minute. 

Even as a courtier, it had been a while since Mor had to strain every nerve for a simple conversation. Why would Az lose his mind over her? He wouldn’t want her without the bloody bond. For a moment, she pitied her friend. He waited centuries only for Mother to bind his fate with this infuriating woman. 

Then she remembered her thoughts weren’t secure. She took a breath, ‘Fine, hate Rhys all you want. Why do you hate me?’

‘I don’t have a reason to hate you or your High Lord.’

I tried, Mor sighed.

Try harder. Rhys’s response was instant.

Get down here and do it yourself.

Mor, he warned, his power radiating even through their minds. Then his voice was gone, and so was his commanding presence. Mor inhaled deeply at the emptiness, as if her cousin had taken her thoughts along with him. Come home. I think he’s onto us.

You think? She surveyed their surroundings. Lush plains stretched in every direction, providing no cover for a particular shadowsinger if he chose to stake out. Give me another minute.

When she turned around, she met the coal-like eyes of the gelding that peered into the depths of her soul. It watched her like it sensed what she had been up to, that Rhys was watching it back.

Mor knew such beasts well. So she matched its stare. Tiny drops of rain hit her skin, but she refused to bow down. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the mare edging close to the entrance. Its steps were as quiet as the one challenging her. Neither made a sound with Ayla around, only their breaths a sign of their attention when she spoke to them.

‘I know you’re hungry,’ said Ayla, twirling the apple between her fingers. ‘We’ll go for a ride later if you take one bite.’ The beast nuzzled against Ayla’s neck, but it didn’t relent. She tipped her head and a thin veil of her hair blocked its view. ‘For me?’

Mor shifted her weight to her right foot, and it whinnied out a hoarse breath. Its forelimb twitched, muscles pulling taut along its length, warning her of what it wouldn’t hesitate to do if she made one wrong move.

The Truth-Teller strapped to Az’s thigh flashed in her mind. Or was it Rhys?

Ayla spoke softly, ‘I won’t let anyone touch you. You’re safe.’ She smoothed her palm between its eyes, down its neck, through its mane. ‘Easy now.’ 

The horse blinked. Ayla repeated her affirmations. It slowly turned, leaning into her hand, an eye watching its foe. The crunch of the ripe flesh between its teeth echoed in the air.

Mor shuddered. Yet, she couldn’t mask the smile on her lips or her thoughts. Tell me you're seeing this.

Ayla rewarded the gelding with a kiss between its eyes. ‘Good boy,’ she held out the other apple. But the beast pressed its forehead to her cheek and nuzzled, backing her towards the stone building, away from the stranger. Ayla chuckled as she steadied herself. ‘Come now. Don’t be rude.’

Mor ached to winnow back and tease her friend about his mate and her territorial pet. It wasn’t just her who felt that. 

Does Az know his mate already has a shadow? 

Oh, he won’t appreciate this competition. Rhys laughed.

Mor snorted. The beast stilled, its ears perked up. She cleared her throat, ‘He’s adorable. What’s his name?’ 

A minute passed and another. Well, Rhys would have to find some other way to get his answers. 

Mor sighed, though a little of the guilt and doubt in her chest had dampened. ‘If you ever need help, you can come to me.’ 

To her surprise, Ayla looked at her and nodded.

.

.

.

Seven days. Two cities. One woman.

Some spy he was. For five centuries, Azriel hunted men and women across lands. Never had he felt as useless as he did in those seven days.

He scoured every inch of Velaris for the woman who hurt Ayla. Day and night he searched every inn, listened to whispers in the streets, and sent his wraiths to gather news about foreigners. He searched for her in expensive bars and restaurants, to the theatres and landmarks. He went as far as to look into the seedy taverns on the other side of the city, just to be certain. If she had known they were inside the room while she threatened Ayla, she should have been smart enough to keep to the shadows. Even Hewn City wasn’t spared. He spied every courtier who set foot inside the mountain city in the past two weeks to ensure none of them knew of Ayla’s existence. 

He found nothing. It wasn’t a question of how, but who stumped him. All his efforts were futile, for what did he know of this mysterious enemy?

Azriel played the events of that day in his mind over and over again. His instincts had set in the instant he walked out of the hidden room. His shadows crept along the floor and writhed at his feet like serpents waking from each step. There was no trace of that woman—not her magic, not her scent. The only sign of the ordeal lay red on Ayla’s tender neck. He combed through every spoken word, every moment to find one clue that could lead him to her. A name. A court. But all it yielded was the churning rage in his gut at the voice that rang in his ears—her mockery, her threats, her laughter. 

I don’t work for any court , Ayla had said.

His brother wasn't beyond sending someone to test Ayla, but taking him to the smithy on the same day? Rhys could be cunning, but he was no fool. 

The woman didn’t belong to Night. But she knew where to find the city. She walked past the wards unhindered. She recognised them from their scents alone. She had met them before, at the least, been close enough. Why did she want Ayla? Was it to spite him? No, she mentioned Rhys only when she was denied what she came for. She wanted Ayla. And the girl. 

Azriel found only a mild comfort in all this—if she knew them, they knew her.

From the constant fussing and wary glances between the two, he knew his brothers sensed his desperation. So he went to work and pretended to be past it. He employed every spy of his all over the court, but he kept the details to himself. Every crossing past the borders of the two cities and the court was reported to him, irrespective of who and why. It was tedious work and inappropriate use of resources for his personal matters. He had never done that before.

And yet, it didn’t feel wrong.

Fourteen days. Three brothers. One woman.

Azriel needed answers. But he had no leads. Not true, he had three—none willing to help.

Confronting Ayla would be easier than chasing a phantom around the court. She refused to make weapons for her High Lord—fine, Azriel didn’t care. But as citizens of Night Court, she and her friends were their responsibility despite what she thought. If one of them was in danger or involved with other courts, he had the right to demand answers from her. She wouldn’t have a choice but to comply.

Mother above, he sounded like Rhys!

Ayla hated him. Azriel remembered the way she stepped back from the threshold when he reached for her. Her hand remained on the doorknob, but her back pressed into the stone wall with each step he took. Her breath stilled in her lungs as though she couldn’t bear to breathe the very air that touched him. Once he and his brothers were a few good feet away, she released a breath, and it was enough to crush his heart.

Her naked observation when she had him pinned to the floor was lost as soon as she realised who they were. Emotions flickered in her eyes—deep and haunting. They were nothing more than a threat, worse than the woman who almost killed her.

His brothers promised to protect Ayla. They reassured him her feelings would change with time, as they did for Feyre and Nesta. 

But Azriel wanted to disappear and never to return. He might as well do that. Leave her alone and never intrude into her life, even if the bond killed him.

After he found the woman and skinned her alive. 

Each wasted day chipped at his sanity. The horrid mark on her flesh was seared into his memory. Branded on his soul—a reminder of his incompetence, how he had failed to protect his mate. Not with his sheer Illyrian power, not with his shadows.

It was hard not to imagine, not to see so clearly. Shock and panic flooding her eyes before the fear settled in. Or her fingers clawing at the hand to savour one more gasp of air. Or her legs scuffing on the floor as she fought to level herself. Or her head hitting the wood hard to rattle the wards within, her eyes pinching shut at the impact. Every rasp of hers, every strained breath echoed in his ears—the little choke escaping her lips as the hand enclosed around her neck. 

There was no escape, not for him. Not when he had witnessed many in that position—put many in that position.

It was a twisted joke Mother played on him. A fitting punishment for what he had done over his lifetime for his friend and brother, for his High Lord. A punishment for who he was. To stand helpless and hear his mate endure what he had inflicted upon many without mercy. 

She was his mate. She was so close. She was scared and confused. 

And he couldn’t help her.

Twenty-one days. One shadowsinger. One woman.

Stop.

His shadows hissed as Azriel stared at the worn-out door from across the street. He couldn’t bear to face her again, but he couldn’t stand failing her more. One conversation, he told himself, just one.

He wasn’t afraid. He longed to see her face. He longed to hear her voice. Maybe even a touch, if he was lucky. Yet his body wouldn’t move.

Home.

The one time he wanted assurance from his shadows, they disagreed with him. Azriel balled his fists and turned away, only to meet the very eyes he had been running away from.

Ayla looked at him, the bar, and then back at him. A mere second. That’s how long it took for her to decide to ignore him like he meant nothing to her. She walked past, opening the lid of a brown box she carried in her hand.

‘Wait,’ Azriel said. When she didn’t stop, he called out. ‘Ayla.’

He hadn’t spoken her name out loud before. Not with Uri, not with his brothers, not in the privacy of his room. It had always been her. And now that he had spoken it, it was the only word he ever wanted to utter. The only word that held any meaning.

She came to a slow halt and looked over her shoulder, her eyes narrowed. Azriel held his breath waiting for her to return to him. Instead, she walked to the side of the building and leaned a shoulder against the wall facing him.

Azriel waited a moment before he approached her. For an alley, it was too clean, even in the dark. Behind her stood an iron door leading directly to the office inside. The only shred of light poured down from the streets. And the faelight next to the inscribed plaque of the bar cast an iridescent glow on part of her face.

The usual sternness she carried herself with was replaced with a casual ease. Her legs crossed at the ankles. Her hip jutted out, revealing that sensuous curve of her waist through that large shirt. Locks of hair that never seemed to stay held in her braid spilled around her face. The high collar hid her neck from his eyes. Azriel knew he would only find her flawless skin underneath. Still, he ached to pull her shirt down and see for himself.

The golden rings on her bracelet glinted under the faelight as Ayla reached into the box. Her fingers hovered over the crisp layers of pastries that sat inside. Scratches and cuts littered her knuckles. If the flex of her fingers were any indication, she was in pain.

One made his breath hitch in his throat. One too deep that it split the skin open between and around her knuckles. 

‘Those are fresh,’ he said quietly. He couldn’t take his eyes off the dried blood. What did she do? Did that woman return? Did Ayla have to fight her alone?

‘Yes,’ she hesitated, ‘I just bought them.’

Azriel looked at her. As confused as he was, she was staring down the street where she came from, at the bakery she went to every week. The worry that nagged at him day and night lost its hold in a heartbeat. He bit the inside of his cheeks and tapped the back of his hand with his fingers, suppressing his urge to hold her hand and inspect it himself.

The little frown between her brows disappeared. She nodded at his face—his broken nose. ‘So is that.’

Courtesy of his brother during their morning training when he was so distracted that he practically threw himself into the punch. But she wasn’t interested in it. 

Ayla picked up a pastry. The sweet fragrance of chocolate and butter filled the air between them. Better than her scent, for he needed to think straight if he intended to find simple words around her. Her hand froze close to her mouth as she held out the box to him. 

Azriel’s heart stopped. He was sure of it. Did she know what it meant? Did she know how she was tormenting him?

He gawked at the flaky shell of the dessert. He could do it—take a bite, make her his. 

No!

The weight of his shadows curled around his hands and pulled him back. He shook his head, smiling.

‘Let’s hear it then.’ She returned the pastry with a sigh. 

‘And,’ he started carefully, ‘what is that?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Who is the child? Where is she? Why are you hiding her?’ 

Voices floated towards them. A band of faeries headed for the bar, giggling and stumbling before they caught sight of him. Their pale skin shifted and glimmered like fish scales under the faelight. Glancing between his wings and his face, they blushed and whispered to each other. Until his shadows wound around his shoulders and chest. And they hushed into silence. 

Ayla watched them rush through the door.

‘Are you safe?’ The words left his lips in a whisper.

Her eyes snapped to his face. The calm ones, yet so terrifying in the way they unravelled him every time she looked at him. Slowly, she graced him with a smile. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘I know you were holding back that day.’ He took a step closer, drawn in by her gaze. ‘You could’ve stopped her. Why didn’t you fight?’

‘There was no reason to.’ She shrugged a shoulder, her shirt shifting over her breast with the movement. ‘She can’t hurt me.’

‘But you let her.’

‘She wasn’t there for me.’

‘Hamra.’ Ayla hesitated at the young fae’s name, still nodded. Azriel asked, ‘Why does she want her?’

‘It’s not my story to share, shadowsinger.’ 

With one simple statement, she quashed the only excuse for a conversation he had. They stared at each other. One more minute of silence and she would walk through that door. One more minute of silence and she would leave him. Azriel couldn’t find any words. But then, he didn’t have to.

‘You need to stop harassing her,’ she said.

Azriel narrowed his eyes. ‘I met with her once. That’s far from harassing.’

‘So you’re telling me,’ she arched a brow, ‘the shadows following her around is not you? Hmm, must be another shadowsinger I’m not aware of.’ 

It was his turn to shrug. ‘Who knows? That one seems to attract a lot of trouble.’

‘And how would you know that?’ She clicked her tongue, ‘You only met with her once.’

Azriel chuckled, and her eyes flicked to his lips. ‘How much do you know?’

‘Your brother came by the shop exactly when I was away. You’ve been asking Uri about my whereabouts. And Hamra threatened to stab you if she saw you again.’ She missed nothing. She continued, ignoring the dark gleam in his eyes, ‘Those are loyal to me, you know? What made you think they would tell you anything?’

If only she knew loyalty had nothing over pain and the will to live. 

Uri was prone to talk, but he swore to secrecy as Ayla's safety was concerned. Orvin was fiercely defensive to let Ayla know the High Lord she despised and his brothers took an interest in her. Azriel only worried about Hamra, but he trusted her to be smart, especially after his warning veiled as a lecture. He sensed wrong.

‘We believed they cared about you. Besides,’ he crossed his arms across his chest, ‘I can be. . .persuasive.’

Idiot.

His shadows flittered over his shoulders. They were right. What was he trying to do—scare her away?

She watched him in silence. His eyes, his lips, his face. His crossed arms, his body. And finally, she stopped at the knife strapped to his thigh before she met his gaze. She leaned her head against the wall and smirked, ‘Not enough.’

Gods, what did she think of him? Nothing good, he knew.

Her eyes burned with challenge, daring him to hurt the ones close to her. She lived in the city long enough to have heard of the rumours about the shadowsinger—Night Court’s torturer. They weren’t rumours if they were true.

‘I don’t intend to harm them.’ Azriel tried to salvage his dignity, ‘I was trying to find some truth.’

‘Is this your High Lord’s way of protecting his civilians?’

Closer.

Azriel wanted it too. But he stayed still.

‘It’s not him,’ he said quietly.

Her smile faltered.

Silence stretched long and tense. His shadows swirled over his arms drawing her attention. When she blinked at them, they skittered between them, daring to reach for her. Azriel took a sharp breath, and they withdrew.

‘Next time, shadowsinger,’ she pushed off the wall holding his gaze, ‘I find any of you following one of us, I will hand over a dagger to Hamra myself and she will keep her promise.’

With that, she left. And Azriel stared at the closed backdoor with a grin on his face.

Next Chapter: Relic

Someone tell me Azriel came off as a drama queen.

[msbutterfly5294]

< I Don’t Think It’s Talked About Enough. . . - Creative Edition >

I don’t think it’s talked about enough when a Creative has the itch to create but cannot put anything down . For example , writing . The Creative may know the exact sequence of events to occur in a scene but once the document or paper is ready , nothing comes out .

I don’t think it’s talked about enough that a Creative listening to music is important when creating art or a story . The beat , the lyrics , the vocals , it all connects with the stories . We are most likely daydreaming which characters are doing what based on a song and it guides us to exactly where we need to go .

I don’t think it’s talked about enough that when a Creative presents you their art or story , they trust you with a piece of themself . Some Creatives ( like myself ) have been working on one or more stories for over ten years . We have continued to develop , create , and destroy our stories over and over and over and over and over and over and over again because they aren’t exactly our children. . .

But a part of us . We change thus our stories did .

I don’t think it’s talked about enough when a Creative shows you their work and once a slight uninterested appearance or words are exchanged , we either close the story(ies) , put our sketch books away , and try to conceal it . I think of it as the same feelings of being rejected or even abandoned by those you present it to . These creative endeavors are a literal part of our dedication , our spirit , and when we are told “ we’re being too much ” , “ It’s weird / We’re weird . ” , “ It’s dumb . It’s too complicated . It’s too. . . ”

I think in some cases , it’s suppose to be that way . Humans are complicated , and it’s represented in our creativity .

I don’t think it’s talked about enough that sometimes Creatives grow apathetic of their own work(s) . We stay up late nights writing , drawing , crafting . Our brains don’t stop thinking about how the characters need this or that , how they get to it , why didn’t it work , what happens next , how does this character work or fight with this character ? The plot needs this for the theme , shoot what’s the theme mean in literature , this happens in the world and how does that affect the world , creatures , and characters ? Shoot what was that word again. . . ?

Stopped .

I’m staring at the screen .

Were these stories worth it ?

Was my years of dedication all for nothing ?

Am I even worth it ?

I mean , come on , msbutterfly5294 , you have drawn some awesome pieces for the these stories ! I mean , look at these papers filled with words that blend and make sense , the stories can capture mystery and emotion , descriptions are great ! Why don’t you continue ?

Because. . . It’s a beautiful disease much like love . It infects the entirety of us . I remember the many nights my big brother ( who is my cousin ) came over to show us Legend Of Zelda games and he would tell me all about his stories , lore , world building and characters . That was years ago as a very young teenager to late teens . I don’t fully know when he started his journey , but I know he loves those characters and stories with all his heart .

And by stars , it is beautiful to know someone with that much passion . He inspired me to follow my dreams along with my big sister ( also my cousin ) . She taught me art and resilience , he taught me storytelling and dedication .

I wouldn’t be here today without them .

. . . I don’t think it’s talked about enough. . . That a Creative wouldn’t be here today without those beautiful people who do care and encourage them to keep creating . Keep being passionate . Keep writing . Keep drawing .

Keep being you .

And be proud of it .

[fetusgooseandjuice]

Approval

Pairing(s): Kate Bishop x Fem!Reader

Summary: When the time comes for Kate to finally meet your dad, she is a nervous wreck.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: None? Just a whole lot of fluff! Not proofread.

Authors Note: The beginning of this had been sitting in my drafts collecting dust so I finally decided to make something out of it. I don’t think it’s my best work but I hope you guys like it!

After finishing the last few touch ups to your makeup you made your way out of the bathroom, happy and content with how your outfit looked.

The scent of your body wash still lingered on your skin as you were freshly showered, your hair was styled to perfection, and you were clad in one of your favorite dresses that you know your girlfriend loves just as much.

Tonight was a very special night for you and Kate. The two of you were attending an event, but not just any event.

Kate would finally be meeting your dad for the first time.

She’s met your mom and brother as well as a few cousins on occasion since the two of you have been dating for almost half a year. However, she’s never had the chance to be introduced to your dad.

Between Kate’s avenger duties and your dad’s job, schedules haven’t always lined up.

Your dad had always been a very busy person since you were young with him being the CEO of a well-known company. Him having to leave for a week or two sometimes for business trips wasn’t unusual as his job keeps him on his toes.

So unfortunately he’s not always home, but when given the opportunity to take time off to be with his family, he does.

Like tonight.

Your family was having their annual holiday party and your dad was coming home to attend, so it’s safe to say Kate would be taking this very seriously.

Hence, why when you walked out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, you were met with a very frustrated looking Kate standing in front of the mirror hanging on the closet door.

She had a frown on her face as she held a tie in each hand, alternating holding one tie up to her collar, then the other.

You watched her from the doorway for a few moments. During that time, she switched back and forth between ties probably about eight times before you noticed her growing more upset, so you decided to step in.

Walking behind her, you placed your hands on her shoulders and gave them a comforting squeeze. She didn’t seem phased by your presence, seemingly still stuck in her head with her current predicament.

“What’s got you looking so upset, hm?” you asked as you gazed at her face through the reflection in the mirror. “You’ve been standing here with a frown on your face since I came out of the bathroom, and who knows how long you’ve been here before that.”

Kate let out a big sigh and met your eyes in the mirror as she gestured to one of the ties, “This one seems like it would be too much,” she held up the other option, “And this one is just plain and simple, but it might be the safer option.”

She stared into the mirror once more, “I don’t want it to seem like I’m trying too hard, but I also don’t want to seem boring.” she said.

Your expression softened as you turned your head to look at her side profile, “Which one do you like with this suit more?”

Kate tilted her head as she contemplated one last time before holding up her final choice, “This one.”

Taking the chosen piece of fabric from her hand, you spun her around to face you and draped the tie around her neck as you began to tie it.

“You don’t think I should go with the other one? What if I just go without it? Or would that make me look too informal?” she rambled, hesitancy evident in her voice.

You looked up to meet her eyes with a comforting smile, “I think you should wear whatever you want to wear.” you said, focusing back on the task at hand. “I also don’t think he’s going to judge you based off of the pattern on your tie, or if you choose not to wear one at all.”

Kate looked at you with masked surprise, but you’ve been with her long enough to be able to see right through her and read her like a book.

“I know you’ve been acting as if meeting him isn’t making you anxious, but I know you.” you said. “If I didn’t know before, I definitely know now since I just witnessed you almost pop a forehead vein over a tie.” you giggled and you heard your girlfriend chuckle too.

“You can relax, Kate, you’re gonna be okay. He’s not a monster.”

Your girlfriend sighed and lightly laughed, “It’s just—”, she started but stopped herself. You gave her a moment to collect her thoughts.

“Getting his approval is really important to me because he’s your dad, you know? He’s really important to you.” she explained and you nodded, letting her know that you were listening.

“So I wanna show him that I’m fit to be dating his daughter and if my outfit will help me make a good first impression, I want to wear a nice one.”

Your heart nearly bursted at her confession and your eyes lifted to meet hers in a loving gaze.

“Oh, Katie,” The pure sincerity on her face was overwhelming enough to make you fall for the tall brunette standing in front of you all over again.

“I love you, so he automatically has no choice but to like you because we both know you don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon.”

You tightened the accessory around her neck and smoothed down her suit jacket. Your hand came up to caress the side of her face with your thumb, “I’ll be there the whole time. It’ll be okay.”

Kate reached to hold your hand on her cheek in hers and turned to kiss your palm. “Why do you always make everything so much easier?”

“It’s what I do.” you giggled, and she smiled before leaning in to press her lips to yours in a tender kiss.

Neither of you wanted to pull away until you had to, so you finally separated once air became a necessity instead of a suggestion.

Kate rested her forehead against yours and gazed into your eyes, “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You smiled softly in return, “Ready to go now?”

She took a deep breath before nodding her head confidently, “Let’s go,”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When you arrived the party was in full swing. It was loud with chattering people and an occasional laugh while they sipped on drinks.

You’d already run into your brother and a few other family members who stopped to give you a hug and say hi, greeting Kate in the process too.

It wasn’t very long before you saw your mom making her way over to you with a contagious smile plastered on her face that you easily returned.

“Y/n, you finally made it!” once she was within arms reach she pulled you into a tight hug. “You look so beautiful, honey.” she said as she kissed the crown of your head.

Hugging her back, you giggled, “Thanks, mom. You look amazing too, and the place looks great.”

“Well thank you, darling. And I see you brought Kate!”

She pulled back to address your girlfriend who held out her hand with a kind smile at the mention of her name.

“It’s good to see you again, Mrs. Y/l/n.” Kate said.

Your mom glanced down at her outstretched hand and playfully rolled her eyes, “Oh please, Kate, none of that formal stuff you know that come here.”

Kate was pulled into the same tight embrace you’d been pulled into just moments prior, and she happily reciprocated.

You smiled as you watched two of the most important people in your life easily fall into conversation.

But as you scanned the vicinity of the venue you realized there was one person you had yet to see since you got here.

“Hey, mom? Is dad here?” you wondered.

Hearing the question she went to look around for him as well, but there was no need to when you saw the man in question appear behind your mom with a glass in hand.

“Did someone ask for me?” he said with a grin on his face.

Kate broke into a small smile seeing your face light up. The view calming the nerves she was suddenly feeling just a little bit.

“Dad, hey!” you greeted cheerfully.

He held his arms open in invitation and you gladly moved into them to give him a hug. “Hey, sweetheart. How have you been?”

You stepped back to return to your girlfriend’s side. You’d noticed how nervous she became at the presence of your father.

“I’ve missed you, but I’ve been okay and I have someone I’d like you to meet.” you answered and watched his eyes flicker over to the girl beside you. “Dad, this is my girlfriend Kate, and Kate, this is my dad.”

“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Mr. Y/l/n. Y/n’s told me so much about you it feels like I already know you.” Kate chuckled and held out her hand for him to shake, but she almost took it back now noticing how clammy it was.

She didn’t want your dad to have to shake her sweaty hand.

You watched as his lips pulled into a tight smile, “Likewise”, he glanced down at her hand, but never made a move to take it. “I’ve heard a lot about you too. ” he said.

Kate was clearly very nervous at this point, judging by the way she dropped her hand and you watched her shakily wipe them on her pants. But she kept a smile on face and tried to keep the conversation flowing.

“I-I hope she’s told you all good things?”

Your dad gave a nod of his head as he eyed her down, “The best.”

Silence fell and as you looked between the two it was almost painful how awkward the atmosphere seemed to be now.

Your dad reached out to brush off the shoulder of her jacket, and deciding to help girlfriend you took her hand and squeezed it, “How about we all—”

“Let me talk to you for a second, Kate.” your dad interrupted you to speak to her.

“Dad—”

“It’s okay, Y/n.” Kate looked at you with a reassuring eyes.

You searched them for hesitancy, but she was determined to get him to like her. Yes, your dad did look a little intimidating, but she wasn’t going to be scared away so easily. You nodded and let go of her hand to watch her follow your dad out of sight.

“I’m sure he just wants to get to know her. You know how parents are, honey.” your mom reassured and you nodded.

She was probably right.

Kate followed your dad through the crowd and shoved her hands in her pockets when she was led outside onto the balcony, sheltering them from the chilly air.

“Listen, Mr. Y/l/n, I know it’s late that I’m just now meeting you after being with Y/n for half a year, but I can assure you I would never hurt her. She means too much to me for me to do that.”

Your dad just blinked at her for a moment before speaking, “Kate, do you know that Y/n’s my only daughter?”

The archer nodded her head and he took that as the go-ahead to continue.

“Her entire life her protection has been mine and my wife’s responsibility, and our responsibility only.

Kate didn’t exactly know where this was going, so she just opted to listen.

“And for the first time in her life we have to hand that responsibility over to someone else.” he said before taking a couple steps closer to the tall brunette.

“I know what kind of work you do and I know what all can happen, so I need to know that I’m able trust you, Kate.”

She should’ve known that this would come up. Her job isn’t usual by any means and she knows there are risks. Of course your dad would be skeptical about you dating someone like her.

“I understand your concerns, Mr. Y/l/n. I can promise you that what happens out in the field stays there, we take precautions to make that happen. And you should know that I’d never let anything happen to your daughter. I just want to make her happy because she makes me so happy that it’s the least I could do for her. I love Y/n, so I promise I’ll do everything I can to keep her safe.”

This was the first time she had seen your dad look at her with any expression that wasn’t a glare since meeting him, and it lifted all the weights off of her shoulders.

He held out his hand with a soft smile, “Welcome to the family, Kate. I look forward to seeing you more often. Love the tie by the way.”

You were standing at the bar, waiting on a drink when Kate finally spotted you again. She made her way over to you and placed her hand on the small of your back gently to not startle you.

Recognizing the touch instantly you turned to face her, “Hey, I got you your favorite.” you said just as the bartender placed the drinks down in front of you.

“Oh thank you, my love.” she looked at you gratefully and took a sip of her drink. It was much needed after the stress of tonight.

“How did it go? Is everything okay? He didn’t threaten you did he?”

Kate chuckled at the ramble of questions before shaking her head, “No, he didn’t threaten me. And it went amazing. Everything is perfectly fine.”

Her words made you smile happily and you leaned in to give her a quick loving kiss, pulling away with a giggle and teasing look when she went to lean in for another.

“Told you it would be.”

~ end ~

[quietblueriver]

For prompts: Imogen/Laudna, hound of ill omen or pâté pet fluff

So this turned into nearly 4k words on Imogen and the animals she has loved? The last section at least is directly responsive. 😬 And I might supplement with hound of ill omen at some point because he's lurking around in my head, too.

Thank you so much for the fun prompt! <3

PS - Wrote this real fast so pls excuse any errors.

-

One afternoon when Imogen was six, her daddy called her into the barn and nodded over at the old wooden trough turned on its side near the stairs to the loft. She knew what it meant, gasping and scurrying in the direction of the trough, slowing to the quickest walk she could manage at her daddy’s, “No running in the barn, Imogen.” 

And then she saw them—five tiny new things, eyes closed and mouths searching, mewling and pitiful on a pile of hay inside the shelter of the worn, dusty planks. 

Lady, their mother and Imogen’s favorite barn cat, eyed Imogen as she approached, orange and white tail flicking back and forth, one black ear twitching. Imogen couldn’t read minds (not yet, anyway) but she thought she understood–she gave Lady and her kittens plenty of space, stopping before she got too close. She sat criss-cross applesauce, watching from a distance and thinking about names until her daddy put his hand on her shoulder and pushed her toward the house for dinner. 

For the next few weeks, she went out every morning before school and every night before bed to check on them–three orange and one calico and a pretty orange and black mix. 

“Tortoiseshell,” her daddy said as he watched Imogen watch them, the black and orange–tortoiseshell–jumping and pawing fiercely at a piece of hay that stuck up from the ground. He only stayed for a moment, wiping sweat from his forehead with the navy blue bandana he always kept in his back pocket before he said, “We’re only keeping one.” When she turned to look at him, he was already focused on pulling the rake from its hook and moving toward one of the stalls. She wanted to argue but she bit her tongue. She was getting good at that. He didn’t look at her as he added, “Don’t get too attached.” 

She did get too attached. She cried when Pumpkin and Daisy went to live with Mr. Faramore’s cousin. She tried to hide it, sniffling into the sleeve of her shirt, but her daddy saw and frowned and shook his head. “That’s how it works, Imogen. I told you.” Shame curled in her stomach, and when she wiped her face again, motion hard with anger, the button on her cuff caught her cheek and split the skin. 

A few weeks later, when Scare and Crow went to live on the farm a few miles away, Imogen hid behind the barn with Ember in her arms and watched as Crow’s little orange face peeked out from the backpack where he and his brother had been put. When the horse turned the corner and she couldn’t see him anymore, Imogen put Ember back inside the barn with Lady and cried and cried until she couldn’t anymore. Throat sore and nose running, she scrubbed at her face in the stream and wiped it dry before she went inside for dinner. 

(“Of course you were attached,” Laudna whispered to her under the moonlight in a grove far, far from Gelvaan. “They were kittens. You were six.” She heard, in Laudna’s thoughts, the undercurrent of opinions on her daddy. What an absolute jackass. Honestly. When she snorted, Laudna tilted her head in that way Imogen was coming to love, one side of her mouth pulling into a smile. Sorry, darling. I don’t mean to think ill of him. 

Imogen, heart doing strange things at the word darling, only came back to herself when she noticed Laudna’s smile begin to dip. She reached out and ran tentative fingers over the back of Laudna’s hand where it lay between them. Laudna turned her palm up and caught Imogen’s fingers between her own, the brief staccato interlude in her thoughts smoothing back into a more familiar rhythm as Imogen tried for the gentlest look she could manage. It wasn’t real familiar to her, gentleness, but Laudna made it feel easier than it ever had. 

Don’t be sorry. Please. I’ve never had…Thank you, for defendin’ me. And you’re right. He was a little bit of a jackass. 

She giggled then, feeling younger and safer than she had in a long time, and Laudna’s smile came out in full, face breaking open eerie and beautiful in the night.) 

Lady disappeared almost ten years later, gone one day, then two, then a week. 

“Likely went off to die,” speculated one of the older hands, bottom lip bulging with dip that he spit into the jar in his left hand every other sentence. “Dignified, that one.”

“Or somethin’ got her. Not as fast as she used to be.” 

Imogen mucked a stall quietly as they went on, moving from Lady to the weather to crop predictions. She was sweating, so the tears blended into the water already dripping down her face, and nobody was paying her any mind anyway. 

Nobody except her daddy, apparently. He walked by a few minutes later, shadow draping over her from where he stood in the stall door. 

“That’s just how it is, Imogen.” 

I didn’t say anything, she hissed into his mind, teenage angst and righteous anger forcing more tears from her eyes. The sound of his boots tripping over each other as he backed away pulled a bitter smile from her. She never spoke into his mind. He hated it. Careful, she said, almost taunting, and she felt the anger swell in him even as he moved further away. 

She ate dinner alone that night.  

-

By the time Flora came around, Imogen was miserable. She was fighting headaches every day, and she’d alienated nearly everyone in town over the course of the last few years. 

When her powers first came, Imogen didn’t understand what was happening. Confused and generally in pain, she couldn’t always process the difference between what she heard and what she heard, which meant she sometimes responded to things that hadn’t actually been said out loud. People weren’t fond of having somebody in their mind, even if nobody was quite ready to admit that was what was happening. 

Then came the panic attacks. 

And the scars. 

And the “accidents” that happened around her. 

She’d never been popular, looked too much like her mama in a town full of people who loved her daddy, but the rumors gave them a better excuse to avoid her, and of course, to judge. 

And, to be fair, Imogen wasn’t real eager to spend her time with them either. She hated the headaches and the anxiety and she definitely hated being able to hear the thoughts vile enough to stand out in the general din, vile enough that the men who thought them suddenly found themselves tripping over nothing or falling into ponds or spilling their drinks all over themselves. She didn’t do it on purpose but she wasn’t sorry. A few of those incidents and suddenly everybody was turning to look for lavender anytime anybody had an accident. 

When Ms. Gillis dropped a basket of produce one morning at market and turned to glare at Imogen, setting all six of her kids to whispering about “the purple witch,” Imogen decided to give up the small hope she’d been clinging to that the town where she grew up might learn to accept her as she was now. 

She stopped going out when she could avoid it, and when she couldn’t, she picked times when she thought the market or the general store or wherever it was she needed to go would be least crowded, got in and out as quick as she could. At least on the farm she was mostly alone, even if it hurt that her daddy joined everybody else for lunch and left Imogen alone in the orchard or under the big tree out behind the barn. 

She was under that tree when she first saw Flora, placid as Sam and a hand she didn’t recognize walked her. She was beautiful, a sorrel with a wide white stripe down her face. Imogen absently took a last bite of apple before tossing it back into the brown bag she’d brought and standing to walk toward Sam. 

“Imogen. There you are.” He looked relieved to see her, a vaguely anxious set of feelings pressing into her mind, which meant he really did not want to be handling this horse or he really did not like the other hand. Or maybe both. “This is Dylan. They work for Mr. Langham and rode over with Flora here.” 

Imogen lifted a perfunctory hand at Dylan before moving closer to Flora. “Can I?” 

Sam nodded, stepping back with the rope, and Dylan joined him. 

“She’s real sweet,” Dylan said. “She’ll be perfect for kids.” 

Imogen stood a little closer, in Flora’s line of vision, and let her look for a minute before she pulled a piece of carrot from her pocket and laid it flat on her palm in offer. There was the familiar tickle of soft, curious muzzle against her palm as Flora sniffed. She took the treat happily, crunching and then nosing at Imogen like they were old friends. 

Imogen ran her hand down Flora’s neck and spoke softly to her until Sam cleared his throat. 

“Well. We’re gonna leave her to you.”

“We are?” 

She caught some thoughts from Sam that made her turn her face a little further away from the two of them to hide a smile. He definitely didn’t want to get away from Dylan, then. 

“Great. Thanks.” 

They were gone quickly, leaving Imogen and Flora to themselves. “Whadda ya say?” Imogen asked as Flora mouthed another piece of carrot from her palm eagerly. “Want me to show you around a bit?” She took the gentle pressure of Flora’s muzzle against her shoulder as a yes. 

Flora was sturdy and young, barely more than a filly, and Mr. Faramore wanted her for her temperament and as a tester for the riding camp he was considering, a week or two of fancy kids coming to learn about horses and then, ideally, convincing their parents to buy one from him. 

Imogen worked with her, taking over as her handler with no objection from anyone else, and they spent at least two afternoons a week together exploring the grounds. Imogen was “setting the trails” for the camp, which didn’t mean much beyond flagging trees and brush that needed to be cleared for easier passage. It was her favorite part of the week, and Flora was better company than any person she’d ever met. 

The camp never happened, but two of Mr. Faramore’s granddaughters fell in love with Flora, so she stayed, spending a few days a month saddled up for the girls. She was Imogen’s, the rest of the time–always her choice for checking the property and riding out to mend fences or for any task she could justify, really. 

She and Flora were checking some fencing, hot as hell in the afternoon sun, when Imogen heard her for the first time. Toward the forest, where an abandoned cabin sat just far enough over the property line that Mr. Faramore didn’t bother with it, Imogen caught somebody’s thoughts. 

She wasn’t digging, had at least learned how to control that part of her powers, but the surface level thoughts were more difficult to block out, especially when she had her shields down, like she usually did when she was out with Flora. She was glad, for once, that she’d been unprepared, because these thoughts weren’t like anything else she’d heard before. They were like music, flowing and self-contained and happy. 

She turned Flora toward the forest without much thought. 

The woman was weeding outside the cabin, tall and incredibly thin, long hair pinned up with some kind of chisel as she worked, talking to herself quietly. There was something not quite right about her, something unnatural that Imogen couldn’t quite pin down but felt immediately. 

It became obvious when she turned to look at them, big black eyes wide and mouth working itself into a smile that was genuine if nervous, and almost too wide to be human. Her skin was pale, too pale, and there was something black on her fingers where they gripped a bundle of weeds, roots dangling, tightly in front of her almost like a bouquet. What looked like some kind of dead creature hung from one of her belts and swayed gently with her movement. 

Imogen was grateful for Flora for a thousand reasons, but in that moment, she was especially grateful for her steady temperament and natural curiosity, because Imogen was almost certain the woman would’ve spooked every other horse in their barn. Imogen was also almost certain that the woman in front of her was dead. 

“Hello,” she said, clearly not totally dead and with a heavy accent Imogen didn’t recognize. “I’m Laudna.” 

An hour later, when Laudna hesitantly offered Flora a piece of carrot from her palm, she took it happily and Laudna laughed, a sound as musical as her thoughts, when Flora leaned into her hand looking for more. 

It wasn’t long after that Imogen let loose defending Laudna and burned away the robes of that cleric and any chance of a life for herself in Gelvaan. 

She wasn’t sorry and she wasn’t sad, not really, to leave that place. As Imogen hastily filled a pack, Laudna looking on in concern, there was a dull and familiar ache in her chest, thudding below the fire and anger she still carried on Laudna’s behalf. Every what if she’d let herself indulge in over the years, every time she’d tried to please her daddy and failed, every attempt at getting people to see her as anything other than her mother’s daughter. But that’s all they were–what ifs that Imogen was steady realizing she didn’t want anymore. 

The real hurt, as they hurried through the forest and then onto the road that led away from Faramore’s, was that light in the barn, where Marty was on shift closing things down and keeping watch. She was leaving Flora, unable to say goodbye, and she didn’t know when she’d be back. If she’d ever be back. 

She cried the next night as they settled onto bedrolls, exhausted and overwhelmed and thinking of a horse of all things. She heard her father’s sigh, saw his disappointed and slightly patronizing expression and hid her tears in her sleeve and then in the fabric of her bedroll, trying to keep quiet. 

After a few minutes, Laudna said, gently, “I know it must be very difficult. To leave. I’m sorry, Imogen. I’m so very grateful that you saved me but I can’t imagine what it cost you.” 

Imogen turned to face her, embarrassed but willing, for reasons she still didn’t quite understand, to Laudna see her. “I’d do it again, Laudna.” The anger roiled in her stomach again, overtaking her sadness for a moment. “They deserved worse than what I gave ‘em, for what they were tryin’ to do to you.” She heard doubt in Laudna’s mind, and Imogen didn’t know yet how to fix that but she had time now to figure it out. 

“Honestly, I feel more relief than anythin’ else.” Laudna watched her, pools of black reflecting the soft light of the moon. “I won’t miss it. I’m…I’m excited to explore. I’m excited to explore with you. I’m real glad I met you.”

“I’m glad I met you, too. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a very, very long time.” Ever rang in her mind, loud and earnest enough for Imogen to hear. The fierce, protective thing that had started building in Imogen’s chest that first afternoon was growing faster than she knew what to do with. 

“I feel the same way.” 

And then Imogen thought of Flora again and found the tears were back. A noise, something affectionate and concerned that was entirely foreign to Imogen, escaped Laudna’s mouth before she sat up and dug in her pack, turning back with a handkerchief which she handed to Imogen. It was soft, embroidered with something she couldn’t quite make out in the dark, and it felt about a million times better than her shirt or her bedroll against her cheeks. 

“Thanks.” 

“Of course. I…I understand if you don’t want to talk about it, but I think I’m quite a good listener, if you do.” 

Imogen folded the handkerchief to keep her hands busy as she said, so soft she was afraid Laudna wouldn’t even hear her, “I miss my horse. Flora. I know that’s…I know it’s silly. I just…” 

She shrugged, chest tight, and Laudna moved closer to her, placed a hand on Imogen’s shoulder, cool even through the fabric of her shirt. 

“It’s not silly. It’s not silly at all.” 

It set something loose in her, the honest way Laudna said it, the echo of that honesty in her mind, and suddenly big, ridiculous tears were dripping down her face and Laudna’s arms were wrapped around her, her neck cool against Imogen’s forehead. 

“I liked her better than most people.” 

“Well, that makes sense. Aside from you, the people in Gelvaan didn’t make the best impression, I must say.” Imogen laughed into Laudna’s shoulder as she continued, “No offense intended, of course. I know I’m not exactly a welcome sight.” “You are to me.” 

She was quiet then, surprise and affection and longstanding shame whirling around in her mind. After a moment, she asked, “Would you like to tell me about Flora?” 

“I think…I think I would.” 

-

Pate de Rolo was, objectively, horrifying. 

Laudna had done a very thorough job preserving his body, and the skull was immaculately clean, but there was no getting around the horror of the creation–the mismatched parts and the patchiness of his thin coat; the dry, flaky reality of his tail; the unnatural stiffness of his joints as Laudna puppeted him, talented hands bringing his movements eerily close to what they might have been in life. 

The first time Laudna brought him from her belt with an excited, “Oh, let me introduce you to Pate,” Imogen had worked as hard as she could to keep her smile, to fight the instinct toward disgust. She managed, because she knew a hurt thing when she saw one, and she didn’t want to hurt Laudna any further, but it was a near thing. 

“Oh, so lovely to meet you, Pate.” 

“Pleasure’s all mine.” It was lecherous. It was hilarious. It was one of the most disturbing things Imogen had ever seen. 

Laudna looked between them, seeming incredibly pleased, and Imogen, unbelievably, found herself wanting to keep the little monster going, if it meant making Laudna happy. She bolstered herself. 

“Pate, Laudna mentioned y’all have traveled all over. She was tellin’ me about the mountains. Do you have a favorite place?” 

“Well, I always do like the beaches. For the views, if ya know what I mean…”

Suffering through the ensuing monologue was nothing compared to the pride that bloomed in Imogen’s chest at Laudna’s beaming smile. 

Over the course of their first few months together, Imogen began to understand what it meant when Pate made an appearance. 

Sometimes, of course, Laudna was bored and they were around the fire and Pate provided a ridiculous and entertaining way to spend an hour before bed. Imogen found it easy to move past disgust as she got to know Laudna, let herself see beyond the grotesque corpse and recognize something that had helped her friend, who had quickly become her favorite person in the world, survive desperate loneliness and nearly unending cruelty. She found it easy, when she thought of him that way, to love him as an extension of Laudna. 

And it became clear that he was an extension of Laudna, in more ways than one, as they traveled. The first time they were chased out of a cabin, she saw Laudna’s body shift into something Imogen found both terrifying and beautiful to defend them, limbs expanding and spine cracking as ichor pooled on her skin, a veil of black descending from nowhere to cover her face. That night, as they sat around the fire, Pate came out almost immediately. 

“Well that was a right mess, wunnit?” 

“It was.” Imogen moved closer on the log they shared, making the offer of contact but leaving Laudna the option to refuse. “We would’ve been in real trouble without Laudna, yeah?” 

Pate danced as Laudna’s fingers moved, somehow managing to convey a shrug in the rat-raven creation. “I dunno. I reckon anything would be scared of her, like that. Boss is awful enough when she’s not a monster.” 

“I’m not scared of her.” Laudna lifted her eyes from Pate to meet Imogen’s as she said, “And she’s not awful. She’s my best friend.” Black ichor dripped down Laudna’s cheeks as her fragile ankle shifted just enough to touch Imogen’s. “I thought it was really fuckin’ cool.” Laudna snuffled and Imogen grinned, bending down to Pate and stage-whispering, “Did you see that one guy piss himself?” 

Pate cackled, and Laudna moved to close the rest of the distance between them. 

When Laudna died, the second time, Imogen took his small body and kept it close to her. She couldn’t puppet him, didn’t want to try, but she spoke to him, whispered to him as she set him in a small nest she made from her bandana each night. “Don’t worry, Pate. We’ll get her back. I promise.” 

And then he came back with her, ribcage cracking and squelching, off-color observations flying as free as he now could. It was suddenly more difficult to love him, Imogen forcing down disgust in a way she hadn’t in a long time. There was less incentive, now that he was an independent creature, but he was still Pate and he had still saved Laudna, even if he hadn’t been, well, him. 

He found her one night as Ashton and Laudna played a game of cards, Laudna cackling in delight as they accused each other, loudly, of cheating nearly every hand. It was so good, to hear her laughing again. 

“‘Ey, boss.” 

He landed on a branch near her head, wings folding back into his body with a series of motions and noises that made Imogen smile to suppress a gag. 

“Pate. I didn’t realize you were out.” 

“Mum sent me to check on ya.” 

Imogen looked back to Laudna, who was waving a hand dismissively at Ashton, nose turned up. Her eyes caught Imogen’s as she turned away from him with a scoff, and she winked before she threw herself back into their argument, brushing her hair out of her face with an exaggerated motion. Imogen blushed and bit her lip before she remembered she wasn’t alone, clearing her throat and shaking her head before the world’s lewdest undead flying rodent noticed her being a lovesick fool. 

“She did, did she?”

“Aye. She worries about you, ya know? It was a hard fight, today.” 

It was, objectively, but relative to the past few weeks it was nothing. She’d be fine after a good night’s rest. 

“I’m good.” At his uncharacteristic silence, she realized Laudna really must’ve been concerned, so she continued, “Real good, honestly. Just need some sleep. I hadn’t been sleepin’ well, but it’s easier, now that we’re back together. Now that we’re…”

Pate didn’t have lips but he still grinned, somehow, bone-white face more expressive than it had any right to be. 

“Now that you and mum’re smashin’, ya mean?” 

“Pate.” Her face was red hot, embarrassing on its own and somehow even more embarrassing because her girlfriend’s perverted rat-raven familiar had managed to make it happen. 

“I’m real ‘appy for ya.” At her pointed eyebrow, he raised a rat hand in the air, wobbling a little as he rebalanced. “Honest.” 

“Mmhmm.” Ashton was up from his seat, arms flailing with enough distress that FCG had begun to make his way over to the duo. Laudna looked like she was having the best day of her life. “An’ how’s she doin’? Really?” 

Pate grunted. “Been better, I reckon, but she’ll be alright, our girl. She’s tough.” 

Right. This was why she tried to be kind, to hold her distaste at bay, to maintain some kind of love for him. Laudna was their girl. And she’d been Pate’s girl for a lot longer than she’d been Imogen’s. 

Imogen stroked the slope of his skull and patted her shoulder, affection and disgust warring within her at the feel of undead claws on her skin. He settled and they watched together as Laudna and Ashton continued, Letters stationed close. 

“She’ll be alright.” Imogen said it for the both of them, an affirmation and a promise. 

Skull scraped skin as he moved to speak, and goosebumps broke out across Imogen’s shoulders, an instinct she couldn’t suppress. 

“‘Course she will. She’s got us, after all.” 

[themotherofblood]

Dear author, you don't know how happy I am to see that your ad requests are open. That said can I get an extremely romantic, overwhelming, passionate and rough smut with Daemon x Martell fem reader inspired by the song "Ang laga de", please?

you have no fucking idea how happy this ask made me, like kicking my legs and smiling like a lunatic happy. I have envisioned this very smut scene at least a hundred times. It is a little dark, both Daemon and Y/N are kinda crazy in this. Madly in love, literally

masterlist

smut, talks of murder, blood, loss of virginity, oral (f), more blood, fingering and evil daemon being a softie.

Daemon Targaryen x fem!Martell Reader

“I refuse to be your mistress!”

That is the last thing you had said to your beloved dragon prince.

The Dornish were said to be a shameless lot regardless, and here you fell for a married man.

The Rhoynish gods were laughing at your stupidity, there wasn’t even a lure placed for you to catch. You simply fell for him, hard.

What had been a month long endeavour to see your younger sister wed a distant Targaryen cousin. Turned to your own nightmare. You had never craved for something as much as you had Daemon Targaryen. His flirtatious deeds, bringing your flowers and trinkets had bouncing like a little girl. It was frustrating, you had tried courting before and yet it felt flat, you truly believed that men simply were not capable of pleasing you. Until he came along, him and that stupid red dragon that made you want Daemon even more

He became the thing you wanted to cry to the gods about, the sweets yours parents wouldn’t let you have or that fine silk dress that was far too big for you to wear. His niece Rhaenyra, also egged this fire further and not once had either of them mentioned that he was married! It was painful, really fucking painful, learning that his loyalty was sworn to another.

You’d spent nights unable to sleep on foreign beds, awake in the royal gardens of the Red Keep, where the prince kept you company till the sun graced the horizon and you had succumbed to slumber with your head in his lap. There was serenity, shared comfort that dwelled between the two of you. You had heard stories, counted first hand of the nights he’d spend in brothels with his whores. You didn’t care, you wanted him.

“I refuse to be your mistress.”

It was a lie, you would happily become his salacious secret should he have asked a second time. There was no dignity, no obligations or customs, to you there was just him and the one truth that boiled your blood hot. You had already given him a piece of you heart as you boarded the ship to return home. You wanted him to ask again, to whisk you away on his dragon and yet he allowed you the curtesy to return home with your honour intact.

“If there is anything the crown can provide for Dorne, do not hesitate.” Viserys coughed his words out as he presented his farewells to you in a crowded court

“Should I ask, you wouldn’t be able to provide it your grace.” You wandered, keeping your head low in respect for the man and your wants

“What is it that a king cannot provide,” Otto Hightower questioned, taking offence to your wording.

“Daemon Targaryen.” You stated, gasps echoed across the throne room. You had committed a crime, stained your honour for good. You didn’t care nor did you give Daemon a last look before boarding your ship.

Honour- what was it compared to feel of being in his arms? What was devotion if not sound of his voice relaying Valyrian poetry? What was love, if not your heart that drowned in his blood?

What was love- if not the letter of his wife’s untimely injury?

Rhea Royce, bedridden of her paralysis, remained frozen and useless to her husband.

There was much that Daemon Targaryen was capable of, much that you were capable of. The sheer fire that burned your passions would have soaked your own hands in Rhae Royce’s blood.

She didn’t love him.

You did.

Then came your brother, his stupid alliance and vengeance against the Targaryen’s was costing you your sanity, you had pleaded with him for weeks and then you succumbed to the insanity that perhaps there was venom in your heart for whoever kept you from your dragon prince.

It festered for days, the mirrors in your room painted with clay. Refusing to look at yourself until he laid eyes upon you as his wife.

You had sat at supper with your brother, his disappointment was clear. You wanted to lay with the enemy, if loving Daemon was treachery then you would happily lay your hands forwards retribution. There should have been sorrow, a searing burn of guilt- he was your family, your blood. You shared a cradle and a mother; nothing more. Your sweet brother, for now was thorn digging into your palm as you admired the flourishing bud of devotion. He had to be plucked out.

The forbidden subject was brought up once more, there wasn’t a request in sight but a demand from his brazen sister.

“Let me be his, let him have me.” A prayer, Qoren grew irate over your insolent behaviour.

He loved you dearly, his sweet sister who was blinded by the rage of love. He wouldn't allow it, claiming to chain you to your chamber if you made an attempt to contact him. You said nothing as you nibbled on your food, spatters of blood dripped onto your pie. You could feel your throat constricting and yet it was nothing compared to the agony you had been in without Daemon.

Qoren coughed profusely, blood dripping from his nose as his eyes widened at your betrayal. In truth he had betrayed you first, choosing to keep you away from the one thing you had ever truly wanted. You could taste the copper on your lips, corners of your eyes welling with tears as you ripped the small pendant from your neck; even with the antidote to the poison in your system. The despair never stopped.

An unpleasant event truly, yet what was anyone to do, Qoren had no heirs and your blood-bled mustard. In the true picture of your house’s words, you remained unbent; raging on in sheer will for one man.

Even tainted in blood, you wore white for him; to remain pure, awaiting him to paint you in the colours of his house

He will return for me, for my love

There was no assurance that he would fly to you, no evidence that Rhae Royce’s accident wasn’t a mere coincidence; yet your arrogance had you rubbing rose oil onto your skin.

My dragon would return to me, you were sure of it.

For days the men sworn to the Martells had sighted the skies day and night, all in hopes of seeing a red dragon looming over the palace. The very ladies that had dressed you since you were a child urged for you to see reason, men often toyed with naive noble ladies for their amusement. He hadn't toyed with you, you were his cherished doll, one he stole because he simply could.

“Princess,” A young squire heaved, a folded parchment in between his fingers. Sealed with a three-headed dragon.

Your wish was my command princess.

Even without a name, the curls on his lettering were indicative enough an answer for you.

He had indeed harmed Rhea Royce for you, just as you had killed your brother Qoren for him. In your heart, you knew he would find you soon; just as your orders for exotic flowers and wines were distributed to merchants, people in your household began to whisper of your delusions.

Then the black skies graced your hopes, almost taunting all those who questioned your faith in him. The moon, full as is lit the ocean in its milky glow, from those very black skies came your faith. Loud whistles of a dragon echoed through Old Palace. Yet another young squire mumbled out in laboured breaths.

You smiled to yourself as your ladies sat in silent shock, their efforts in dressing you in white and gold would bear fruit tonight. Their feet sprung to action, the jangles from their anklets were muffled in your ears, and you just smiled to yourself. You hiked you skirts up as you skipped down the corridor, the jangles on your gold anklets seemed to have been cursing everybody who questioned you.

The doors to the Old Palace opened as Daemon Targaryen rode in on horseback, and along with him came a small entourage. He sat tall atop his horse, finally a Targaryen worthy of conquering Dorne. You were sure your ancestors were screaming bloody murder, shunning you and wishing you ill will, and yet as you stood at the enterance of the Old Palace, your father’s name meant nothing infront of the man you loved.

“In a bustling court you asked for me, may all see; I have arrived.” Daemon proclaimed as he stood with his arms out. You feet hurried down the steps, hoping to grace him with an eternal embrace and yet he raised his hand to stop you dead in your tracks

“I applaud you, for a devotion even I was unknown to. You stripped yourself bare of your honour and dignity for a relationship you had no right over.” He retorted, you couldn’t understand was her perturbed? Is that what he was here for, to lecture you?

“What reasoning do you have for this madness?”

“Love.” You stated, even the word in itself felt lacking for the true tempest that swirled in your environs. It had to be bigger, all consuming.

“The one revolts against the mightiest of dragons, that love,” You walked towards him “The one that fearlessly professes her devotion at court, that love.”

“When she sees her beloved and forgets her family, that love.” You eyes glossed over, consuming your skin in wild fire, begging him to claim you already

His hands harshly grasped your forearms, shaking sense into your as he spoke.

“The Faith and my brother’s court will never see you as one of theirs,” He warned.

“I accept.” You smiled.

“Marrying me would have you walking on fire!” He reasoned, hoping you would back away; a flower far to delicate for him to touch. He would give his life for you to not wither.

“I accept.” You nodded.

“I have a wife, Rhea.” He grimaced at the thought of his bronze bitch “I shall never be able to provide you the title of my first wife.” His hand trailed up to hold your cheek, stroking away the moisture that had looked below your eyes.

“Taking my name as yours will bring nothing but notoriety.” He kissed you cheek.

“I accept.”

“Then let it be known, the world would remember us as one,” He moved backwards gesturing towards the priest in his entourage.

“The Watergardens,” You stated, gesturing your servants to lead the priest to the location.

Daemon had allowed you moments alone, your household torn over what was happening. While many sighed in relief, perhaps you would finally eat; let life make your skin glow yet again. The storm gave away and your lamp was still burning bright. He presented you with a head piece made of khaki cloth, amber and rubies with stray pieces of shells. You handmaidens were quick with it, pinning it onto your hair as Daemon made his arrangements. Caraxes looked over the Watergardens, whistling just as ecstatically as his rider as he perched himself on the beach mount.

The universe seemed to have been in agreement of your emotions, the wind on the beach picked up; cooling your overwhelmed and hot skin. The skies were clear, twinkling in stars and the full moon as the complimented the low tided waves crashing ashore. Your own servants had been quick, decorating the gardens with yellow and red candles and exotic Bravosi flower arrangements placed on vases. Daemon awaited you by the shore line.

Your hands held a dhanuchi, clay burners that held sizzling coal pieces accompanied with sandalwood. You hiked your skirts up, walking towards Daemon, counting your steps as your bare feet hit the sand, you were trying your hardest to breathe; he stood their awaiting you looking as galant as the day he received you at the Blackwater ports, it was from that day you knew your fate would be painted black in his name.

Daemon turned, toying with a black obsidian dagger as his eyes softened the second he saw you. He held his hand out for you take as you stopped next to him, placing the dhanuchi at the alter.

“This will hurt,” He whispered, gesturing to the dragon glass daggers. You shook your head, no pain would compare to the three moons you had spent without him. He lifted the edge against your bottom lip, drawing blood as he gently slashed a cut, he guided your hands to do the same. The taste of copper filled your mouth, a stinging sensation ran through your lips; one you knew would only soothe once you felt his lips on yours.

Blood of two, joined as one

You cut a gash on your palm, wincing as blood trickled to the surface; Daemon did the same with his before grasping your bloodied palm within his. The priest wrapped a silk across your palms, your lover’s lilac eyes held concern for your pains and yet wild adoration. You were to be his. Blood began to trickle into the cup of wine placed under you as the priest continued.

Ghostly flame and a song of shadows

Daemon marked your forehead with his blood, you followed his lead as the priest instructed the symbol you drew, he then offered you the cup of wine laced with your blood. You eyes never once left Daemon’s as you sipped on the strong wine before giving him the cup to do the same.

Two hearts as embers, forged in the fourteen fires

His hands came to rest at your cheek, both growing restless of the vows as he wiped the dripping blood from your lips.

A future promised in glass, the stars stand witness.

You pulled yourself closer to him, one might say you were dazed from the blood loss, in truth it was Daemon’s lilac eyes, how his hands caressed your skin. The wanting fires that engulfed the alter seeming leave everything in ashes but the two of you.

The vows spoken through time, of light and darkness.

He whispered along with the priest.

There was no shame in the way your lips crashed against one another, you tasted his blood on your tongue and yet his hands scorched your skin, almost consuming your body whole as his hands wandered everywhere as his lips claimed you. A stray tear fell from your eyes as your held onto his face, letting his tongue explore yours. You couldn’t breathe from the passion of it all, not that you cared; you life was now his to do with as he pleased.

You rested on Daemon’s lap as he lounged on your window bed, working a healers poultice on the cut of his palm, still lingering in the after effects of wedding. His hands gently returned the favour as he wrapped yours in gauze, you prayed that it would scar; it was a testament for your devotion.

“There- all fixed sweet wife.” Daemon whispered, nudging his nose against your cheek. Heat immediately rose to you cheek as you looked away, you were his wife.

You shuffled off of him, you walked to the steaming dhanuchi that you had carried back to your bed chambers, you bed chambers smelled sweet from it aroma. You had lit in hopes of being blessed by the fertitly goddess, that your marriage remaind pure and secure for eternity. You pushed you skirts always as you climbed onto your bed, letting the steam grace and bless your bed with your unconditional wish.

You dropped the burner on the floor after, letting it submerge the room in its sweet smoke. You awaited your husband as he rid himself of his tunic, you shuffled closer as you sat on your knees. Admiring his toned body and taking account for every battle scar on his skin that you would spend the rest of your life healing with your love.

“Will- will you bed me now, husband?” You whispered, your lips dangerously closer to his, begging for another kiss.

“Oh, I plan to do more than just bedding you.” His lips moulded against yours once more as his hands tugged on the ties of your blouse.

“I conquer Dorne tonight,” He teased, peppering kisses to your temple down to you cheek. He pushed you back on the bed, almost immediately pouncing on top.

He grasped your wrists with one hand, pushing them above your head as he laid siege upon your neck. Laying warm- wet kisses and bruising nips at your neck; his hair tickling at your bare skin as your squirmed underneath him. There was no reasoning to the gentle throb that began pulsing at your core- you rubbed your thigh closer to make it halt. He pushed aside your unlaced blouse, your chest heaved as he suckled on your breast, pulling and licking the hardening pebble in his mouth.

You back arched if the bed, pushing your chest into his mouth, small open mouthed gasps left your mouth as his fingers danced past your navel; yanking on the fastening strings of skirts. His hands pushing your skirts and small clothes down at once, unwrapping you like present as your laid in his ordered positioning.

You succumbed to your exposure, you moved your head in shame, opting to look out at the glaring moon as it witnessed your de-flowerinng. Daemon took offence to your actions, using his fingers to guide your chin towards him as he groaned in disapproval.

“Three moons apart and you dare look away from me?” Daemon cocked his brow at you, freeing your hands as he ventured lower on your body.

“I- forgive me, my prince.” You whispered, your lungs refraining you from speaking any louder

“Husband,” He corrected as he pushed you legs apart.

“Husband.” You mewled in shame as his fingers stroked your folds that looked by the minute. His lips latched onto your inner left thigh, sucking and nipping at the skin.

All the while his eyes remained devious yet absurdly comforting, the two fingers that drew circles on your thighs or a small groans he left against your skin, indicative of how much he was truly enjoying himself. Just for his own satisfaction he marked your thighs at several spots, leaving darkening marks for you to reminisce over in the coming fortnight.

You felt intoxicated, revelling in the way his tongue wet your outer folds before indulging in the saccharine delight that was your cunt, a shameless moan echoed through your bed chambers as you felt his tongue flicking at a much sensitive spot. He moaned against your mound the second your taste hit his tongue.

His palm, large enough to lay flat over your soft belly to hold you flush a against the bed as he took his liberties, lapping at your like his last meal had been consumed days before. His eyes bore into yours, his own demeanour turning to command, strumming the pleasures of your body to his own rhythm.

“Such a sweet delight,” He complimented, mostly to distract you from his finger easing into your tightness. You immediately clenched down on the intrusion. “This shall ease the discomfort.” He elaborated before spitting onto your folds

Your head fell backwards in shame, focusing on the comforting caresses in your torso as Daemon plunged his finger in knuckle deep. You couldn't take the prolonging tasks no longer. You whined, pawing at Daemon’s trousers.

“Please, please have me already.” You begged, you wanted to feel him within you. You could careless of the pain or discomfort, you just wanted to be one

“Take them off,” He instructed, your hands immediately worked on unbuttoning his pants, before digging your fingers into her rear to pull them down. His cock- that thing hung pliant between his legs. Part of you looked up at him curiously, and the other half wondered how your envious would engulf such a monstrosity. Your eyes silently asked for permission, to which Daemon simply stroked your hair as your wrapped your hand around the warm appendage. You were unsure of what to do.

“Stroke it, gently.” He guided you as you followed, feeling his cock twitch in your hands as you moved your hands back and forth. His tip soon glistened in moisture leaking from within. All Daemon could think of were your sweet lips wrapped around his cock and yet there was an eternity to teach you of the pleasures of the flesh. “Good girl,” He cooed.

He urged you to lay back against the pillows, working his length to harden to its full potential. He hesitated, having taken many maiden heads before, he needed this to be delicate as he tore through yours. He circled his tip at your sensitive rose bud before pushing at your entrance. You gasped out loud, letting you arms wrap around his shoulders as he inched forwards.

The stretch of his efforts shot a stinging sche through your pelvis, and he halted. Kissing your cheek and cooing at you in an attempt to alleviate even a fraction of the discomfort you were in. He advanced all the way in, hoping to let your ride out the waves of pain; you cried out louder and yet there was a little more left to go

“Look at me, just me. I shall make it better.” He groaned, hoping to suppress his own pleasures that coursed through his body, your tightness strangling his cock with threats of nearly milking him dry before anything had even begun. He felt selfish for feeling bliss as you silently wept underneath him, he caressed your cheek, the thing he held onto as his lips kissed your face. Peppering kisses to your forehead and your lips, over and over again as he inched forward

“Dae-” You shrieked as he finally bottomed out within you, the pressure of the stretch making your eyes well in more tears. You pulled yourself closer to him, trying to muffle your weeps on the crook of his neck. His arm reaches under you to support your neck. His deeper voice whispered encouragements as he awaited you to adjust to the pain.

“Look at how well you take me,” He whispered in between kisses that he pressed in your temples “Made just for me, aren't you? My sweet little wife.”

“Just for you,” You sniffled, letting yourself rest back against the pillows.

There was a humiliating familiarity in the way your aches encouraged your actions, you shuffled underneath him. Hoping to get him to move and yet he solely focused on doting on your body.

“Husband-” You whimpered, making his eyes shoot to you as they were focused on where the two of you were connected just moments before. He hummed in acknowledgement

“Can you- um please.” You stuttered, almost frustrated at yourself for losing your wording this easy.

“You have to tell me sweet wife, show me what you need.” He asked, urging his will into your answer.

“Please move- I need you to move.” You requested, he smiled before angling his hips backwards; hissing wantonly in the process and you mewled under him. There was pain within the first few thrusts and yet the deranged tendencies of your blood milked pleasure from the pain that subsided to a subtle pressure in your belly.

Daemon lost his composure, uttering vulgarities in your ear; the most obscene of sentences paired with the sweets of names he had picked for you.

“Perfect little hole, taking me so well,” He’d compliment one minute.

“Should have fucked this cunt the first day I laid eyes on you sweet girl,” The next he’d complain of the things he’d regretted.

He held your jaw, a feral smirk adoring his lips as he took your apart, your bangles clicking as your body bounced with his determined thrusts.

“Daemon!” You shrieked, such hurtful pleasure causing you to bed for such sinful things

“Just like that, scream your husband’s name.” He grunted, “Let all of Dorne know who owns this pretty body. Go on tell me.”

“You do, you do.” Cries poured from your lips as you held onto his forearms. “My Daemon,” You moaned as pulled yourself up to kiss his lips.

“Yes, yes sweet girl. All yours.” His deviant smile widened. Your cunt began to flutter around him, such flattery could mean just one thing as Daemon pushed his pelvis against yours, his thrusts grinding at your nub.

“That’s it, just lay there and take my seed,” He growled, his playing again harshly grasping your jaw to make you look at him.

“Dae- Daemon!” The ever impending storm began to paw at your insides,

Not long now- “I want it, I want babes and so much more. Please, please.” You begged to hope that itch would finally give way, and so it did. With no warning and only a scream of your husband’s name, your body erupted in ecstasy.

Daemon groaned out loud, muttering praises of your name, good girl, his sweet girl. Yes, you were. All for him as you loomed on a cloud perched high above the ground, you only registered Daemon’s thrusts faltering and warm filling your core, and then you felt Daemon’s caresses on your skin as you coaxed your heaving body to stability.

“Still with me?” He whispered against your hair and all you could muster was a lazy nod against his chest. You hissed feeling his cock leave your opening, he pushed you through it all. Letting his body weight do the work for you as he pulled himself to sit up along with you.

You finally opened your eyes, blinking away stray tears as he wiped at the trails of moisture on your cheeks. He bundled your exhausted body against his as he lifted you off your bed, walking you along to your chaise before wrapping a spare blanket against both your bodies, almost rocking your vulnerable body to a humming under his breath.

Maids poured into the clear martial bed, they all frowned at the image of their beloved Lady Martell curled against a dragon without a care as you nuzzled against him. Daemon snapped his fingers at them as they began to carry the bloodied sheets away, gesturing to the corner of the room for them to leave it behind. He planned to gift it to his brother’s council, as a warning.

There was nothing anybody could refuse Daemon Targaryen from- that and that he had a new wife. A wife of his choice, a wife he intended on loving until his death bed.

[seeleycollins]

Part II of previous snippet. Part one below. ⬇️

Pairing: bayverse!leo x reader

Warnings: Angst and lots of it. I feel like I need to take a shower and wash all this sadness and self-loathing away.

You deserved better.

You deserved better than him.

He never deserved you.

He closes his eyes, pictures the words in his head, wills himself to believe them so that he doesn’t go chasing after you.

His family is staring, but he ignores them all in favor of watching you leave, your walk too quick to be considered casual. With every step you take, it’s like his chest is caving in all over again. He has to concentrate on regulating his breathing.

It’s agony. Not just to see you again, but to see you looking so achingly beautiful in that dress. That blue dress, so close to his color, he has to believe it’s a coincidence, to consider anything else would undo years of strategic coping that he’s perfected and maintained. It would expose his carefully crafted stoicism as nothing but a mask and him as a fraud. As a heartbroken, love-struck, pretender.

You’re almost out of view when Casey Jones steps out of the periphery and directly into his line of sight, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“What the hell was that?” he demands, pointing an accusing finger in his face. “And don’t try to give me any of your bullshit, Leo. I know what I saw.”

Unbalanced enough by your unexpected appearance, he nearly responds to Jone’s aggression in kind, but there’s something about the look in the detective’s eyes that gives him pause. April steps up then, and places a hand on Casey’s forearm, a question in the pinch of her brows.

“Who was that?” she asks, maybe to them both.

“-My cousin,” Casey’s answer is immediate.

Leo’s isn’t and his silence is deafening, oppressive, making him feel like a caged animal. Everyone is looking at him now, Casey, April-

His brothers.

Donnie knows. He isn’t foolish enough to believe he hasn’t put the pieces together, that he doesn’t remember wiping your phone, even if it was years ago. Leo shot down his questions back then-

Who was she? Why was he doing this? Was he okay? He didn’t seem okay.

-but there was nowhere to hide now, was there? He’d called her a threat to their security back then- an admittedly sorry excuse- but had outright refused to elaborate and Donnie was eventually forced to drop it.

He finds it hard to maintain eye contact. Not with Donnie, or his other brothers, especially Raph. There’s no way they’ll see this as anything but the betrayal it is. He’s been obsessive about keeping their existence a secret. Carelessness on patrol that led to exposure were dealt with swiftly and decisively. Even coming to April’s wedding was an ordeal that involved months of planning.

“Answer the question, Leo.”

No surprise, it’s Raph who pushes the issue. Of the four of them, he’s always been the most vocal in his contempt for their forced isolation. But it’s no secret they’re all affected by it. By the loneliness, the longing. Even if it’s hard to imagine that anyone could look upon them and see anything but a monster.

And even if they did, who would want to be with someone they couldn’t go out to dinner with, to the grocery store, who couldn’t join them at the beach, or for vacations. Who couldn’t meet their family, who couldn’t give them a family.

…you deserved better.

You deserved the world.

Everything he couldn’t give you.

“Leo?”

He looks to April then, sees the concern on her face, to Casey with his barely controlled anger, and to his brothers, seeing a range of confusion, betrayal, and disappointment.

When you were together- in times of weakness, when he felt drunk off the love he had for you- he fantasized about this moment. About a time when he would introduce you to his family. He never allowed himself to linger in such thoughts for long, of course, but there was a part of him that secretly yearned. A part of him that hoped.

“She was-”

And now that time was here, not in the form of a warm-coded fantasy, but as the nightmare he always knew it would be. There were a million reasons he never should have indulged. But love made him foolish, reckless. The truth was, he deserved his broken heart. Deserved his family’s anger.

Because he recognized the anguish in your eyes when you saw him again. Saw the unshed tears. Knew it was he who put them there.

And so, it was all justified.

He didn’t deserve you.

But he did deserve this.

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

The Silver Dragon (47/?)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Word Count: 6369

Story Summary: Lady Arianwyn Targaryen, the Lady of Runestone, was seeded by her father, the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen, in an act of unbridled hatred, and borne of her mother, the late Lady Rhea Royce, as a desperate grasp at revenge.

Ignored by her father, and alone following the death of her mother, she is raised in King’s Landing alongside her cousin, Prince Aemond Targaryen. As they grow, the two find themselves indelibly bonded. But their lives are far from the fairy tales they read, and as tensions in the family rise, they find their paths may diverge.

Will they be pulled apart when the dragons dance?

Chapter Summary: Arianwyn hides something from her husband and ends up encountering his brother, King Aegon. Aemond wakes alone.

Warnings: mentions of suicide and self-harm, Aegon's sex toys

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The Brothers' Lament

Neither Arianwyn nor Aemond said anything for the remainder of the morning. They spoke – some. But they did not truly say anything.

Not as Arianwyn bathed him, again trying to scrub the bloodstains from his hair – still unsuccessfully.

Not as she dried him and dressed his wounds with a poultice Orwyle had left and wrapped them in strips of silk she had soaked in the cooled wine.

Not as she helped him into his dressing gown and braided back his hair so he would not see the stain of his own blood.

Not as she led him through their bedchamber to the solar, where servants had laid the table with plenty of simple but hearty foods – plain porridge, mashed apples, light crusty bread, and a large, steaming pot of chicken soup.

Not as they ate –a bowl of porridge mixed with the mashed apple and an obscene amount of brown sugar for Arianwyn, while Aemond had only half a bowl of soup, scooped up with torn pieces of bread instead of a spoon.

Not as they finally crawled back into bed, and Aemond pulled her into his chest, one arm around her waist and the other cradling her head against his neck.

Neither of them said anything. Not until Arianwyn had again fallen asleep, exhausted from the stress of the day and her fitful sleep the night before. Only then did Aemond kiss his wife’s forehead, stroke her wild hair, and whisper, “I don’t know if I believe I can be forgiven. If atonement is possible. But for you, ñuha jorr��eliarza raqnon, I will try.” My dearest love.

-

Arianwyn woke first, silently throwing every curse she knew at the sun for having the audacity to rise. She had slept fitfully again, waking up nearly a dozen times in a state of panic. Calming down required her to thoroughly examine Aemond to ensure he was still breathing, his heart was still beating, and his wounds hadn’t reopened.

He only woke once and was quickly soothed back to sleep by Arianwyn humming an old Valyrian lullaby while she drew Runes on his chest.

Runes of peace. Runes of protection. Runes of love.

Now, she had already checked that Aemond was well. So well, in fact, that he was snoring slightly. That made her smile, if only a little. Yet despite the tiredness that ached through to her very bones, she was entirely, tragically, awake.

She tried to be grateful that it gave her the chance to make sure the servants had cleaned everything and delivered the food for their morning meal. Perhaps even take a bath of her own – it had been nearly three days since she’d last bathed, and she was beginning to feel as though a thin film of dirt covered her entire body. But it didn’t quite soothe the sting of waking too early.

So, she left Aemond to his rest and went to the solar. After nibbling on an apple while she considered her options, she turned to the door to find a servant to run her a bath. The moment she did, she dropped the apple, sending it tumbling across the floor.

The belongings they had taken with them on their journeys had been retrieved from their dragons, and now sat neatly stacked near the door to the apartments. On the very top, still in its ancient sheath, was Lamentation, the sword of the Lord of Runestone.

Aemond could not see it, Arianwyn knew that immediately.

In the state he was in, Aemond would not feel honored that Gerold had entrusted it to him. No, he would only see in it a symbol of what he thought he had lost – a reminder that he no longer felt he deserved such an honor or the trust that came with it, at least in his mind.

She had to get rid of it.

But not here. Aemond knew every inch of these rooms. He would know instantly if something was amiss.

So, without even changing out of her nightgown, Arianwyn grabbed the sword and raced into the corridor. There were still two guards at the door – Adrew and Rody – but she was too frantic to say anything to them other than that she was fine, and they should remain at their posts.

Where to hide it?

Perhaps in the library? No, that was too public, and Lamentation was too precious to leave somewhere unprotected.

Alicent would likely let her store it in her chambers, or Helaena’s. They would –

“Aria?”

She stumbled, then turned to find Aegon behind her, just emerging from his rooms.

He looked almost as tired as she felt. The circles under his eyes had grown and deepened, and his clothes – too fine to be something he had chosen for himself – were rumpled. While he did not wear his crown, there was a crease in his hair that suggested it had weighed on him quite recently. Had the Small Council kept him up all night?

“What are you doing here?” he asked, taking a few tentative steps toward her, his eyes flicking down to the massive sword she clutched to her chest. Worry crumpled his features. “Is Aemond well?”

“Of course, he’s not well!” Arianwyn snapped. “How could he possibly be well?”

Aegon stumbled back at the venom with which she spoke, a flash of hurt in his reddened eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was a stupid question.”

It was, and years ago she would have mocked him for it. But she was exhausted, and Aegon did not prompt as much instinctive anger in her as he once did. Not when he had apologized for his behavior and been forgiven by Aemond. And not after their conversation at the coronation feast, when she realized that not only was he no longer the mean-spirited and spoiled prince he once was, but that they were more similar than she ever would have guessed.

So, she stepped closer to him, lowering Lamentation from where it had been clutched tightly to her breast. “No, I’m sorry. I have not slept much these past two nights, and I think it’s beginning to take its toll.”

“Is Aemond…” Aegon reached out to touch her arm, then pulled back and instead ran a hand through his hair – somehow more tangled than hers, “is he sleeping?”

“He is,” she answered. “Now, actually. He has done little else since I’ve returned.”

“Then why aren’t you?”

“Because…” Arianwyn had to stop and swallow to stop herself from weeping in the middle of the corridor. “Because I am afraid if I do, he will not be there when I wake. That either he will do something drastic, or his wounds will have claimed him, or that my father and Rhaenyra will have somehow taken him from me in retaliation for… for what happened.”

Aegon nodded solemnly and gestured to Lamentation. “And that is why you are wandering the castle in your nightgown carrying a sword that’s as tall as you?”

“No,” she sighed, looking down at herself. She hadn’t considered what a ridiculous picture she made. Surely rumors about a mad princess would soon fill the servants’ hall. “This is Lamentation, the ancestral sword of House Royce.”

“Very nice,” he said with one of his impressed grins that had always reminded Arianwyn of a frog. “I like the hilt, it’s pretty. But that still doesn’t explain…?” He gestured vaguely to her and the sword.

“My Uncle Gerold gave it to me when I was at the Eyrie,” she explained, beginning to get nervous that Aemond would wake and come looking for her. Looking over her shoulder briefly, she continued, “He gave it to me so that I could give it to Aemond, since he is now the Lord of Runestone. But…”

“You don’t trust him with it?”

The look of anger that Arianwyn leveled at her King at that suggestion that she feared her husband would have been considered treason by many.

Fortunately, Aegon was not one of them. He simply raised in hands in apology and surrender, and remained there, waiting for her to speak.

She lowered the blade until its tip rested on the floor. “There is no one in the world I would trust so much with this – no one. However, right now, he does not trust himself, or think himself worthy of anything but disdain. So I… I need to hide it from him.”

Aegon’s brow furrowed in concern as he took a step toward her. “He can’t even see it? Why?”

“He’s just… he’s not making sense right now.” Arianwyn looked down and shook her head to try and banish the so recent and yet so awful memories of her husband – how scared he had been when she first found him, how he wept until he had fallen asleep, and how hopeless he’d looked when he admitted he had tried to end his life. “I think knowing that my uncle would trust Runestone – our family and legacy – to him would drive him further into his despair.”

The King simply stood there, speechless, his gaze fixed on the ancient sword that now belonged to his brother. Then, he took a half-step away and indicated the door behind him with a nod of his head.

“Hide it in my room,” he said. “Aemond’ll never look in there. Trust me.”

She looked at the door, then back to Aegon. In one of his letters, Aemond had called his brother’s room a ‘squalid, festering nest of degeneracy.’ Arianwyn’s stomach turned at what she might find in it, but she could not deny that it was certainly not a place her husband would enter willingly.

“Please, put it in my room,” Aegon spoke quickly and confidently, with a surety he usually only had when he was mocking someone. But his eyes were clear, and there wasn’t a trace of a smile on his lips as he held out a hand to his good sister. “Besides, there’s… I’d like to talk to you about something – something important – if you can spare the time.”

Arianwyn looked over her shoulder again, as though she could see around the corner and down the hall where Aemond lay. What would he do if he woke to find her gone?

It was still early, she told herself, and he had been so tired. He would likely not wake for several hours yet, giving her more than enough time to hide Lamentation, hear whatever Aegon had to say, and return in time to be there when Aemond awoke.

She followed Aegon.

His rooms weren’t quite as horrific as Aemond had described but were most certainly not a place she would choose to spend her time. Next to the wardrobe, there was a pile of clothes so tall it came up to Aegon’s chest. At least two empty wine goblets sat on every available surface, and a few had been discarded on the floor. There was very little décor, but what was present confused her. Especially the table at the end of the bed which held several skulls, candles, and oblong objects made of various materials – wood, leather, stone, and more which Arianwyn could not identify.

When she reached forward to examine one of them, Aegon jumped forward, pushing her away from the tables. His eyes were wide and his cheeks more flushed than she had ever seen. “Don’t… just don’t touch those, please.”

Arianwyn nodded, trying to hide her confusion. She looked down at Lamentation and extended it slightly towards Aegon. “Where should I…?”

“I can hide it,” Aegon mumbled as he took the sword and turned away, tucking it in a tall wardrobe.

Arianwyn wondered what else was in the wardrobe, as it seemed to her all his clothing was in that small mountain. What was in his dressing room? She might have asked about it, but when he turned back to her, his face had become grave.

The longer they stood there, unspeaking, the more anxious Arianwyn became that Aemond would wake to find her gone.

Then, another thought struck her, and she tilted her head. “You have not been moved to the King’s chambers?”

Aegon sighed and curled a lip. “Not yet, they’re still ‘preparing’ them. I technically could sleep there, as they have at least replaced the bed he died in, but…” He blinked rapidly, his brow furrowing in thought.

“There’s still too much of Viserys there,” he said with a shake of his head. “I don’t know if I’ll ever feel comfortable in there. It smells like death and all those rancid herbs the Maesters used, not to mention that fucking model taking up the whole sitting room.”

“It’s still there?” Arianwyn asked, even the mention of it causing her anger to rise.

He scoffed, “It is. There’s quite a debate about what’s to be done with it. I’d like to smash it to pieces, I think.”

At that, Arianwyn almost felt like laughing. “If you do, invite Aemond to join you.”

“I will…” he sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, Aria, but I have to ask. What the fuck happened at Storm’s End?”

Suddenly, Arianwyn felt unable to look Aegon in the eye. He wasn’t just her cousin anymore – he was her king. Where should her loyalties lie with this – with her husband or her king?

He shut the wardrobe door and leaned against it. “I won’t force you to tell me anything you don’t want to, Aria. But at least tell me if Aemond…” he swallowed, looking like he might be ill. “I know he is not well, but is he hurt? Is he injured?”

“Yes, he is.” The memory of those wounds, of Aemond’s pain, would never leave her. “But he will recover.”

Aegon grimaced. “So, Luke hurt him, then? He was provoked?”

“It is not my story to tell, Aegon. I won’t – ”

“I know,” he interrupted. He sniffed and looked down at the floor, then trudged over to his bed and sat atop the rumpled furs and blankets. He gestured for Arianwyn to join him, but she shook her head. She didn’t know when the last time the bedding had been cleaned, and she knew if she sat, she would likely stay longer than she intended.

Aegon thought for a moment, frowning as he picked absentmindedly at the skin around his nails. “I’ve been thinking… ever since we got word of Luke’s death. About the time we spent together when we were younger, but I probably don’t think about that as much as I should. I spend more time thinking about what will happen next, or about Aemond, or of my own children.”

He looked up at Arianwyn, his eyes wide and wet. “Jaehaera. She’s not exactly like Aemond – she has both eyes, and her egg hatched. But… she’s different, still. Very shy. And she doesn’t talk. Ever.”

Arianwyn started slightly, unsure why he was making this comparison. But, she realized, he wasn’t entirely wrong. “Yes, I noticed that when I read to them a few nights ago.”

“She isn’t stupid, I know she understands what other people say. I actually think she’s quite clever, especially for her age.”

“When your mother invited me to her chambers to read them all a story, I had the same impression.”

“But still, she doesn’t speak.” Aegon laughed breathlessly. “Hardly makes any sound at all, even when she was a babe. Otto is very concerned about it. He wants to send her to Oldtown to have the Maesters… I don’t know. Experiment on her? I won’t allow it. I think…”

He broke off, looking down and squeezing his eyes shut as she swallowed what was either another laugh or a sob. He was so pitiful, the boy who was now the king, that Arianwyn stepped forward and sat beside him, prying his hands apart to stop his nervous picking, then holding them in her own.

“Sorry, that’s not what we’re here to talk about,” he whispered.

Arianwyn shrugged slightly, telling him that she did not mind. She was desperate to know what, exactly, he was talking about. And why she had to be the one to hear it.

Aegon shook their joined hands, steadying himself to continue. “My point is, Jaehaera is different, like Aemond was. Perhaps more so. But her brother…” He paused for a long while, fighting with all his strength to hold back his tears.

He failed, and his voice became thick and wavering. “Jaehaerys protects her. Not just against other children, though they’re rarely around them. From everything. He protects her from adults who look at her with curiosity and disdain, from nursemaids who are too strict with her, and from anything that may hurt her. I even saw him yell at one of the hounds’ pups once, when it wouldn’t stop licking her and she started crying.”

A disbelieving laugh escaped him, a brief moment of joy amidst his lamentation. Arianwyn smiled at him, encouraging him. Seeing Aegon so unsettled was discomfiting. In all her years, she had never seen him in anything but a drunken stupor, a morose brooding, or in what she now understood to not true confidence and apathy, but rather a mask he wore to seem so.

She pitied him, but she did not know how to comfort him.

“I…” he started, breaking off for a moment, his cheeks flushing as he tried to hold back his sobs. “I should have done that for Aemond. And Helaena. And even Daeron, before he went to Oldtown.”

Aegon laughed, though his crying never stopped. It made for a haunting, worrisome sound. “My son is barely six years old, and already he is a better man than me.”

“Why are you telling me this, Aegon?” Arianwyn asked after a prolonged moment of silence.

He yelled wordlessly as he ripped his hands away from hers and began prowling around the room. “Because it’s my fault! What happened on Driftmark – what happened to Aemond. The pain he’s lived with for so long. And what he just did to Luke. It’s all my fault! Because I didn’t protect him when I should have. Seven Hells, I was the one he needed protection from!”

He seized the nearest wine glass and threw it against the wall, sending shards of amber glass flying. He did not flinch when one cut his cheek.

Wiping away both his tears and his blood, he slumped, exhausted, onto the bed again. He looked at Arianwyn with pleading eyes, begging for something she did not think she alone could grant. “All the blood that has been spilled – and all that will be in whatever fighting there is to come – is on my hands.”

For a long time, Arianwyn just stared at him, remembering.

Remembering the times Aemond had met her in the library, sullen and silent because of Aegon, Jace, and Luke’s teasing.

Remembering the first time she had seen Aemond cry, after his first attempt to claim one of the fully grown dragons had left him with red, blistered burns.

Remembering the look on Aemond’s face after they brought him that pig.

Remembering the blood that poured over her fingers as she pressed her fingers to Aemond’s bleeding face.

Remembering finding Aemond cowering in the corner of their bedchamber, drunk, bloody, and broken.

The memories repeated over and over in her mind, and she felt them as clearly as if they had occurred only moments before. By the time she came back to herself, she had nearly forgotten what Aegon had said.

He still stared at her, desperate.

It’s my fault.

Aemond.

The blood that has been spilled.

And all that will be.

“You want me to forgive you,” she said quietly.

He blinked more tears away and nodded, murmuring a plea too quietly for her to understand.

Arianwyn let her eyes become unfocused as she considered his plea. He seemed sincere in his guilt and regret. But what was done could not be undone. Apologies could be made, but not reparations.

Aemond would always be scarred, and Luke would always be dead.

“From now, we shall be friends and allies. You are my good brother, after all. But still, I cannot forgive the past, Aegon. I’m sorry.”

The King looked utterly shattered, but he nodded and bowed his head. “I understand.”

-

Aemond woke to the terrifying realization that Arianwyn was gone.

Her side of the bed was empty, the pillow still creased, and the sheets rumpled. But when he laid a hand on them, they were cold. She’d been gone some time.

Was she simply doing something about the castle while he slept, or had something more sinister happened?

It was early – later than he usually awoke, but before Arianwyn liked to rise. And after the last two days, wouldn’t she be tired?

Two days. It had been two days since Lucerys was killed. Since Aemond returned home shattered in body and soul.

It was long enough for his half-sister and her vile husband to learn what happened.

Enough time for them to enact their revenge, if they acted quickly.

Daemon knew the Red Keep intimately. The whole city. He had snuck out of the castle undetected countless times, and once even stole an egg from the Dragonpit without the theft being discovered until the following morning.

He could easily sneak into the city, make his way to the castle, and slip into the hidden passages undetected. He could even do it with a small group of his loyal soldiers.

He could have stolen Arianwyn from their bed – from Aemond’s arms – and taken his revenge by killing her. Daemon wanted her dead, anyway. It would be quite convenient.

He and his soldiers could be waiting in the solar, muffling her cries while they waited for him to come looking for her entirely unawares.

That could not happen.

Aemond rose from the bed and stepped carefully and quietly to the corner where he had either drunkenly, or angrily, or both, shed his weapons when he first arrived back and retrieved his dagger.

The same dagger he had thrown across the Round Hall to Lucerys.

Aemond squeezed his eye shut, blocking out the memories of that day, trying instead to remember the good memories attached to the blade.

The day Ser Criston had first given it to him.

The practice fight he had won armed only with the dagger after his opponent knocked away his sword.

The dagger held between Arianwyn’s teeth as he worshipped her with his tongue. He could still feel the indentations she had made in the leather and gold.

Finally, his heart began to slow, his mind calming. This was not the dagger with which he damned his nephew and his soul, but that with which he would save his wife.

He positioned himself against the wall by the door, his back pressed flat to the stone, dagger held at the ready. After a quick prayer and a last deep breath, he reached out a hand and flung the door open, ducking slightly away to avoid any arrows that may come flying.

None came.

Nor any voices.

Beyond the crackling of the fire, there was not a single sound.

Even worse, there was no Arianwyn. Not by the fire, or by the window, or at the dining table. Though the fire was lit, the window was open, and the table was set. One apple had fallen to the floor, and there were several small, nibbling bites taken out of it…

Renewing his grip on the dagger, his eye wide open, Aemond made his way to the study – she wasn’t there. Neither was she in the spare room or the dressing room.

As he walked back into the bedchamber, he let the dagger fall back to the floor.

“Idiot,” he murmured to himself. Even addled as he was, there was not a chance he would have slept through Arianwyn being taken as a hostage. At the very least, he would have heard her dagger clattering against stone when she tried and failed to strike at her kidnappers. That is if she was carrying it.

When she returned, he would have to ask her to keep it with her always.

When she returned.

Because she would. She promised she would, and Aemond trusted that she would do everything in her power to keep that promise.

Faint memories of him begging for her when she left the bathing room flashed through his vision. Gods, had he really been that pathetic?

The bathing room. Perhaps that was where she was. She didn’t get to bathe yesterday, as far as he knew. It was possible she could have slipped out of bed without his knowing. As she had apparently already done that morning.

Yes, she was probably in the bath right now. Her hair floating across the water, silver eyes closed as she relished the heat. She may even be humming a song, like she had done to help him back to sleep, too softly for him to hear.

Aemond took a moment to comb through his hair with his fingers – it had come loose of the braid Arianwyn had done at some point in the night – and walked through the bathing room door.

She was not there, either.

Panic began to rise in his chest like a roiling volcano. He felt his fingers begin to chill and numb, and his scar began to burn. His heart raced faster and faster, entirely out of his control.

She left. He was alone.

She left. She left. She left. She –

“No,” he hissed, begging his mind to hear his words – to listen. Arianwyn was not here to talk sense into his broken mind, so he had to do it himself. “She did not leave. She will come back. Aria always comes back. She always comes back.”

He had to repeat the mantra over and over, until his throat went dry, and his voice cracked. He was not well, but he was calm – relatively. He was not panicking. He was not crying or screaming. He did not erupt.

She is not hurt, he assured himself. She just needed to go somewhere. The Sept, or maybe the Weirwood tree. Grandsire might have called her to tell him… no, she would not do that without me. She’s probably talking to Mother. Or with Helaena, reading to the children. She is in the Keep. She will be safe. As will I.

Aemond looked down at his hands, balling them into tight fists until he could feel his nails biting into the skin. If he could feel, he was calm. His mind was present and under his control.

If he didn’t know where Arianwyn was, he could not know when she’d be back. He could always ask the guards that he had no doubt were still stationed outside their door. But he didn’t know who it would be. Ser Criston had more important duties, and he had already let too many of the Runestone guards see him at his weakest…

He would simply ensure he was ready whenever she returned – show her that he was better, or at least beginning to be so.

That would start with fixing his braid, as it had come almost completely undone. His wrappings held most of it in place, but the ends were left out, and the feeling of it grazing over his bare skin like a thousand crawling spiders was beginning to drive him mad.

He did not let himself think too long about what he had done to the bedroom mirror, and why he had done it. Instead, he simply walked to the bathing room.

The moment he saw himself, he was very happy that Arianwyn was not here – he looked truly frightening.

The wounds on his face were still mostly covered by the cloths she had wrapped him in. But a few had spots of blood coming through, and beneath the wrappings that had loosened or fallen off, the half-scabbed scratches were visible.

The longer he looked at them, the more they seemed to hurt.

It was most definitely time for new dressings, and since Orwyle had seemingly moved half his stores into their bathing room, Aemond decided that would be the best way to spend his time as he waited for his wife to return. Better than thinking about what happened and what would happen in the future.

Arianwyn had not wrapped his head particularly well, or at least, not in the same way that Orwyle had done. It therefore took him some time, even with the aid of the mirror, to remove it all.

When it was off, and his hair fell into place once more, Aemond was nearly sick. And he had his answer for why Arianwyn spent so much time scrubbing his hair.

It was stained with his own blood.

In truth, it was only pinkish, but it felt like it was bright red, still wet and dripping onto the floor. And though he knew it was his blood, it didn’t feel like it was.

It felt like Lucerys’ blood.

There was no stopping this panic.

He needed it out, out, out. It needed to be gone, erased. Now.

Aemond grabbed the first bar of soap he saw and began scrubbing so furiously that several strands of hair were ripped out with every motion.

Water, it would work better with water.

He dunked the soap furiously in the basin of water that had been set on the table and renewed his scrubbing.

Yet no matter how hard he tried, the soap removed nothing. The stain was still there.

It wasn’t working.

Why wasn’t it working?

It had to work.

The stain needed to be gone.

He couldn’t live with the stain.

He couldn’t live with the blood.

He couldn’t live with it.

He couldn’t forget.

He wanted to forget.

Aemond had no memory of it, but suddenly he was no longer standing before the mirror. He had crossed the room and now held a pair of shears in his hands.

Shears.

Shears were dangerous.

It had been a pair of shears, with handles shaped like Velaryon seahorses, that had made the final cut to remove his ruined eye from his skull.

Shears had nearly gotten Brynna killed. It had made Aria cry. It was Daemon’s fault.

Aria had stabbed Daemon with shears. He was so proud of her for that.

These were Orwyle’s shears.

Used for cutting strips of silk to bind wounds. Aemond had watched him do so many times while he lived in the Rookery Tower during his recovery.

So much silk had been wrapped around him. By Orwyle and the other Maesters. Now by Aria.

These shears were for healing, and Aemond desperately needed healing.

The shears would help him.

Heal him.

Erase the evidence of his sins.

Aemond raised the shears.

Then, he cut.

-

When Arianwyn walked into her and Aemond’s solar, she immediately knew something was wrong. None of the food had been touched. Even her half-eaten apple remained exactly where she had dropped it when she saw Lamentation.

But Aemond wasn’t asleep – the door to their bedchamber was open, and the bed was empty. And as she crept closer to the bedchamber door, she spied something on the floor, shining brightly as it caught the rays of the mid-morning sun.

Aemond’s dagger.

She immediately ran forward and picked it up. There was no blood – not on the blade, the floor, or the bed. Though there was great comfort in that fact, it did not entirely calm her racing heart. Not as she once again stood in their seemingly empty chambers and, just as she and only two nights before, called out to her husband.

“Aemond?”

A long pause. In which her heart hammered a brutal rhythm against her chest that echoed in her ears. Then…

“I’m here, Aria.”

Her feet were carrying her toward the bathing room before Aemond had even finished speaking. She pushed the door open with such force that it slammed against the stone wall, its wood audibly cracking.

Aemond was sitting on the floor, his back against the bath and his knees pulled to his chest. He had removed the wrappings from his face, but not his legs. Arianwyn thanked all the gods that it seemed none of the wounds had reopened.

He turned to face her, not flinching at the sound of the door crashing into the wall, and never lowering his hands – held tightly against the sides of his head, keeping his hair from his face. “Aria… I woke up, and you were gone.”

The helplessness in his voice nearly cracked her chest open as she sat beside him. “I am so, so sorry, my love. I didn’t think I would be gone for so long, but then Aegon wanted to speak to me – ”

“Did you tell him what I did?” he asked hastily, his eye filling with tears of fear.

Arianwyn sighed and reached out to cup the unhurt side of his face in her palm. With his hands already there, she could only stroke the back of her fingers down his cheek. “I promise I did not. That is your tale to tell. But he knows what happened, though he knows no details. Nor does he make any judgments; he won’t until he hears the story from you.”

He nodded and spread his lips in a flat smile as he turned his head back to the floor. He did not say anything more, and Arianwyn watched as his eye unfocused. Something was wrong. Not just his wounds or the weight of Luke’s death, but something else. Something new.

“Aemond?” she said gently as she lowered herself onto the floor opposite him. “Did something happen while I was gone? Did someone come in, or – ”

“No,” he shook his head and gripped it so tight his knuckles went white. “I just… I did something very foolish.”

He did not give Arianwyn the chance to ask what he’d done, he simply lowered his hands and let her see.

The blood stains were gone, but so was most of the hair around his left ear. What remained was barely longer than his ring finger. The cuts had been quick and imprecise, leaving it looking like the hair was ripped off rather than cut by someone who usually had more finesse with a blade.

Arianwyn came closer to him and ran her hand through the short hair. “I was going to ask Elsie if she knew how to remove the stains. It was my hope you would never see it.”

“Well, I did. I was removing the wrappings and… I panicked, and I didn’t think about it,” his voice sounded hollow. “I just did it.”

“We all do that sometimes, my love.”

“I regretted it as soon as I did it, but I can’t take it back.”

Arianwyn knew he was no longer speaking only of his hair.

“I know,” she said gently, stroking his cheek. “But we cannot dwell on what we cannot change.”

Aemond shook his head and slumped into her, his face buried in her chest. “I’m the villain, Aria.”

“You are not,” she insisted. “You have made mistakes, but you are good.”

She felt him shake his head against her shoulder. “That is not the story that will be told. I killed my nephew. I’m a kinslayer. No kinslayer is ever remembered as being ‘good.’ Nor will I.”

Arianwyn gripped him tighter, searching for the words to soothe him. “Has any kinslayer tried to atone for what he did? Have any regretted it?”

Aemond went limp against her. His voice was muffled in her nightgown as he replied, “None that I know of, no.”

“Then you shall be the first. And that will be your story. The noble prince who rose from darkness and despair to become better – to become a great man. It will be a wonderful story, and one that will never be forgotten.” She hoped the words would be true, that they were sent to her by some prophetic force, and not simply the result of her desperately hoping to make him feel better.

The cloth of her nightgown dampened, and she heard the tears in Aemond’s voice. “How?”

She sighed, petting his head as she prayed for the gods – or perhaps her Royce ancestors – to grant her wisdom beyond her years.

“I don’t know, Aemond,” she began when no new miraculous revelations came to her, “But I think we must start by going to the Small Council tomorrow and telling them what happened. Your mother, your grandfather, and your brother’s advisors… they will know better than I do.”

His hands tightened slightly around her waist, but he did not argue, or even look up at her.

“As for this,” she said, running her fingers through the shorn scraps of his hair. It was still soft, even after everything. “Kiran will be able to help, I am sure.”

Aemond froze, then pulled away so he could look her in the eyes. “Kiran? I don’t understand, he must have left. After I…”

“No,” Arianwyn answered simply with an encouraging smile. “He is still here. When I arrived, he was waiting outside the door to see if you were well.”

“But surely he must hate me,”

“He is upset at what happened, but he holds no ill will toward you. Nor is he angry. He knows you never intended to harm him.”

He shook his head. “I do not deserve his faith in me.”

“But you do, my love.” Arianwyn brought her hand to his cheek, stroking what little unwounded skin she could find. “He told me how you first met. After what you did for him, I cannot imagine you could do anything to earn his ire. He will be with you as long as you allow it – perhaps longer. I honestly don’t believe he’d obey you if you dismissed him!”

Aemond almost smiled, but then his face crumpled with tearful relief as he again buried himself in his wife’s shoulder. “If I am to be redeemed, it will not be by my own will. It will be because of you, ñuhon vōska raqiarzy.” My holy love.

Next Chapter

[headfullof-ideas]

Allllrighty, a long needed to be finished art piece that is now finished! And it isn’t even anything too fancy, it’s just the Nektons in my Httyd AU.

Will Nekton is the patriarch of this oddball family, descending from a lost culture known as Lemuria, myths and legends regailing Leviathan sized dragons from the deep ocean, and multiple devices that seemed to work through magical means with the science that went into them. Despite Will’s passion to discover the lost secrets of his forgotten culture, he’s a devoted husband and father to his wife and daughter, and an expert seaman. Will does everything he can to support his family, and protect them from the multiple threats they find themselves facing, from mysterious orders devoted to the same civilization Will is, to numerous sea-faring pirates that travel the sea looking for easy targets, and even wild dragons that aren’t prone to human kindness. Will is steadfast though, and welcoming to any that come within his families embrace, though his soft spot for children is somewhat influenced by the trauma of losing his and his wife’s second child several years ago. Will has complicated feelings about the Archipelago, due to the rumors that come from there, the Raiders his family encountered, and the fact that it’s the resting place of their lost newborn. Among the rumors from the Archipelago, there are new rumors of Dragon Riders within their seas. Will and his family haven’t actually seen any of these so called Dragon Riders themselves, and he’s unsure about whether the connected rumors that the riders are Dragon Trappers make them any better.

Kaiko Nekton is from further east than the rest of her family, born and raised in one of the outer Caldera’s that house different factions of the widespread Defender’s of the Wing. Trained as a Defender herself, Kaiko moved to a Caldera further toward what is known as the Savage, or Ignorant Archipelago, where rumors of Dragon Raids make their way to the rest of the world past a fog bank. Though she served as a dutiful Defender for some years, Kaiko eventually left to marry Will and later have their daughter Fontaine. Kaiko now works as a Dragoncologist, documenting as many dragons as possible, hoping to share the knowledge of dragon’s and the way they really work with people that may not know much about them. Kaiko has made herself a number of enemies however, the biggest being a certain Viggo Grimborn, who disrupts her work constantly to fuel his Dragon Trapping business. Kaiko tries not to dwell on the Archipelago and its rumors too much, thinking about that region of the world eventually leading to the reminder that it’s where she lost a baby. Kaiko doesn’t know what to think about Dragon Trappers riding dragons, and she’s skeptical that the trappers even are riding dragons. But with how many people are saying there are Dragon Riders out there now, she has no other reason to assume that the rumors are true.

Fontaine Nekton is the Nekton’s daughter, and only living child. Fontaine loves her life at sea, swimming amongst the dragons and with her family, but she does sometimes wish they spent more time on land so she can hang out with her friends more often. Fontaine is a huge fan of learning about other cultures, especially the kinds of music that they have. She loves going to festivals and listening to the songs of all the areas her family visits, and sometimes looks to the dragons flying into the air and wonders what it would be like to fly. The Order of the Guardians of Lemuria are frustrating, her estranged cousin even more so, especially when rumors of giant dragons hiding in the sea start to circulate her family’s inner circle and the markets they frequent. Fontaine didn’t know she had a little brother until she was about thirteen, and often watches the siblings she knows and wonders what it’d be like if they hadn’t lost him to some far off corner of the world. She’s skeptical about the rumors coming from the Traders that venture into the Archipelago, about Dragon Raids every night for the last three hundred years. And she’s unsure about the rumors circulating of Dragon Riders, especially when she hears rumors about two different groups; one composed of Dragon Trappers and one composed of kids her own age.

The Nektons are still a sea faring family, though instead of a submarine, they travel on a slightly larger than usual ship, still known as the Aronnax. And because they’re the Nektons, I gave them wetsuits, though they look a bit different than they do in the show. While Ant and the Dragon Riders are dealing with all of their stuff, the Nektons are dealing with some of the early stuff that happens in the show behind the scenes. Some of the show will be kept for its own season in RTTE, but some stuff Ant isn’t there for. The introduction of the Guardians, the Pirates, Alpheus, and the Monumentials for example. I drew a comic about it already, but Ant ends up arriving about three to four years late or so to his own show, and has to speed run all the lore to catch up with everyone else before continuing.

Anyways, some closeups, because I like to do them. Tap the pictures for better quality, and also have a closeup of the writing I added, as the words are kind of small

[painedpen]

Tell me anything and everything abt your headcanons and stuff for Mondo Owada, I'm all ears! He's one of my favorites so I'd love to hear what you think‼️

Thank you very much but you have no clue what you’ve just unleashed.

Fluff:

- Mondo’s maternal family originated from France, so French is his and Daiya’s first language. Of course, Mondo has never met his mother’s family… yet.

- Speaking of maternal family, anyone wanna take a guess as to what his mother’s maiden name is? Anyone? Too late, it’s Akamatsu.

- So yeah, Kaede is Mondo and Daiya’s little cousin. Kaede is about two or three years younger than Mondo, and she’s delighted to find her long lost cousin at her new high school.

- Due to having to fend for themselves at a young age, both Mondo and Daiya are really good cooks. The difference between them is that Mondo refuses to allow anyone else in the kitchen when he’s cooking. Think Gordon Ramsey but somehow even worse.

- Mondo will never admit to anyone that he likes to cook. God forbid you ask him to cook for you. Unless you’re sick or like really sad. He’ll tell you to never tell anyone though.

- Physical affection is not only his love language, it’s his way of life. Every time you see him, he’s leaning on or hugging one of his classmates. He’s like a really big cat.

- When he was a kid, Daiya couldn’t leave him alone for a moment, cause every time he came back Mondo would have befriended some random animal of prey. Daiya turns around and Mondo is cradling a Great Horned Owl in his arms like a baby.

- Mondo hasn’t been able to bring himself to have another pet since Chuck, so instead he co-parents everyone else’s pets. He’s already won over Celeste’s cat.

- Most of his childhood was spent around a pack of stray animals. One day, a cat curled up on his lap and started purring, and Mondo was like “heehee funny noise” and started mimicking it. Long story short, Mondo purrs as a stim.

- He’s the best adoptive big brother ever. Are you an only child, or just temporarily sad for some reason? Boom, Mondo’s your big brother now. No, no, don’t fight it.

- After befriending Kiyotaka, Mondo went to his French class for the first time in his school career. (He picked it because it was an easy A.) Listening to his teacher, he realized very quickly that she was not a native speaker, nor had she learned from a native speaker. He was quiet for a solid five minutes and then said, in perfect French, “What the fuck are you talking about??”

- Dyslexia makes it so that letters and words are hard for him to understand. But numbers? Ohoho he knows all about those little bitches! Because of this, he’s shockingly good at subjects like Algebra and Calculus.

Angst: (CW: Abandonment, dissociation, child abuse, neglect, violence)

- Mondo’s dad was a real piece of shit to both his wife and kids. Unfortunately, Moselle, his mother, could only find one way to cope with it. She dissociated to the point where she couldn’t recognize her children.

- Daiya and Mondo didn’t know what was wrong with her, so they always said that “Maman is just away.”

- While Daiya was busy trying to take care of his little brother, Mondo dedicated himself to taking care of their mother. Despite Moselle not being able to do much more than basic self-care, Mondo was convinced that she was just sick, and that they needed to help her get better.

- I won’t go into heavy details, but Mondo and Daiya ended up homeless. After the trauma of what he went through with his parents, Mondo went entirely nonverbal for several years.

- One day, while Daiya was away looking for a source of income, Mondo was mugged while alone. A shot through the shoulder left him on the floor looking for help. No one bothered until Officer Takaaki Ishimaru came along. He got Mondo to a hospital just in time.

- Because of nights spent outside, Mondo tends to get Wind Anxiety. When the wind blows fast enough to be heard from inside, Mondo automatically starts shivering. It doesn’t matter if he actually feels cold or not, it’s just an unfortunate muscle memory.

- Mondo doesn’t remember a lot about his childhood, but he finds he can’t forget what his mother’s face looked like just before her death. He refuses to sleep most days because his dreams are full of her eyes looking directly at him.

- Daiya doesn’t remember a thing, but Mondo refuses to remind him. He’d rather Daiya live in blissful ignorance than have him suffer the way Mondo has.

- Mondo still goes nonverbal sometimes, so he likes to wear a face mask. He looks intimidating in that, so no one tries to talk to him when he’s wearing it. Win-win.

- While the Crazy Diamonds is genuinely fun, it’s not a healthy environment for Mondo in the slightest. There’s a large minority of members who still think he’s too weak to be in the gang. They constantly try to pester and bully him into retiring early.

- It was even worse when Daiya was still in charge. Almost everyone hated him. He would get into fights, people would tell him that he should get into a crash and die so that they wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore. It was rough.

- Even so, Mondo stayed quiet about it. These people were like family to Daiya, and Mondo didn’t want to be the reason Daiya lost any more family. When Daiya asked why he’d come home with bruises all over, Mondo would blame it on a rival gang.

- The first time Hiroko met Mondo, she gave him a hug. She did that thing moms do, cradling the back of his head and neck with her hand protectively. Mondo absolutely melted.

Platonic Pairings:

Mondo + Kyoko:

- These two mean. So much to me.

- They are both black cat coded but in completely different ways. Like Kyoko is a mysterious and dark Witch’s Familiar, and Mondo is a moody dumbass who likes snuggles.

- Kyoko’s love language isn’t physical affection. But she spontaneously decides to cuddle with Mondo for an hour and a half to the second, and then silently leaves.

- Mondo joins Kyoko on her murder investigations sometimes. He contributes practically nothing, he’s just here to hang out. Kyoko appreciates his presence anyway.

Mondo + Chihiro:

- Okay this one’s just obvious.

- I don’t even think I need to say anything about this.

Mondo + Toko:

- Mwah. Delicious.

- I think that Mondo would hate the way Byakuya treats Toko, and would start aggressively defending her.

- He starts “training” her in order to try and get her confidence up.

- Like, Toko wears a rubber band around her wrist that Mondo snaps every time she self-deprecates. Pavlov her into positive self talk, y’know?

- Toko tells Byakuya to go fuck himself and Mondo stands in the background, wiping a tear from his eye.

Mondo + Celeste:

- Sibling energy frfr.

- They scream at each other in French, but would go to war for each other no questions asked.

- They shit-talk other people together.

- Celeste forces him to wear his hair down every now and again because “The big hair distracts from your pretty face!”

- Mondo points out that she’s a hypocrite. Celeste doesn’t care.

- These two fight so much but there’s no real animosity behind it. Not that anyone around them can tell. Everyone else thinks that they just plain hate each other.

Mondo + Gundham:

- Childhood friends. Hear me out.

- Mondo found a really sick stray puppy when he was little and rushed him to the vet. The vet said that since Mondo didn’t have any money, there was nothing they could do. Mondo was really upset.

- Baby Gundham came up behind them like “You foulest of fiends! It would seem your soul has been buried under stone, if you have it in you to turn away a creature in need. Worry not, mortal, for I, the great Gundham Tanaka, will help you restore this dark beast to its rightful glory!”

- Baby Mondo was like “Okay lol” and they both left.

- That’s how Mondo got Chuck.

Mondo + Mikan:

- Hoo boy!!

- Mondo is in the infirmary a lot due to obvious reasons, so it’s only natural that he would be friendly with the nurse.

- Every time Hiyoko or someone else tries to come in and bully Mikan, Mondo picks them up by the neck and throws them out.

- It’s gotten to the point where, even if Mondo isn’t there, Mikan will just tell people “If you won’t leave me alone, I’ll call Owada!” No one fucks with that.

- Overall, having Mondo’s protection is a huge confidence boost for her.

Kay there you go.

[theartofeverything]

Alrighty y’all, Mutant Mayhem spoilers ahead

There was a gosh darn lot I loved about this movie the soundtrack and animation were fantastic, the turtles were hilarious, and the emotions were strikingly realistic. Out of all the beautiful details in this masterpiece though, the thing that stands out to me the most is the significance of Superfly.

There was a line during the chase scene where the turtles are trying to get away with the last piece of the doomsday machine that made my blood run cold. Wingnut is trying to convince them to change their minds and surrender the piece. “Just turn it over before Superfly gets here because when he does he’s not going to be nice about it.” (Dang I really wish the script was available so I could get the exact wording, but this was the gist of it) Donnie replies that she’s already not being nice and her response is “Trust me, Superfly’s going to be a lot less nice.”

There was fear in her voice.

She’s flying in front of them, frantically trying to get them to give up before it’s too late because she’s terrified of her older brother and what he’ll do to them.

A lot of things all start clicking into place after that. Superfly had to raise his siblings on his own in a hostile world. His response to all that fear and hate was violence. None of his siblings were ever really on board with his grand genocidal plan but they went along with it because he told them it was the only way they’d be safe and accepted.

From the way he tries to intimidate and manipulate the kid turtles he supposedly just accepted as cousins, (“you’re not as cool as I thought you were.” ‘If you try to go against me I’ll have to kill you’) to little lines like Rocksteady figuring out that maybe Superfly is the reason he’s always angry, to the big central line that makes Splinter question his parenting choices (“my way is the only way you can be safe and happy”), Superfly has all the hallmarks of an abusive caregiver.

In light of that, the rest of the story takes on a lot more meaning. His younger siblings didn’t want to follow in his footsteps but they went allong with it because they had nowhere else to go, not until the turtles offered them a new home and a new family.

Seeing the whole community of New York come together to help this newly formed family and fight Superfly after that nearly brought me to tears.

This is something I need to see so badly in the real world. We need safe places for kids to go when the people they depend on to survive are hurting them. We need people willing to love and protect them. We need communities working together to support them.

I would have given anything for that kind of chance as a kid.

Thank you Mutant Mayhem for showing us what a happy ending looks like in those kind of situations. I hope the world will learn a thing or two.

[kyliekat2019]

Benny Weir Pianist Headcannons

Okay, so, l've seen a couple theories and HCs on Benny's whole missing mother and absent father situation and the one I'm going with is inspired by the idea that his mom died when he was young and dad kind of couldn’t handle it so he just dropped him off with Evelyn and only talks to Benny every once in a while. I’ll try to find the people that originally had this idea.

However, I stumbled upon this video of Atticus playing the piano the other day and fell in love with the melody (pretty sure it was an impromptu cover of Victor’s piano solo from The Corpse Bride, but since it came out 12 years ago, I can’t find an elongated cover of it that old that he could have been playing. He’s obviously trying to remember something at the start, and this is the closest thing I can find). And he also just loses himself in the music after he settles into it and that struck something writhing my little former choir kid heart (but seriously, I played this on loop while writing this HC and then to fall asleep. 9/10 would recommend).

Anyway, here's my sad backstory pianist Benny HC. Also, I never learned piano, just four years of varsity choir in high school and a single awful semester in college, so be gentle if some of the terminology is incorrect. Enjoy!

His mother was a concert pianist and some of his most clear memories of her are of watching her play at the old piano in his childhood house and losing herself in the symphonies she produced. It felt like watching someone pour their soul into the world.

She died when he was 4 and he went to live with Grandma Weir a few months later.

Eliana Vyette (tis what I’ve decided to name Benny’s mom. Take it up with my 3 am self if you’ve got any qualms. She’ll be answering questions between 12:02 and 12:04 in the morning) almost never wrote down her performance pieces or played them for an audience multiple times over the course of her career. Or, at least, she didn’t write them down in any decipherable way (think how alchemists used to encode their recipe’s in ciphers, but make it sheet music). And there’s not a lot of publicly available recordings (either video or audio) of her performances. So, like 87% of her catalogue is lost (if people did some deep digging, they could find copies in their parent’s CD collections, that one dusty camcorder that struggles to turn on, the corrupted hard drive on their older cousin’s 2002 Toshiba laptop).

Benny, however, has everything his Aunt Sassy (yes, she’s canon, she was mentioned in the movie and he says her name too easily for him to be pulling her completely out of thin air), Dad, and Grandma saved. Sheet music and recordings (let’s say he’s got maybe 65%. Not everything, but better than nothing. It’s in varying qualities though).

So, when he was old enough, six and three months, he asked Evelyn if he could take piano lessons and she didn’t even hesitate in saying yes. Because, let’s be honest, the Grand Piano sitting in storage needs to be brought out of retirement and this little boy needs something to connect with his mom and maybe bring him out of his shell (he befriends Ethan a few months later on the first day of Grade 2)

But, this is the one thing he has to connect with his mother, replicating her concerto melodies as best as possible. So, nobody but his piano teacher and his grandma know that he has even touched the instrument. Much less that he’s actually really proficient, a bit of a prodigy. But he doesn’t want to be what his mother was. This is for him and him alone. He plays for himself and no one else. So, Ethan, his best friend, thinks there’s not a musical bone in his lanky body, especially after his especially robotic drum performance in the Freshman talent show (gonna be real, after learning that Atticus Mitchell played the drums around the time of filming IRL and was the drummer in a band with his older brother, I was a bit shocked at how static he portrayed Benny’s drumming. And then I went and remembered he was in Radio Rebel, and was the lead singer of the pop-punk band. He’s obviously faking playing the bass, but he’s credited with the vocals for all three songs on Genius so 🤷‍♀️)

So, there’s the gist. I’ve got two more parts. The first of which is underdeveloped with Benny and Erica being in Music Theory and the teacher pulling up one of the recovered Vyette performances, unknowing her son is in the room. The second is when a romantic OC discovers Benny playing for the first time and then everything that comes afterwards in the timeline of him playing around and for her (I’ve got the sweetest idea for a first dance!). Literally only Erica ever susses it out and it’s because she was in that class with him.

I’ll come back and edit this with formatting later when it’s not 3 am.

[lezabeththetheodoraimposter]

idk why I’m sharing my kotlc ocs bc I’m not an oc type of fan but oh well (my ocs are more of just characters I head cannon to exists out there) + drawings I did of them (this is the abridged version dw ur not going to be reading a dissertation on them 💀)

Selma Akhenaten

- She’s a vociferator so she doesn’t speaks much

- her uncle (and favorite relative) is councillor Noland

- her two cousins, aunt and uncle, dad, and younger brothers are all frosters so she really can’t stand them

- the only way she would be “plot relevant” if she was cannon is one time she got paired up with sophie is p.e

- rbf + the fact she doesn’t speak much makes everyone think she is rude and judgmental

- really powerful vociferator but it means she’s destroyed parts of her house on accident

- loves listening to gossip but hates it when people talk bad about the council

- dresses up very nice and elaborately (I just didn’t feel like drawing that

- after fitz and sophie ran off she was the star prodigy at foxfire and was annoyed when they came back

Baldwyn Mowbray

- a mesmer

- was one of the first three councillors

- he was helping out humans with leprosy (for the human aid program) and ended up catching it himself

- because of his leprosy he resigned from the council

- the leprosy affects him similarly but not the same as humans

- he spends most of his time now skulking around and being emo and wearing face coverings

- was a homoerotic baddie before he became a leper

- friends with Bronte and Fallon (was friends with Fintan and talks to him/refuses to accept he is evil) (I told u he was homoerotic)

- lost all of his fingers on one hand

- is barely functioning

- bc of how hard and painful it is for him he doesn’t allow many visitors to see him (other than Fallon or Bronte) (and Fintan)

Odelyn Dizznee

- Dex’s (wine) aunt

- a technopath

- the neverseens technopath

- her code name is “vulcana” like “Vulcan” god of blacksmiths

- loves bright pink and would get along w Biana (if she wasn’t part of neverseen and has been for decades)

- the first time sophie saw her was in her neverseen outfit but Dex wasn’t there so no one recognized her and no one put the pieces together for a long time (like until Dex saw her)

- joined during her time at foxfire after Kesler was forced to go to exilium even though he was smarter than most of the school

- started to hate the council because of how talentless people were treated and it descended into her being a (noble)-blood-thirsty villain

- uses human weapons bc they are more effective

- keeps everyone in the neverseen from dying bc they haven’t slept since the dawn of man

- is good at alchemy and buys stuff from keslers store all the time for them (the neverseen)

- the neverseens cook too bc she’s really good at it (but she has slipped devious elixirs into alvars drinks when he annoyed her)

[siilvan]

Solitude

Characters: Mylène "Petra" Scholten de Ridder

Summary: The feeling of being alone. (Or something like that.)

Genre: Light angst? Idk, it's just sleep-deprived rambling lol

Warnings: Semi-proofread, light cursing, some mentions/allusions to canon-typical violence, again it's just random shit

Word Count: 1.5k

Note: I wrote this in a few hours because I've been an emo bitch lately and figured I'd do what I always do when I'm sad, AKA take it out on my oc (◡‿◡) I might leave it up, I might cringe after I wake up and delete it, who knows honestly? I promise I'm working on things people actually want to read, btw

If Petra was one thing, it was a woman not easily phased by trivial matters. War, violence, exhaustion, death – all things she was experienced with. All things she knew how to handle on any given day. She earned both her call sign and her position for exactly that reason, even.

Now, if Mylène was one thing, it was a woman constantly weighed down with the things she faces on any given day. War, violence, exhaustion, death – it haunts her every waking moment. She had learned to deal with it over the years, how to put a pin in her emotions for the sake of getting the job done. People needed her to be the steady hand, so that’s what she became.

She never quite learned how to deal with the loneliness, though.

"Just call me if you need me, okay? Any time, I don't care when or where. I'm there."

The words felt foreign as soon as they left the captain's lips. She wasn't used to hearing that. She was always the one people came to rely on.

A heavy sigh escapes Mylène's lips as she unceremoniously flops down on the sofa with her old scrapbook in-hand. It was a hobby her mother had, one she didn’t understand until it was too late to even tell the woman that she learned why she loved it so much.

That's another thing she was. Sentimental. All she ever seemed to do when she was alone was reminisce. The good days, the bad days, the moments that she was sure went right in and out of anyone else's brain – her first sniping lesson with Price, the first time Nikolai called her "Mila," the first time she heard Ghost's genuine laugh, when she and Soap discovered their mutual love of art, the one single time she almost beat Gaz in a race… small moments, but ones she held close to her heart.

As she flips the near-overstuffed book open, she's immediately greeted with another memory. One she was honestly surprised she could still recall so clearly, considering she was only six years old during it.

A photo, taken in the dead of winter. Her family was in the states, visiting her aunt and uncle for Christmas. They were at the dinner table – her aunt was to the left, her honey blonde hair tossed over her shoulder as a few streaks of silvery grey finally started to show, with a three-year-old Emiel sitting in her lap and babbling away to her. To the right was her uncle, the grey in his dark hair and beard far more visible as he leaned back in his chair, a soft smile resting on his lips as he watched the six-year-old in his lap frantically scribble away on a piece of paper with a crayon. In the back, standing in the backyard and visible through the half-open glass door, was her father – younger, not yet the man she knew him as – and her two cousins, tossing a football back and forth and laughing away. Even her childhood dog was there, a blur in the picture as she ran after the ball.

Her mom wasn't in the photo. Judging by Emiel pointing somewhere behind the camera, she was the one taking it.

The more Mylène thought about it, the more it almost became funny. There was a point in time when she was surrounded by people, almost too many for her to keep up with. Her gaze lifts from the page; she tries to ignore the wetness clinging to her eyelashes as she looks around her living room. Other than her, it's empty. Her brother was somewhere else in the world, surely finishing another sensitive mission that Laswell assigned to him. "I want the best for the job," she always says. Her aunt and uncle were still in the states, but every time she thought about them, all that seemed to come to mind was how they lost fifteen years to the anger of her father.

After years of losing people left and right – allies, entire teams, patients in her care, civilians, friends – maybe it was for the best that she was alone. Even the task force had some close scrapes over the years, moments when she worried about losing one of the people she had come to consider a second family.

Mylène closes the scrapbook with a heavy thud and sets it down on the small coffee table in front of her. She shifts, pulling her knees up to her chest and eyeing the cellphone sitting next to the book. It was silent, save for the occasional spam email or update from her superiors. If she wasn't a woman ruled by her sense of pride, she'd consider sending someone a message.

Maybe she could text Freya and ask about her progress with the recent training exercises she gave her. Or, maybe she could text Christine for an update on the new batch of recruits. Maybe she could even come up with some lame excuse to text Olga, ask her how she's doing after her company rapidly expanded out of the blue.

No, no… She's a woman with too much pride for that. Johnny, Kyle, Simon… She didn’t have a viable excuse for bothering any of them. Between their work and their partners, she doubted any of those three had time for her, anyway.

Price? No, definitely busy with the missus. Nikolai? She can never predict what he's up to, but she assumed it was probably work or his own love, too. Laswell? God, what weak excuse could she even come up with in that scenario.

"Any time, I'm there."

She lowers her head and lets her chin rest on top of her knees. She was only home because she had to be – the captain claimed she was working herself to the bone and needed the time off before she ran herself ragged.

"You can take a week off," He chuckles, patting her shoulder before squeezing it in a firm grip. "Everything'll keep running when you're gone, I promise. We won't fall apart without you."

She laughed at the time. "Just give me a call if Johnny blows one of his fingers off, he's already almost done that three times this month alone." She said.

Was she selfish for feeling a pang in her chest? "It's natural to want to feel wanted," she can already hear someone wiser than her saying. Who could she actually say that to, though? Everyone around her was too busy and too interested in their own lives. She was just… well, herself. Lieutenant Petra; always stable, always the guiding hand, always the last one to complain when times get tough.

Her phone buzzes as the screen flashes to life. She picks it up and sees her brother's name in the notifications. When she clicks into their messages, it's a picture of him sitting in the back of a helicopter, his gear half-stripped off but his mask still on, covering the lower half of his face and leaving his smeared eye black and messy hair on display as he gives the camera a little thumbs-up.

Always his way of telling her he's okay after a mission. Whenever she was sent out, she'd do the same. Mylène sends a quick reply – "Try and spend more than three days at base when you get back." – and turns her phone off again.

It would be easy to message someone at this point and tell them the truth. "I'm feeling lonely, do you have time to chat?" are just nine little words. She was always the one telling her teammates and the soldiers under her command to reach out if they ever needed her, and yet the thought of doing the same felt like an impossible goal.

She turns her phone on its face and leans back against the cushion. After years of being her own shoulder to cry on, why was she suddenly feeling so lonely? She didn't need to be coddled, she didn't need to be someone's baby, she was always capable of relying on herself and no one else. She promised herself that the last time she broke down in front of someone else would be the last time she let herself do something like that. She didn't need it. She could take care of herself.

Mylène pushes herself off the sofa, worrying at the inside of her cheek. Everyone has their priorities and people they're already focused on caring for. She has herself, and that's all she needs. She doesn't need a shoulder to cry on or someone who knows how she's feeling all hours of the day.

"Verdomme…" She lifts her hands up and presses the heels of her palms to her eyes. "Get it together, Scholten…" She mutters in the empty room, drawing in and releasing slow, deep breaths until she can lower her hands to her sides once more. She handles it, just like always.

She has herself, and that's all she needs.