#orange tincture

[cat-eye-nebula]

My homemade "Summer dreams" aromatherapy perfume. I've made it with an orange & tangerine peel tincture and essential oils of Orange and Benzoin. I like to spray it also on my hair and on dark clothes. Its a light perfume - perfect for hot summer days to not overbruden the smell receptors.

[morethansalad]

The Life Jacket Mocktail - Happy Period Mocktail (Vegan)

[impossible-rat-babies]

ALSO I did manage to get all my crafter/gatherer gear melded ;—;

[celepeace]

One of the things about legal weed is that edibles are getting too good. They don't taste kinda nasty or just okay. The chocolates are legit tasty high quality chocolate and the gummies are flavored just right and have the perfect texture and the right level of sweetness. They're dangerous purely in they taste so damn good they could be included in a box of high quality expensive sweets and no one would notice a thing. I want to eat them just bc they're fucking delicious

[luveline]

hi again!! i saw you mention wanting to write for prince!steve, and i also saw that you write with dialogue prompts so i present to you:

A: “I’ll take care of you.”

B: “It’s rotten work.”

A: “Not to me. Not if it’s you.”

maybe the reader gets injured doing something for training, but it’s all up to you!! i’m sure we’ll love it regardless. kisses!!

thank you for requesting! —prince steve au. fem, 1.5k

Pain was familiar before you came to the palace. Small pains and big, all kinds of hurting, poverty-driven neglect leading to toothaches and back pain, twisted ankles walked on without choice, sore skin otherwise ignored. It didn’t matter if you got hurt as long as you lived. 

Not in a dramatic sense. It didn’t feel dramatic at the time, only miserable. You go to work with a migraine because you can’t afford not to. You walk home in the dark because the mag-trams are getting too expensive. You break your holo, so you make do without one. You pick your head up to keep looking both ways and you get everywhere you need to go because you need to work, to get paid, to eat, to work. 

That’s how it always was. So getting sick didn’t matter. An injury was temporary pain that your body would fix eventually, and if it didn’t, well, it’s cheaper to pull a tooth than pay to have it filled. 

You were used to your sorry life, and then you met Steve. Tall, brown-haired, brown-eyed Steve. Looking at him sometimes is enough to make your whole body a void for things you used to complain about; you wake up across from him in the big bed and forget you can feel pain at all, if only because he’s already awake, waiting for you to open your eyes before he rests his hand on your cheek. You met him and your soul-mark glowed with a lacy, almost feathered light, your wrist braceleted with white colour that soon faded to mellow blue. 

When you first meet your soulmate, the colours you make tend to shift. It takes time for your heart to decide if love is pink or orange or blue. It seems to have settled now —when Steve kisses you, your mark turns a Gaussian amber. When you kiss back, his mark turns light pink, like the lotus flowers he keeps in his private gardens. 

Right now, your mark hums an angry red. It’s typical in its colour, and it’s common. Most people’s marks turn red when they’re hurting. Yours is a crimson so dark it looks black in the dim lighting, and it throbs in time with your pain like a vexing metronome. You’ll never be able to put it from your mind if the mark continues to remind you. 

Steve is uncharacteristically quiet at your side. His own mark is lit in sympathy, mostly pink with his affection, but threaded in red like spider lily flowers blooming against his forearm. 

He shifts beside you. It’s been more than a month since your wedding, and yet he’s careful with you. Almost shy, though he can be brash and cocky. You know intimately how sweet Steve can be when he’s in love. 

It doesn’t make any sense. 

“How’s the pain now?” he asks, his eyebrows pulled together at their starts. 

“Not so bad.” 

“Could you rate it on a scale? If zero was no pain at all, and ten were enough to warrant another dose of white willow bark?” 

“What if I were at a five?” you ask. 

“A half dose and a good kiss?” 

You turn his way but flinch when it puts undue pressure on your leg, a stab of hot pain jumping from your fractured tibia to deep inside of your hips. Steve sees your wincing and presses your shoulder into the bed, leaning over you, a scolding he doesn’t give in the pinch of his eyebrows as he leans down to kiss you. It’s more caress than kiss, his hand cupping your cheek, his lips barely touching yours before he rests his nose at your brow. “Can you stay still?” he asks. 

“Sorry.” 

“Just don’t want you to hurt yourself again.” 

He lifts his head. Holds your cheek for longer than you can work out why, dotting another soft kiss to your nose before slinking out of bed to find you some white willow bark tincture. It’s a potent pain reliever. You shouldn’t have too much of it. If you were still living your past life, you’d be chewing on ginger skins trying to limp your way back into work. There’d be no time to stop. 

“Steve,” you say, watching him a small ways away at the table of your quarters. He turns to you. “I don’t really need anything else.” 

“You said it’s hurting?” Steve pipettes the tincture into a cup of water. “You said a five, and you lie. Knowing you, it’s closer to an eight, you just don’t want to tell me.” 

It might not be as extreme as an eight now, laying down and bandaged, but it hurts badly and a tincture would solve this. Still, you say, “It’s fine, I don’t need it.” 

He brings the glass regardless and puts it on the nightstand. Your bed is yards too big for one person, even two, but when Steve sits next to you he leaves no room between you. He looks down at you fondly. Brown hair like down feather falls against his forehead. 

“You’re going to be in pain for a long time.” He brings a hand to your cheek again. “It might sound tame, a plateau fracture, but that’s still a fracture. You know doctors say fracture when they mean broken, right? You broke your leg. It’s okay to want pain relief.” 

“I knew that. I didn’t know you knew it.” 

“Impolite.” He ducks down to look you in the eyes. You’re a little skewiff, straight to his sideways, but it gets a point across. He wants to kiss you while you’ve said something maddening. “I don’t see why you’re so insistent on pretending it hasn’t happened and that you’re fine. You got hurt, and you’ll stay hurt for a while. It might be weeks of bed and– and you need to be looked after. I don’t know why you’re so guilty about it.” 

“I’m not guilty,” you deny guilty, turning your face to lean into his hand, rather than continue to face his imploring gaze. “I just… I’m not used to this. Before, if something went wrong, I couldn’t just lay down and wait to get better, and I surely wouldn’t be laying here with doctors and servants and the ladies in waiting all trying to make sure– It’s like it’s not my fault, and that doesn’t make any sense. I don’t want to be a burden on everyone. More than I already am,” you add, a bitter mumble nearly lost to his palm. 

He makes a promise, then, turning your face to the light. “I’ll take care of you,” he says. 

“It’s rotten work.” 

Steve shakes his head gently. “Not to me. Not if it’s you.” 

You press your tongue to your teeth, worried you’ll say something you’ll regret. You don’t want him to go. You want him to mean exactly what he says, to stay here and take care of you, and to enjoy doing it. Wouldn’t it be nice to be loved for love's sake? 

Steve shuffles inward and encourages your head into his lap, thrusting pillows aside to take up station against your headboard. He frames your face, upside down, before both hands begin to run down your arms. A hug, in a way, as he twists his face to kiss the skin beside your eye. You squint at the proximity. 

“You’re not a burden,” he says, hands climbing upwards now, warm and steady where they travel, “you’re my wife. My cherished wife, remember?” 

His tone is silk. 

“You… haven’t proved to be a wretched husband,” you confess. 

“I did try. But loving you has been easy. It makes husbandry a gift.” He laughs at his grandiose and gives you a kiss that’s more familiar by your ear, his pleading, searching kisses, the kind he likes to press to all your softest junctures. “I wish you could understand that we’re marked for a reason. We were always meant to be together, and I couldn’t have asked for a better person to stand with me. I’m happy you’re here. I want to take care of you.” 

Not if it’s you, he’d said. 

You wonder if it might be okay to cry. He’s massaging your arms, still bent in half over you trying to kiss some belief in him into your forehead. 

“It’ll be okay,” he murmurs between chaste, silent kisses, “really. You don’t have to pretend things don’t hurt you anymore.” 

You feel strange, then, shivery and weak as you turn your face into his thigh. His hand slips behind your back to hold you.

“Can I convince you to drink this tincture now?” he asks, just above your ear. 

“I love you,” you mumble. 

He pauses his trailing hands. You squeeze your eyes closed, but he doesn’t pause for long enough to scare you. “I love you,” he says. “Since the day we met, I’ve loved you. I’ll take care of you.” 

He is easy to believe. 

[bryan-writes]

The witch in the woods// chapter 1

Chapter 1// the routine

The mornings in your corner of the woods always started the same.

A thin mist clung to the forest floor, not heavy enough to obscure the sprawling wilds but enough to soften their edges, making everything seem a little more dreamlike. The dawn light bled through the trees in streaks of gold and lavender, kissing the dew that slicked the tall grass and wildflowers around your apothecary. The house was a weathered relic of another time, with its ivy-covered stone walls and a roof patched with mismatched shingles. It exuded a peculiar charm, a place out of sync with the world around it— belonging more to folklore than reality.

You liked it that way. The isolation wasn’t lonely; it was yours.

Inside, the apothecary brimmed with a chaos that could only be described as intentional. Shelves bowed under the weight of jars filled with dried herbs, seeds, and powders, their handwritten labels slightly smudged. Bundles of lavender and sage hung from the ceiling beams, their scents mingling with the faint sweetness of honey and the sharp tang of vinegar stewing in the back corner. A tangle of vines from a stubborn pothos plant crept down one wall, as though trying to reclaim the space for nature.

Thistle, your scrappy orange tabby, was already awake and sprawled across the counter where your mortar and pestle waited. His green eyes blinked lazily at you, his tail flicking with faint irritation when you nudged him aside to make room.

”Good morning to you, too,” you murmured, scratching behind his ears as you reached for the jar of coffee beans.

The routine was sacred, even if it sometimes meandered. You ground the beans in slow, rhythmic circles, savoring the earthy aroma as it filled the room. The sound of boiling water was comforting, a steady hum against the backdrop of birdsong outside.

But today, there was weight to the air.

It wasn’t the kind of heaviness that announced itself outright. It was subtle, threading through the familiar like a stray strand of hair in your tea. You caught it in the way the shadows seemed a little sharper, the edges of the forest darker than they should have been. It wasn’t enough to unsettle you, not yet.

You leaned against the counter with your mug, gazing out the window as you sipped. The woods stretched endlessly beyond your apothecary, their depths both inviting and unknowable. The trees were alive with movement— the flutter of birds, the swaying of branches— but there was a stillness beneath it all that you couldn’t quite place.

Thistle yawned dramatically and padded over to the windowsill, pressing his nose against the glass.

“See something?” You asked, though you didn’t expect an answer.

______

By mid-morning, the first townsfolk began to arrive. They trickled in one by one, their boots muddy from the dirt paths that led to your apothecary. You had long since stopped finding it strange how far people would come for your remedies— some from the town proper, others from the farms that bordered the forest.

An older woman came first, her hands knotted with arthritis. You mixed her a salve with mint and comfrey, chatting idly about the weather as she peered curiously at your shelves. A young man followed, bashful and stammering as he asked for a tincture to soothe his nerves before his wedding next week. You teased him gently, your laughter easing the tension in his shoulders as you handed him a small vial of chamomile and valerian.

Each interaction was its own little ritual, and you found yourself slipping into the rhythm of it easily, as if the odd weight in the air had been a fragment of your imagination.

But then there was the boy.

He couldn’t have been older than ten, with a mop of dark hair and wide, hollow eyes that darted around the room as though expecting something to leap out at him. He clutched a crumpled note in his hand, which he thrust toward you without a word.

The paper was worn, the ink smudged, but you made out the request easily enough: “For nightmares.”

You glanced back at the boy, whose small hands were trembling slightly.

“Bad dreams?” You asked gently.

He nodded but didn’t elaborate.

You turned away to gather the ingredients— mugwort, lavender, a pinch of crushed moonstone— and blended them into a small pouch. As you tied it closed, you felt the weight in the air return, heavier this time.

“Here,” you said, kneeling to his level. “Put this under your pillow. It should help.”

The boy stared at you for a moment before taking the pouch and bolting out the door. You straightened slowly, watching him disappear into the trees.

Thistle jumped down from his perch and wove between your legs, his fur bristling slightly.

“Yeah,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. “I felt it, too.”

______

By the afternoon, the sun was higher, its light filtering through the trees in fragmented patterns. You took your basket and ventured into the woods, as you often did, to gather herbs and mushrooms for your apothecary. The forest was alive in ways that made your skin tingle— a rustling that didn’t quite match the breeze, a flicker of movement just beyond your peripheral vision.

You didn’t let it stop you, but the unease gnawed at the edges of your thoughts.

Deeper into the woods, you found yourself drawn to a cluster of thistle growing wild among the ferns. Its spiky blossoms were vivid purple, almost too vibrant for the muted tones of the forest around it. You crouched to harvest a few stems, wincing as the prickly leaves caught your fingers.

As you worked, you became aware of a presence.

It wasn’t loud or overt, but it was there— a subtle shift in the air, a feeling of being watched. You straightened slowly, scanning the trees around you. Nothing moved, but the weight of it pressed against your chest, making it hard to breathe.

Thistle, who had followed you out, arched his back and hissed, his orange fur standing on end.

“Okay,” you whispered, gripping your basket tightly. “Time to go.”

The walk back to the apothecary felt longer than usual, the shadows stretching impossibly long as the sun dipped lower in the sky. By the time you reached the safety of your porch, your hands were trembling again, and the ache in your chest hadn’t subsided.

You set the basket down and leaned against the doorframe, trying to shake the feeling.

Thistle brushed against your legs, his tail flicking nervously. You picked him up, burying your face in his fur for a moment.

“It’s nothing,” you told him, though you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince.

______

As the day turned into evening, the apothecary grew quiet. The last of the townsfolk had come and gone, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You lit a joint and settled into the armchair by the fire, the smoke curling lazily around you as you stared into the flickering flames.

The forest outside your window loomed, its secrets pressing against the glass like a dark tide. You could feel it now, pulsing just beneath your skin— a presence that wasn’t yours but had somehow claimed a piece of you.

And though you tried to dismiss it as paranoia, a small part of you wondered if the woods had always been this alive, and you just hadn’t noticed before.

Credit to @strangergraphics for the dividers :)!

[shesjustanothergeek]

His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Thirty-Four

Masterlist of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: Apologies for the wait. Life hasn't slowed down for me at all. As soon as I was finally in a good place physically and mentally, I got into a car accident. I'm okay. I didn't get hurt, and neither did the other person, but my car was totaled. I've been dealing with the insurance, and the head of household on the insurance could have been better in assisting me. It has not been fun. As always, thank you for your patience, and happy reading!

Chapter Warnings: drugging, mentions of miscarriage, Ser Criston Cole, we have an unhealthy relationship w/ our father.

The world around you was peaceful as you sank further into the throes of poppy milk. Candles softly hummed with the drafts that swept through the Keep, wood settled, and the fire within the hearth cracked. You did not have to think or feel anything other than the tincture slowly seeping into your marrow. Everything was calm and serene as your eyelids hung low, the orange glow of the flames blurry in your eyesight.

Jeyne sat on one of the lavish armchairs, a needle, and thread in her fist as she hemmed one of the summer dresses she had been putting off. You watched as her wrinkled hands worked, following the pattern of a blind hem stitch as she pulled the thread up and down in a hypnotic, steady rhythm. The shadows danced across her fingers with each tug, pulling you further and further into a deep trance.

Your cramps became a dull thudding in your back due to the milk, but the bleeding hadn't stopped, soaking through layers of fabric and onto your fresh bed sheets. Maester Orwyle warned that you would continue passing clots in the coming days and recommended that, along with wearing thicker, small clothes, you apply heat to your back and abdomen until the pain is gone. You chuckled at the thought, finding it ironic that the only remedies a man of medicine had were things your mother taught you, but followed them nevertheless.

Hours passed into the night, the wolf's hour gradually approaching, yet you never slept a wink. It was as if you were in a realm between the unconscious and conscious mind, awake yet unaware simultaneously. Jeyne had fallen victim to her body despite being ordered to keep watch. Her head hung low, and her chin tucked into her rising chest as she snored.

It was uncertain when your body came back to life. Your eyes opened as you scanned the dim room around you. The wind whistled into the night as you gazed out an iron-paned window, mouth thick. It felt like a thousand tiny insects crawled within your skin, tickling your muscles and sending shivers up your spine. The sensation is unwelcomed but not unpleasant, causing you to rise from your warm blankets and pace across your chambers.

You stumbled at first, knees crashing into the stone floor with a dull thud. Quickly, your head snapped to Jeyne, ears rushing with blood at the abrupt movement. Thank the Seven, the maid was still fast asleep, undisturbed by your grunts and hisses as you rose to unsteady feet again.

The floor ebbed and waved in your vision, your bones feeling like marble, vibrating with every step you took as you searched the plethora of the Maester's supplies for water, downing it in one greedy gulp. The world around you was still calm, a hue of yellow blanketing across your chambers as you listened to your audible breaths.

Longing pulled at your soul as your eyes fell upon your rumpled sheets. It reminded you of times not so long ago when you shared unbridled intimacy with the one you loved, a wistful smile on your chapped lips as you replayed the moments in your mind's eye. You couldn't understand why Alicent chose now to tear Aegon away from you. Could she not see the good you brought with him? Why did she not stop it sooner if she did not want you to grow as close to him as you had? Was the Queen indeed so cruel that she would tear away her son's only source of happiness simply because it no longer benefited her?

Alicent had created an impenetrable bond between two souls and now sought to destroy it, but oaths made of loyalty and love were hard to sever.

You were sure guards were posted outside your doors to stop you or Aegon from seeking one another, and the thought caused you to grimace. There were other ways to see each other, and you prayed that the Queen had not been wise enough to bar both. You did not desire to cause fuss or quarrels.

You needed to see him. That's all it was.

Gradually, you made your way to one of the numerous secret passages in the Keep, unbothered with the state of your being. No shoes nor gown covering was worn as your bare feet pattered over the dank passages. Though you did not emit your goal aloud, your muscles understood where to go as if the string of fate connecting two lovers' souls, bound together like the hands of marriage, pulled you toward one another. Shuffling your naked soles across the dirt-ridden path, you knew the way to Aegon's wing like the skills of the sword, not requiring a light as you advanced.

There was not a pathway directly to his chamber, or at least not one he or you had found, but thankfully, a small portion of the trek was a less traveled corridor until you reached Aegon's room.

Your sanity retreated, imagining joyful days filled with the sun's blinding rays atop Cannibal, the wind caressing your cheeks. The sticky, viscous sensation of blood running down your thighs was not a thought as those memories replayed, your limbs moving on their own.

The tender, yellow glow of torchlight came into view, reeling your body back into consciousness as the silhouette of a guard appeared. Ser Erryk caught you before you did him, rooted into his post, as he observed your shuffled gait with a curious expression. The smeared blood trail behind you caused his brows to arch in concern as you approached, the scent of smoke and something floral wafting in the air around you.

"Princess," Ser Erryk exclaimed, allowing himself to move a few paces forward. "You mustn't be here. The Queen said you were abed."

Giggling, you stopped before him, amused at the notion that the same person who forced milk of the poppy down your throat was concerned for your health. "Is that what she said?" you jeered halfheartedly. "I am confident that is not the only thing she expressed, as you are not immediately allowing me past those doors."

Your tongue felt like lead as you spoke, forcing your clouded mind to think twice as hard to get the words out.

Erryk stiffened, armor clanking in anxiety as he threw swift glances to the sides. His lips scrunched with indecision, battling an internal war with duty and compassion as you sway to the rhythm of your slowly beating heart.

"You are not permitted to see Prince Aegon, by her majesty's order, and he you," he admitted with a noiseless sigh as if this was as difficult for him as it was for you. You flashed the knight a countenance of pity, understanding the humanity within him conflicted with the soldier, fighting to be free. 

"Did she tell you what happened, Ser Erryk?" you questioned airily, your eyelids suddenly becoming increasingly heavy. With all your might, you hoped that your words would sway him, quickly sparing a glance down the path of your essence.

"His Highness explained to me the attack on your life and that my brother was sent to the Black Cells for failure of duty," he admitted. You could feel the pointed way his words meant, angered at what he felt was an injustice for Ser Arryk.

"He's imprisoned?" you asked, face wrinkled with worry. "I will see at once that he is back in his bed. Your brother was upset with me, but he did nothing wrong."

You could not feel the concern that you indeed should in a situation like this—an innocent man punished for someone else's sins. You could not feel anything except for the serenity that blanketed your being. You wished you could always be like this. Eternally calm, incapable of anxiety, anger, or sadness, and in the back of your mind, it worried you.

"Thank you, Princess," Erryk bowed, his back ramrod straight. "Prince Aegon confided the attempt on your life and the consequences of it. The death of a child is something more profound than any knight could endure. You have my condolences."

Your breath hitched, lashes fluttering. The memory of your agony, the cramping, the blood, the screams of a babe torn from their mother's womb echoed in your skull like an agonizing symphony. You focused on your steady pulse, pulling yourself back under the comforting spell of the poppy.

For just a while longer, you did not want to feel.

"Then you understand why I must see Aegon." Your declarations were too sober for one under the influence, and your nose began to itch, disarming Erryk as his internal war raged. "I have yet to experience the comfort of grief in the company of a loved one, Ser. The Queen took that from me," you voiced, your words becoming unsteady and rambled. "I am alone in this place. I do not have a mother or father from whom I can seek guidance. I have no true friends. Only political allies surround themselves with me because of obligation. I have Aegon, and that is it."

The confession slipped past your lips before you realized your voice was speaking, mouth thick with unobstructed emotion. "So, please, Ser. I pray you. Allow me to see him."

The battle between warrior and compassion ended, the goodness within Ser Erryk prevailing over duty as he pursed his lips, a sheen in his eye. You realized that was the difference between the two brothers, and perhaps you aligned yourself with the wrong choice. One was bound to serve the realm with a blind eye, not questioning commands no matter their inhumane contents under the guise of duty. The other was as much a devout servant to those he followed, yet he allowed his conscience to guide him in his actions instead of unseeing obedience.

You could feel the blood collecting at your feet, seeping into the cracks of the flagstone floor and staining the hem of your nightdress. It was as if Erryk could sense it too, blue orbs flicking down to the small crimson puddle on the ground, swallowing audibly as the groaning walls creaked in the silence. He opened the stalwart oak doors to Aegon's chamber, wordlessly bidding you in. You sent him a grateful look as you entered, promising to yourself that you would not let the milk of the poppy make you forget his kindness.

Aegon's bed chamber was unlit except for a handful of half-melted candles scattered haphazardly about the area, emitting a subtle yellow glow to the miscellaneous items discarded on the floor. Your lover was not in his usual spot, draped lazily on his sheets like a stretched cat, nor was he at the lavish furniture in front of the crackling fire. It wasn't until you heard the telltale sounds of hiccuping breath, a loud sniff, and a bone-shuddering sob that you turned.

Aegon stood in the same attire you recalled at the farthest corner of his room on the full-length windowsill. His back faced you, still unaware of another person in his chambers. A decorative glass wine decanter was within his grasp, taking large swigs of the reddish liquid as his body swayed on the ledge.

Though your reason clouded with a thick mist, muscles heavy with each movement, a rush of panic went through you as a harsh draft of the frigid night air nearly threw Aegon off balance before he righted himself.

"Raqnon?" (love), you called out into the darkness, toes catching on a rumpled pile of clothes as you stumbled towards him.

Aegon's cropped hair spun with him as he fell to his knees on the stone floor with a yelp, the glass decanter shattering. He mumbled something you couldn't decipher as you approached him with tentative movements, careful not to pierce yourself on any scattered pieces. You attempted to kneel before Aegon, but he stopped you with the wave of his hand.

"You-" he stuttered breathlessly, attempting to stand on drunk legs, "you should be resting. Get on the bed."

You could not deny the rush his command inspired and did not protest as you went, sitting on the edge and observing how Aegon stumbled over pieces of crystal with a concern scrunch to your brow. "You've been drinking," you stated rather than asked. You knew the answer, the clues evident that even the most inept of individuals could see. You wanted to hear him admit it aloud. "I thought you were limiting your consumption?"

Aegon's eyes met yours, a shimmering pool of amethyst within exhausted, sunken holes of indigo. You were sure you looked no better with a sallow hue due to the blood loss. They were both mirror reflections of each other's internal emotions.

"I think," he began, limbs tangled and gait like a newborn colt, "this situation allows me to have a little drink."

Your nose itched. A pesky little sign that tears were about to flow as you lowered your gaze to the small crimson stain on your nightdress. There was no reply to the prince, no words that would convince Aegon to take this situation more seriously than his mind would allow, and so you let the briny rivers flow, timidly nodding in acquiescence.

The profound feeling of failure mixed with dread crept its claws up your back, its fingers like knives as an overwhelming sense of hopelessness and lassitude tugged at your heart until it could no longer beat.

All that work and what did it get you... All the sacrifices you made, prioritizing the future of a realm that will not remember you two hundred years from now when the Targaryen legacy no longer has its hold over the land. What have you done but give your life— your body in service of your House? And what did you have to show for it? An immature prince who does not know how to cope without the aid of firewater. The overwhelming fear of the hereafter pulled you into an abyss you could not escape.

How would your father react to this? Your mother? Both would be distraught beyond comprehension, each showing it in varying ways. Daemon was always quick to anger and thirsted for bloodshed, acting with sharp words and swift blows with the sword rather than Rhaenyra, who had a matching fury but whose wrath and memory knew no bounds. You fretted for those who would fall victim.

Abruptly, Aegon's moonlight hair came into view. His arms trapped your lower legs in an iron embrace, and his forehead burrowed between your thighs.

"This is my doing. I left you alone after I vowed never to leave your side... to protect you," Aegon sobbed, tears staining the white fabric of your skirt.

"Do not be foolish," you retorted more harshly than intended as your hand instinctively went to his crown. "You seek to make it your fault within the confines of your own mind because you cannot fathom anything bad would happen unless it was influenced by you–because you think so lowly of yourself–because you have been told every waking moment of your life that something was not good enough because of you."

You could no longer retain your inner thoughts of Aegon's psyche and who helped influence him to be in such a way. You almost died, and you did not want to spend another moment keeping them within.

"The figures in your life that were supposed to guide you, shape you, nurture you failed tremendously, and yet they blame you for their shortcomings." You took Aegon by the sides of his head, forcing his bleary eyes to meet your focused ones, trying to impress the seriousness of your words. "It is not your fault."

The prince choked, mouth thick with excess saliva and mucus as he tried to speak. "I know it's not."

He did not know what you meant. Was it for something specific? Was it your poisoning and losing your child? Was it because of the heartache and shame he caused people? His actions and coping mechanisms? Or was it for anything and everything he forced himself to bear the conscience of?

You did not believe him, and the confession came too quickly to have entirely made an impact. "No, Aegon. It is not your fault."

"I know." He stared, lips tucked into a stiff pout, and attempted to pull away and gaze anywhere but you.

"Look at me, issa raqnon," (my love) you softly commanded, your voice tender and kinder than he had ever heard. His mouth twitched, glassy, and ametrine slowly dragged up your arm, chest, shoulder, neck, and face. "It is not your fault."

Aegon balked, light-colored lashes blinking as your words finally struck through the two decades of mental fortresses created by harsh words, unrealistic expectations, and emotionless love like a battering ram to the sturdy oak doors of the mud gate.

"Please," he whispered, for what he did not know. Perhaps a last-moment plea to halt the forthcoming emotions and memories he kept numbed and buried deep within wine, women, and gambling.

Nevertheless, Aegon's effort proved fruitless as a cry akin to a howl tore through his vocal cords, ripping his marred soul bare for you to finally see. He pressed his cheek into your stomach, ignoring the pang of discomfort that rolled through you as he wept as if he were a babe. You cradled him to you, stroking his matted silver strands as you rocked him with the other, your self-gratifying way to help ease your nerves.

It reminded you of your time in the Godswood underneath the heart tree, where Aegon laid his soul unyielding to allow you both to become one finally. Those stolen moments seemed like a lifetime ago, but much happened between then and now to lead you to this moment.

You were grateful that your love was finally actualized and did not regret a single moment spent together from when Ser Arryk discovered your affair to the present attempt on your life and the successful one of another. You had no choice but to feel again, despite your best efforts, nails scraping Aegon's scalp as the milk of the poppy waned, replacing the hollow loss with unfelt grief.

It was almost as if the pregnancy did not exist, and to those not within your chambers at that time, it didn't. There were no signs, cravings, missed moon blood, or weight gain in areas typical to term. To all who did not see you pass the blood clots with their own eyes, you had no reason to mourn. You could not get the image of your child torn from your womb, your skin, muscle, and innards tossed aside in search of something you did not know you carried out of your head, the screams of you and your child melding into one.

"Here I am, crying in a puddle of my own self pity when you are bleeding from your womb," Aegon sniveled, pulling away and rising onto one knee.

He placed a sticky palm over the affected area, your face crumpling with emotion. "That is not you speaking, dōnus taobus," (sweet boy). "We both hurt immeasurably today and in the past. We must mourn for what happened and what could have been," you replied, placing your hand over his.

Aegon's fingers dragged from your stomach, over your breasts, and onto your jaw, gingerly stroking your lower lip, brows scrunched in thought. He did not speak, letting an already wandering mind fester as his gaze studied the moist area.

"Do you believe in the tales of Old Valyria?" Aegon asked unprompted. "About the dragon gods bestowing dreams on people they deemed worthy?"

You nodded noiselessly, confused yet eager to know what he had to say as Aegon kept his gaze fixed on your mouth, slowly stroking the area. "I believe all cultures have their own belief systems, and one can be as valid as any. After all, it was Daenys the Dreamer who allowed us to live here today."

"Always the diplomat," the prince chortled, eyes crinkling with bittersweet mirth. "I believe Helaena is one of them," he said thoughtfully. "She has always said peculiar things–things I never paid much attention to until now."

You stared at Aegon in befuddlement, raising a brow as he continued his thoughts. "She said that you will grow old in love with me, that our union will be of love, and that the children will adore you as if you are their mother. That the dragon has three heads and that Aegon spent ten nights with Rhaenys for every one he spent with Visenya, but I will spend every night with you," he rambled, desperate to get the sentences plaguing his mind out.

It was a pleasant idea that sent heat to your ears to imagine that one day you would wed Aegon and no longer have to hide your love, but you knew it to be untrue. You were a bastard, and he was a married, true-born son of the king. Not only would it be against the law, but sin in the eyes of the Faith for one man to take two wives. It could fracture the relationship between the crown and the Citadel, and you did not wish for history to repeat itself.

Suddenly, a distant memory, one you had not thought of since it happened, appeared in your mind's eye. The confession took you back in time to the moment of Aegon's nameday feast, where you recalled bathed in glittering gold, loud, upbeat orchestral music, and the words, a sacrifice of her blood, peace reborn, chanting over and over in your head.

Aegon could see your thoughts etched into the worried wrinkles of your face, standing to his full height as he gave one final swipe across your moist lip. He ordered you wordlessly with the brush of your loose strands of hair out of your face to lay back onto his mountain of throw pillows. Swallowing tears, you turned onto your side with a groan, sudden lower body movements still debilitating as Aegon dutifully assisted you under the blankets.

The prince crawled beside you, placing one arm securely around your waist, careful not to cause any pressure, and the other underneath your body. He nuzzled his nose into your neck, releasing a sigh that held all his worries. He kissed your sweat-dampened skin, relieved to be within your comforting warmth. Your muscles relaxed your mind at ease and protected within the embrace of your fair-haired boy. Silence sat until your mind could finally form a response to his prior confession.

"I desire for her words to be true," you expressed, a longing for a life free of secrets and anxiety causing more tears to spring. A life you feared was not your future.

A screech broke throughout the orange and gray sky of King's Landing, rumbling the sleeping inhabitants' thatched roofs and glass windows. It was not unusual to hear the roars of dragons in the skies, and most paid no mind, simply falling back into slumber to hopefully catch what little bit of rest they had before the day.

The wings of Caraxes sliced through the late winter air as his rider descended at the mouth of the Dragonpit. Keepers scrambled on the packed dirt like disturbed ants from their hill, abruptly stolen from sleep. They could sense that much like his rider, the Blood Wyrm was in a state, snorting, stomping, and snapping at each of the Dragonkeepers as they attempted with difficulty to leash the winged beast.

Daemon did not wait until the handlers could properly restrain Caraxes as he dismounted from his ornate leather saddle. Jumping down the ropes on the side of his crimson scales, the Rogue Prince landed with dust under his feet, adjusting Dark Sister at his waist.

"Your Highness, we were not anticipating your arrival. Please forgive us," the headkeeper bowed, struggling to hold the agitated Caraxes at bay.

Daemon sniffed at the man and fixed his riding tunic unbothered. He had no time for people's false pleasantries and proper arrivals, nor did he want to.

"I need a horse," he cooly commanded, disregarding the Keepers' shouts in High Valyrian.

He paced along the edge of the Dragonpit like one of the beasts held within the cave, aching to fly, aching to be free. Gods knew if you were alive or not, whether those Green cunts had done away with you and framed it as a simple accident. The only thing that kept Daemon at bay was the letter. Though that piece of parchment was a harbinger of agony and worry, it meant that there was someone within those pale red stone walls who was an ally.

Daemon would tear those fucking vipers piece by piece until all that left of them were ash and bone. You were his daughter. An attempt on your life was just as good as his.

At times, he felt you were the only one within his family who understood him, the only one with whom he could fully be his true self. With his wife and other children, it was not to say that Daemon could not act honestly; he knew they loved him for who he was, yet the Rogue Prince did not want to scare them with things he felt inside. With you, his eldest daughter, he felt free. Your father could confide all his darkest thoughts, the anxieties that kept him awake at night that would send Rhaenyra into a panic. It was why he chose you to be the one who ensured a future with him beside the Iron Throne.

You were the only one who could tolerate his antics and give as good as you could receive. You knew when to put Daemon in his place and when to allow him to reign free. While Rhaenyra made him a good man, you made him a better one.

People saw that, and it was no doubt one of the reasons you were in this situation. The Rogue Prince was weak with his favorite daughter out of the way. He would not allow them to feel accomplished. If you died, House Hightower and all who swore to protect you would be eradicated by the morrow.

The whiny of a horse stole Daemon from his trance, halting his prowling as an unnamed knight strode on his steed.

"Your Highness," the Gold Cloak called, halting the chestnut horse with a pull of the reins. "Her Majesty, the Queen was not expecting you. Please forgive us for the lack of preparation. A wheelhouse is being prepared to take you to the castle."

The knight seemed out of breath as if he was the one who ran from the Red Keep to the Dragonpit as Daemon approached him. He was calm with his strides, leather boots thumping on packed dirt as he peered up at the man, the orange hue of the sunrise burning his eyes. He did not speak at first, seeming to size up the man before he lunged, grabbing the Gold Cloak by his weighted breastplate and throwing him off the startled horse. Daemon did not look to see if the aghast soldier was unharmed, clicking with the side of his cheek as he turned the animal toward Aegon's Hill.

"Where is she?" Alicent shouted at your eldest maid, tears of frustration and fear welling in her round brown eyes.

The screech of Caraxes woke every inhabitant of the palace, a sound the Queen believed to be in her nightmares until it boomed again. She understood it was only a matter of time until Daemon or Rhaenyra discovered what happened to their daughter, and now, it was about controlling the damage that would be left in the Rogue Prince's wake.

"I am not sure, your Majesty," Jeyne answered with a lowered head. She honestly did not know. Sleep had overcome her no matter how hard she tried to fight it.

"I entrusted you with the Princess's protection, and you failed. Now, for all we know, the assassin could have completed his mission. It will be your fault if that is the case," Alicent scolded the older maid, speaking down to the woman as if she were merely a child.

It angered Jeyne beyond measure. She had grown too comfortable with the respect you gave her and Fiora. Before she realized it, she was biting back, barely containing ire that would ruin her chances at a smooth life in the Keep.

"It will not be on my conscience if that is the case, my Queen."

Alicent balked. Plush lips agape with shock, digits twitching as if she wished to strike the insolent servant for her remark. Inhaling a calming breath, the Queen folded her hand across her abdomen, shoulders upright and chin held high as she spoke.

"You are dismissed from your duties henceforth," she declared with a furled lip as if the mere presence of someone close to you nauseated her.

Alicent could not hurt you in a way that would not arouse suspicion; she had tried that once before and failed, so she believed the next best thing would be to hurt those dear in your presence.

A woman from her station could not speak as freely as you did to Alicent. Her father was not the Rogue Prince, nor was she the lover of a crowned prince. The eldest maid was comforted that once you got wind of her reassignment, you would no doubt rain fire from the Seven Hells to get her back. Jeyne bowed humbly before the Queen, her chin held too high for the Queen's liking, and said nothing more as she exited the room toward the servant quarters, passing the guard stationed at your door.

The Queen sighed deeply, releasing tension she had not realized the conversation had created. She put her nimble fingers to the bridge of her nose. Her ramrod-straight posture slouched in her typical forest green dress, the ever-looming presence of the future shadowing her mind.

"My Queen!" An unknown guard barreled into your greeting room, his armor clanking and causing his limbs to throw all his weight. "Prince Daemon was spotted flying atop Caraxes over King's Landing," he breathlessly declared as if he had run across the castle.

"I know. I came to inform the Princess that her father had come to pay her a visit, but she is not here. Have the guards search for her in my son's quarters. Discretion is of utmost importance," Alicent commanded, her voice rich like velvet. She knew where you would go. You were still a girl in her eyes, desperate for a morsel of companionship in times of need. Alicent understood the feeling and recalled many times in her past when she had no one but herself. 

She had not felt nor sounded like the Queen she claimed to be within your presence until now. Her posture returned to its regal stiffness, her shoulders rolled back, and her scowl pulled her plump lips. How Daemon got word of your well-being was unknown, but she knew there was a traitor in the Red Keep. Someone or possibly more had deliberately gone against the orders of the Hand and Queen Consort. There was no telling what they would do should the untimely death of the King strike.

Paranoia wound into Alicent's gut, tying her insides into knots as the unnamed knight bowed to fulfill his duty.

The control the Queen grappled with her entire service was falling from her grasp like sand between one's fingers. Everything had gotten out of hand so quickly that she could not comprehend what to do next. The most heinous scenarios ran through her head at what Daemon would do with no one to steady the reigns. She recalled the stories of the Rogue Prince in the Stepstones—the betrayal, the horror, the bloodshed of returning to court with a crown made of his enemy's bones. He was an army of his own, and the death of one of his soldiers would not deter him from his purpose; it would only further his wrath.

Alicent could no longer be complacent in her terror. Her legs carried a twitching and trembling form across the silent halls of the Keep until she saw a streak of red. It appeared out of nowhere, trailing behind the culprit's path like footprints in freshly fallen snow. She knew it could only belong to one person, and a shuddering breath racked her at the realization.

Your dreams were pleasant, though you could not recall them, only the feeling they gave. The laughter of those you sensed were your loved ones, their smiles, the warmth of the sun, basking in its eternal yellow warmth, and the sturdy touch of what you believed was the ground beneath you. You longed to stay in this moment forever, realizing in your mind that it was a dream, but you didn't care. You just wanted to feel the joy that always seemed a finger-width away, even if it was under the falsehood of sleep.

Your dreams did not last long enough, suddenly ripped away from your blissful world to a searing pain to your scalp. Your eyes shot open as you released a scream, your sore body dragging across the Myrish rug on Aegon's floor, the fibers burning your flesh raw. You struggled within your assailant's vice-like grip to no avail, your prince startling awake as he tried to see through the eyes of sleep.

Fear gripped your heart, thoughts racing as to who would do this to you, your previous assailant coming to mind. You felt the slice of skin before you saw it, hissing in hurt as the shattered pieces of the wine decanter appeared next to you, a trail of blood leading from your foot. Without hesitation, you snatched the nearest piece, slashing the skin of your abductor's hand. They released you with a wince, your head thumping against the floor as you scrambled away.

The armor of a kingsguard glinted in the candlelight as a grunting Ser Criston cradled his bleeding hand. Fearful confusion etched your features as Aegon came rushing to your side, throwing himself between you and the enraged knight.

"You cunt!" Ser Criston cursed, clutching his fist to his breastplate.

"Criston!" Aegon shouted, running a soothing hand through your hair. "I'll cut your fucking tongue out for that! How dare you put your hands on her?"

Tears welled in your eyes, and an overwhelming sensation of helplessness that was akin to your childhood overcame you as you hid your face within Aegon's soft torso. You could not care about the shameless way you cried, sniffling and hiccuping as you did in your girlhood in your lover's embrace.

"Her father is on his way here as we speak. Do you want to be discovered with her in your bed?" Criston admonished, his words filled with an ire you always knew simmered below the surface.

Aegon growled an animalistic noise that rattled you to your core as he stood, your arms reaching out in search of his comfort. "You will leave us and never put your hands on her again or I shall tell the King of what you have done here."

Criston knew it was not an empty threat. He did not doubt the prince would run to his half-dead father about what he did. While the knight didn't have faith that Viserys would be lucid enough to enact anything, the memory of his frail body walking across the Great Hall during the hearing of Driftmark made him hesitant. But it did not matter. The Queen and the Hand ruled the kingdom in Viserys' sickness. To Criston, he was only king in name.

"I am on orders of your Queen Mother to bring the Princess back to her chambers. She was not supposed to leave on the Maester's command," he declared confidently, the pain from his cut dwindling as the blood began to clot.

"The Maester's command," you repeated with a sneer as you stood. Anger replaced any fear that made its home in your chest, coming to be beside Aegon. "You were not there as I was forced to drink milk of the poppy despite Maester Orwyle's protests. It was your Queen who wishes to keep us separated."

The revelation did not phase Ser Cole. He had no conscience when it came to the likes of a bastard whore. His dark brow was stern as he disregarded you. "Move, my prince, or you will be moved."

Rage burned hot in your bones, roaring into a flaming inferno that felt like it would scorch your insides if you did not let it out. Ser Criston had no right to the aggression he displayed with you. You had not done anything to him. You had barely spoken except for brief conversations of forced politeness when given no other choice, yet he still held hatred for you that you could never understand.

"You fucking celibate, craven, son of a-"

An abrupt smack across your temple cut off your words, ringing your ears momentarily as your vision swiftly faded.

"Criston!" a new voice shouted as your unconscious body toppled to the floor, a weeping Aegon following soon after. "What have you done?"

Alicent stood in the doorway, a shocked Erryk Cargyll standing stock-still beside her. Criston heaved, his shoulders rapidly falling up and down as his brown eyes drifted to your listless expression. He thought he preferred you that way, briefly imagining someone else in your place.

"Apologies, your majesty," he bowed modestly, returning to the humble White Cloak everyone knew him as. "In my efforts to return her highness to her rooms, I struck her in anger. Please, forgive me."

The Queen balked, doe eyes nearly bulging out of her skull as she saw the whisper of blood trickle from your scalp onto your cheek. She swallowed, head reeling with the thought of another consequence she would face when you came to.

Suddenly, an idea came to mind, something so conniving and wicked that it reminded her of her father. It sent a chill down Alicent's spine, sending a brief prayer of forgiveness to the Seven before clearing her throat as she spoke. "All is forgiven, Ser Cole. You've served my House steadfastly all these years, and for that you have my many thanks. Please, take her to her quarters and summon the Maester."

Her sworn shield bowed, ordering a silently begrudging Ser Erryk to restrain Aegon as he threw you over his shoulder with a grunt as if you were no more than a grain sack. Aegon shrieked in response, attempting to chase after you, but ran into the wall of Ser Erryk. He tried to push past, but it was no use. He was exhausted, physically and mentally, and no longer had the facilities to thrash against others.

"Please, my prince," Erryk pleaded, a sturdy fist placed against Aegon's chest. "You will see her again."

Her solution was temporary, that much Alicent knew, and would require the fear your father instilled in others to work. However, if she were as intelligent and cunning as her father, time and patience would be on her side. She just hoped that the Gods were, too.

Alicent understood you would only listen with great struggle. Now that you knew your father was here, you had another soul to cling to—one she could not control or manipulate. Those who served you would be tested on how much their loyalties ran when met with the highest order of the kingdom, and the Queen prayed fear flowed deeper than any bond did as she ordered the Maester for another tincture.

Leather footfalls echoed throughout the red rock walls of the Keep, intimidating those who were unsuspecting in the Rogue Prince's path. Stunned maids and manservants gasped and bowed in Daemon's presence as he passed. Each whispered words to one another behind glancing eyes and covered mouths. It should not be unusual for the king's brother to arrive unannounced, yet the years of tense relations with the Queen Consort and the Heir made his entrance something to gossip about.

He paid no mind to the common folk chatter. He was the victim of it all of Daemon's life. First with the uncertainty of Viserys' heir, then with his concubine Lady Misery when he gifted her and their unborn child a dragon egg, the next with rumors of him and Rhaenyra's uncouth relationship of uncle and niece, the suspicious death of his first wife, Rhea Royce, his marriage to his niece, and the legitimization of a bastard.

No amount of courtly yapping would affect Daemon. Not anymore. Especially not now when said daughter's life was in the grasp of those who openly despised his family.

He did not know where those traitors held you, how the Greens treated you, or if you were still alive, and that uncertainty shook Daemon to his core, though you could not see it. He was confident of one thing: where to find Otto. High atop the tower of the Hand would be where the snake resided, no doubt thinking of more ways to scheme himself into positions he was undeserving of.

Surprisingly, no guards stopped the Rogue Prince as he ascended the winding steps to the tower. Perhaps they knew not to mess with a sleeping dragon, ready to spit flames at anyone who dared wake it. Damon entered the Hand's chambers, giving no opportunity to properly announce a guest's arrival.

Ser Otto Hightower raised a wirey, unamused brow at the prince, unbothered by his lack of manners. He knew that Daemon was on his way and had prepared everything and everyone accordingly. He ordered your maids and Maester Orwyle into silence, and should they speak, incomprehensible outcomes would befall them. Alicent, Otto's ever-dutiful daughter, his favorite daughter,and his only daughter took care of her son's and your matters.

"Prince Daemon," the hand greeted him, yet he did not stand. "It is an unexpected pleasure to have you return home unannounced."

The prince ignored the covert jab at his lack of manners, his lips twitching into a scowl as his palm rested on the hilt of Dark Sister. "I do not share the same sentiment," he sneered. "I know what you have done to my daughter and it is treason. I demand to see her at once."

"It is unfortunate what has befallen you, daughter, but you must understand my discretion. She has had an attempt on her life, and we certainly do not need other members of the royal family fearing for theirs." Otto sighed, seeming like the conversation was with a petulant child, not a war-hardened machine.

"That is what you call ceasing communications with Dragonstone?" Daemon shook his head, rolling his violet eyes with a scoff. "It seems to everyone but you what exactly you were trying to do. A guilty conscience I presume?"

Otto paused, his dark orbs sizing up the enraged prince in his usual fashion. He was a man of patience and perseverance, proven over the decades. The Hand was indeed capable of action but not overtly like the Rogue Prince. He took time to understand his allies and even more so with his enemies, ensuring he knew things they did not know themselves. Inhaling a sharp breath, Ser Otto returned his gaze to the uninvited guest and spoke barbs disguised as silk.

"I understand your feelings on the matter, but you must understand that it is not only her that is in danger. If one member of the court were to catch wind of an attempted assassination on someone of her stature chaos would erupt," Otto expressed pragmatically. Daemon scoffed, intertwining his hands over his waist as he leaned a foot out in exasperation. "People would feel unsafe and have doubts in the king's capabilities to ensure his subjects are safe, let alone his kin. There would be a mass exodus within the Keep, notable Houses would pull their investments. It would tear the establishment down simply because of one girl's mistake."

Anger lit inside Daemon's chest at his words, spine straightening to his full height as he strode to the Hand's desk with menacing strides. How dare he speak about you as if you were just an animal? That you were nothing but one of the many pieces of parchment sat upon the wood for him to briefly read and discard. Dark Sister swung at the prince's waist, beating to his movements, the coattails of his riding gear flowing behind as he stood tall over the Lord's Hand.

Before Daemon could think better of it, rearing his arm back and connected his fist into the scruff of Otto's nearly trimmed beard, knocking the pompous man from his seat. The prince had longed to do this for decades, and now, with no one to rein him in, he could. It was a cathartic feeling filled with pent-up rage and jealousy for all the years Otto filled the seat he desired, whispering in his brother's ear to influence decisions in ways that benefited the Hightowers.

This was personal.

Daemon circled the spruce davenport and kneeled. The prince gripped his midnight-colored tunic, readying his dominant hand to bash the Hand's face as the door to the office opened. The Queen stood in the entryway, a horrified look on her visage as she screeched for the guards to separate them.

"No need," Daemon answered coolly as the Gold Cloaks entered, righting himself. He rolled his shoulders unbothered as if he were caught wrestling with a sibling rather than one of the highest Lords of Westeros.

Alicent swiftly went to her father, kneeling beside him as tears glimmered in her wide amber eyes. Otto gently brushed her dotting efforts away, refusing his fragile masculine pride to be further insulted with the aid of a woman. She opened her plump lips to order the guards to escort Daemon away, but he held his palm, halting the frightened Queen with what he might intend to do next.

"Where is my daughter?" he questioned, the smooth timbre of his domineering tone replaced with something almost... soft.

Alicent swallowed the excess saliva that accumulated inside her mouth with the threat of tears. Her gaze returned to her father, noticing the trickle of blood on his lip, no doubt split from the force of Daemon's strike. She waited for her father to speak, still thrown to the ground as he said to her in expressions only she could comprehend. When he assured her and himself that everything was in place without words, he nodded, Daemon's suspicious gaze examining them.

"She is in Maegor's Holdfast. I am sure you know how to conduct yourself in those halls," Alicent snipped, her voice velvety and moist, as she helped her pride-wounded father stand.

The prince gave her no more words, no looks that said he heard her before he was off, leaving a trail of destruction behind him, gait determined with only one goal in mind, and Seven help any poor, unfortunate soul who stood in his path.

Prickling anxiety stirred within Daemon's gut as he followed a young servant with bright, fiery hair. The nervous thing rang her hands together until her knuckles cracked, sparing fleeting glances behind her to ensure he had not abruptly decided to live up to his name.

Daemon imagined your fear and knew you must have felt betrayed, terrified, and distraught. He thought about how you needed him in your most vulnerable moment, only to find that there was no one. He was the one who set the foundations for your assault. He should have never forced you into this position. Your father should have kept you close and tucked away in his heart as he did everything dear to him.

Now, he would never let you go for as long as the blood of the dragon flowed through his veins.

Each realization strung him up further into his anxiety, feeling his heart beating at every point of his body. The moment's walk felt like decades of agony to him, as if Daemon was forced to fight a legion of soldiers alone with an arm tied behind his back. The servant, whom he did not care to know, stopped at a great wooden door, curtsying to him with her chin tucked into her chest and gaze lowered. Daemon stared at her dully, waiting for any further response or courtesy, but gave none, answering his question wordlessly as he opened the portal.

A thick blanket of invisible smoke covered your chambers, stinging his pale, violet eyes as he struggled to breathe. It blinded his senses, unable to think of anything other than the overpowering scent of incense. His vision did not immediately travel to you but to a dark-skinned man with modest gray robes. The Maester's back was turned to Daemon as he hunched over a table with supplies, mixing dried herbs to make what he assumed was a pot of medicinal tea.

He left the man at work, looking around the heavy room until he saw you. Daemon stared at you in disbelief at the heart-wrenching sight before him, feeling only the frantic pounding of his unsteady pulse.

His daughter lay under thick sheets of Hightower green, your face sallow and sunken rings of indigo under your eyes.

"They told me they found her within a puddle of gore. No attacker in sight," Orwyle said in a trembling voice, clearly afraid of his wrath. Daemon didn't listen to him, staring blankly at your listless expression.

He approached you slowly on trembling legs, feeling complete emptiness in his head. He breathed heavily through his mouth as Daemon kneeled beside a bed that did not belong to you, gently grasping your cheeks in his fingers and turning your face towards him. Your body was limp, your mouth slightly parted, your eyelids half open, and your gaze distant and misty. It was as if you were not here, not in spirit, wetting your lips as he heard your labored breathing.

"What happened?" your father asked in a whisper, terrified of how his voice and body were shaking. His heart threatened to burst from his ribs, his throat and stomach squeezed so tightly that he had trouble filling his lungs with air.

He heard your quiet sigh as you struggled to train your gaze on him, looking at your father as if you were thinking about something and unsure if what was happening was a dream or true. It has been so long since you last saw him that you wondered if you had truly gone mad after everything.

Relief did not flood Daemon at discovering you were alive, and it was when he looked at you closely that he noticed your right temple was swollen, a tiny sliver of broken pink flesh decorating the top. The wound was fresh, blood still glistening, and he understood it must have happened within the last few hours. He felt tears of shame under his eyelids and overwhelming rage at the thought that someone had dared to hit you.

His daughter—his flesh.

"Father," you whispered so quietly that he barely heard you, stroking the soft skin of your face. Daemon felt an unbearable squeeze in his throat at your voice, his eyebrows arched in pain, eyes burning from the tears that wanted so desperately to run down his visage.

"I am here." The Rogue Prince whimpered with difficulty in a tone breaking with pain and grief, pressing his nose against your hair. He cried out loudly, never feeling so helpless before in his life, for his dearest daughter, his favorite daughter, was dying in his arms because of him, betrayed and abandoned.

"Who did this to you?" he questioned thickly, words echoing in the cavernous expanse of your guest chambers. This place has been your home for two years.

You spent two years with only written correspondence. A father's duty was to protect his kin and make the proper decisions that ensured their success and safety in life, but he was ill-fated. Daemon was your guardian, the only person in this forsaken world in whom you should place your unwavering trust, and he failed—not only as a father but also as a man.

"The Stranger," you muttered in response with great effort, eyes rolling back into your head and lids closing as you released a profound sigh.

He knew that your mind was not in its proper place, nor did he expect it to be. You escaped the clutches of death within a house that prayed at every chance for your downfall. Your father put you in a cage inhabited by rabid wolves seeking to devour every morsel of prey that walked within the halls of the Red Keep, but you were not an easy meal. You were lined with scars and teeth marks of the past, hardening your hide from each predator who attempted to sink their claws into you.

Daemon turned a young lamb into a dragon, and they would soon feel your fire's scorching heat.

"Talus mandus ñuhus. Jorilagon sesīr," (My gentle daughter. Rest now.) he muttered, feeling the warm tears run down his cheeks. He looked only at you, stroking your crown as if you were a small child.

Daemon considered the Hightowers, Alicent, and Otto conniving snakes in the grass bound by piousness, servitude, and duty for their wealth. This was what upholding the realm was—death and destruction for their betterment.

He stroked your cold skin with his thumb, confident that no force would tear him away from his child. No force would make him leave you, and if anyone tried to do so, he would kill every fucking one of them.

Masterlist of Series

Tagged Peeps: @zeennnnn, @malfoytargaryen, @targaryencore, @justasmallbean, @omgsuperstarg, @sommornyte , @silverslive , @prettykinkysoul , @legolas017 , @iiamthehybrid , @dd122004dd , @ladybug0095 , @millies0bsimp , @kalfild , @sheislonelyalways , @tempt-ress , @minttea07 , @trikigirl271 , @esposadomd , @prettywhenicry4 , @justarandomflowerchildofthenight , @partypoison00 , @please-buckme , @pastelorangeskies , @existential-echo , @priyajoyy , @valaenatargaryensdragon , @merovingianprincess , @candy12110 , @w3ird11 , @ruhjkie , @somemydayy , @marikkjj , @zillahvathek , @sunfyresrider , @heavenly1927 , @hjgdhghoe , @im-sidney , @aurorathi , @marihoneywk , @xitsemm , @justbelljust , @qardasngan

How did you all like the reunion, even though it wasn't much of one? I'm glad we got more of a look into Daemon and the reader's very unhealthy relationship. Don't we all want a daddy like him, though?

I always like to remind people that Alicent's relationship with the reader is a mirror reflecting on her. This raises the philosophical question: If you were faced with your actions of the past and present, would you like them? Would you still support and commit to them again? Or would you hate them, hate what you've done, hate that it's you that you're seeing, and refuse to accept it?

Well, anyway, thank you for reading and your unwavering devotion. I hope you will stick with me through my literary journey, even when I finish this story and move on to the next.

[carlos-in-glasses]

Thank you for the tag @nisbanisba @thisbuildinghasfeelings @heartstringsduet

@paperstorm @carlossreaders @strandnreyes @alrightbuckaroo and @bonheur-cafe 🧡

Some domestic fluff from the upcoming chapter of Rhythms:

“You’ve done so well, sweetheart. You could have wrestled in high school too.”

“You think?” Flattering though it is, TK has to laugh. “Nah. I’d have come in my pants every time, if that’s what it was like.”

“Did your school have the no-underwear policy?”

“Yeah.”

Carlos stares into the distance with horror. “I’d have died.”

“I almost died just walking past the track team once. I actually saw more cock in school than I ever did in club bathrooms years later. Kinda fucked up when you think about it. Urgh, hold on–” TK grimaces and covers his mouth as he coughs himself silly and struggles to catch his breath, his cheeks turning purple.

“Okay, that’s it,” Carlos says, helping him to sit up and open up his lungs. “We’re taking a bath of eucalyptus.”

“You make it sound like it’s going to be totally eucalyptus oil.”

“If that’s what you need.” Carlos, forthright, grabs TK’s hand and drags him up.

“I don’t think we have enough to fill the tub.”

Jokes aside, Carlos does empty half the tincture of eucalyptus aromatherapy oil into the bath water where it blends with chamomile bubble bath. The scent knocks him back for a moment like a light punch to the nose, and when TK walks into the bathroom he holds onto the doorframe for comedic effect.

“I am not playing around,” Carlos says, “We’re getting those bronchial tubes back in action and then you’re relaxing for the rest of the day.”

TK chuckles at his insistence. “We should watch a movie later. Something comforting, from the ‘90s.”

Watching a childhood-favorite, post-bath while eating a slice of orange and chocolate cake, with his husband’s cozy-socked feet in his lap? Nothing sounds better than that right now.

When the bath is ready, Carlos lights candles and pulls the blind to diffuse the afternoon light. It’s beautiful. The light seems to float above the bathwater.

On his phone, Carlos finds a playlist on Spotify called “spa music”, which unexpectedly includes whale song, so they dip into the water to the sound of a whale going, “Weeeehhhhhhhh.”

“We should watch Free Willy,” Carlos says, “That was my favorite. God, I loved that movie when I was a kid. I wanted a pet whale.”

“And we should watch Hocus Pocus while we’re at it,” TK adds.

“And Homeward Bound. They don’t make movies like that anymore.”

TK flicks water at him. “Okay, old man.”

Open tag and tags below:

@henrygrass @the-126-family @corsage

@sapphic--kiwi @emsprovisions @ironheartwriter

@fifthrideroftheapocalypse @nancys-braids @captain-gillian

@butchreyes @literateowl @kiwichaeng

@eclectic-sassycoweyes @pimento-playing-hopscotch

@carlos-tk @whatsintheboxmh @three-drink-amy

@tellmegoodbye @orchidscript @mikibwrites

@herefortarlos @sugdenlovesdingle @honeybee-taskforce

@theghostofashton @freneticfloetry @lemonlyman-dotcom

@chicgeekgirl89 @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @irispurpurea

@liminalmemories21 @ladytessa74 @welcometololaland @rmd-writes

@lightningboltreader @goodways @reyesstrand - if you want to share/haven't already. No pressure ever! ❤️🩷🧡💛💚💙🩵💜

[fiddles-ifs]

drinks i can do. full recipes under the cut

FIDDLES' MEZCAL OLD FASHIONED

2 oz mezcal (i like El Silencio Espadin)

1 bar spoon of agave syrup (mix .25:1 ratio of agave and hot water -- stir until pourable)

4 dashes orange bitters

2 dashes Aztec chocolate bitters

2 dashes Angosturra bitters

1 pinch salt

Stir over ice

Peel and express an orange peel

PUMPKIN JACK

1 oz Case One rum (only made in Maryland -- a similar aged rum will do, but Case One has a butterscotch-y taste that lends itself well to dessert drinks)

.5 oz Amaretto of choice (i prefer Disaronno)

2 oz fresh poured espresso

Top with hot water

Float pumpkin whipped cream (cook down one can of 1:1:2 can of pumpkin puree:granulated sugar:water until thickened. Strain through a chamois or cheesecloth. Add pumpkin syrup 1:2 parts heavy whipping cream and shake until pourable consistency)

Grate fresh nutmeg

Served in an Irish coffee or cone glass.

DRUMS OF AUTUMN

1.5 oz Hennessey VS

.5 oz Cherry Heering

.5 oz Drambuie liqueur

1 oz St. George spiced pear liqueur

Stir over ice

Garnish with Luxardo cherry and dehydrated orange peel

Served in a double rocks glass

DEWAR'S DECIBEL

1.5 oz Dewar's scotch

.5 hazelnut syrup

1 oz velvet falernum

.25 lemon juice

Shake and dump into tall Collins glass

Top with soda water

Garnish with dehydrated lemon and edible flowers

GOLDEN HOUR

1.5 oz McClintock Forager gin (also only made in Maryland. Wild foraged gin preferred)

1 oz sage tincture (add 1/4 quart/.25 liters fresh sage to container. cover with vodka or neutral grain spirit. Let steep for 24 hours, then strain through chamois or cheesecloth)

.5 oz blanc vermouth

2 dashes cardamom bitters

1 dash lemon bitters

Served in a martini or coup glass

Garnish with lemon peel and edible flowers

LAST DAY OF SUMMER

This is a difficult cocktail because it requires a dehydrator (or an oven set to a very low temperature, and a few extra steps. First: make dehydrated brown sugar pineapples.

Either cut pineapples into wheels, or remove pineapple wheels from cans. Coat with brown sugar, then arrange onto a baking sheet (if you're dehydrating in an oven, place another baking sheet underneath). Place in dehydrator or oven set to the lowest setting and dehydrate. The brown sugar will turn syrupy and thick. Reserve pineapple brown sugar syrup.)

.75 oz bourbon

.5 oz lemon juice

.5 oz Ancho Reyes chili liqueur

.75 pineapple brown sugar

Shake and dump into double rocks glass

Garnish with dehydrated pineapple

[deadboyfriendd]

Volare (Remastered)

This is for you, Jo @jo-harrington . I love you <3

Eddie was gentler with you, fingertips dragging down sides with the softest form of reckless abandon. The sweltering heat of the midwestern summers weighing on your bodies hot and heavy in the baking orange glow refracted over darkened water. The bedsheet beneath you is ironed by the steam of teenage awkwardness dissipating from the body– kisses and touches growing less awkward and more tender, as if he knew that they were now supposed to be registered instead of received. 

His buckle made impressions on the inside of your thigh, metal warmed against the plush soft skin. The grass beneath you danced its wavering dance, a sway that welcomed the coolness of the breeze over the exposed expanse of your back, gracing the overlaying flesh in a ritual of human intimacy. 

Songs of, oh, God’s and small giggles composing intricate tincture waltzes– a gathering drum backing and an underlying hum of soul surrounding your form. You can feel the dirt on your back, his fingers unwrapping you from your cloth confines and introducing you to his home like an heirloom– a home in which he himself haunted.The palms of your hands felt the smooth surface of stone beneath skin, and the dewy droplets from his own flesh dampened them with a waxy residue.

He couldn’t decide if you were still human. You felt human, but the way you were in front of him– celestial and heavenly. There was no way you could be. Your quick, sporadic breath rolled humidity out onto his neck, arms folded over you in fluid angles, a flash of teeth and a breathy laugh. No, he was right, you had to have been an angel. 

+

He couldn’t help but to laugh as you plucked the cigarette from his lip, giving him a chide, “Y’know, these things’ll kill you.” before placing it into your own lips. 

He took it back from you, placating a long drag and a smooth french inhale. Showing off. 

“Yeah… so I’ve heard.” He paused for a moment, taking you in.

Looking into his eyes was a mirror reflection of all of the best parrots of yourself– everything you were supposed to be. His skin shone with a pearlescent haze of sweat, soft locks falling over his shoulder. He beamed your image back at you through long lashes and batted yes. 

“I guess there was never anything I cared enough about leaving behind to stop.” 

+

You held him close to your chest, the gathering drum of mumbles and clumsy sentences replaced by the lub-dub rhythm within you, the quiet gasps and scratching of skin replaced by your own melody of whispers into his ear. He sang along. 

Strings of I love you’s and Is this okay?’s replaced harsh staccatos and haste swears, learning the piano pedal overtures of lovemaking, replacing the spoken poetry of fucking.

An almost feline purr escaped the confines of lungs as you stretched your arms over his back, feeling the calf-skin-stretched-over-marble texture of him. You could feel the way life had toughened him through scars and vibrations of proclamations of love in your spine. 

He had never been loved this tenderly. 

+

Your laugh seemed to fill the entire world around him, burrowing into his brain like a botfly. He couldn’t get you to leave, and you ate away and attached to the pink matter within his head until there was nothing left but you. 

He ran with you through the clearing, only slightly wondering how you could move so gracefully as your bare legs scratched almost violently through the thicket and thorn. He could feel it through his own jeans, but he chased your hand- in search of the warmth and echoes of his own happiness as you cleared out to the blue lake before you. The hill overlooked an empty dock. 

He didn’t care about the way his own legs throbbed, or the way his tar-laden lungs struggled for air, it always felt like he couldn’t breathe around you. 

He pressed his fingers to your back, net yet forceful, but still an invitation into his arms.ou happily obliged, your cool breath wafting over his neck as he shivered. 

+

Toes curled and fingers grasped at the tremendously quiet mouse-rumble between you. Your thighs shook around him, and, as he explored your body tenderly, he silently begged for you to shake and tremble away all of the worries that have plagued him to the bone. Your body a flame igniting his wax candle core and melting his insides. 

Hot tears rolled from your sea-spray eyes and down your Cyprus cheeks, hair blown by Zephyr and a small cry left your birth-of-venus lips. 

To you, he was celestial and grounded all at the same time. You could hardly believe that you could even reach out and touch him. He was spiritual, yet attainable, able to be touched by the human flesh, but almost impossible to be in existence.  

+

His head lay buried in the pillow of your thighs, looking endearingly up at your face as you thumbed through the pages of the novel before you. 

You stumbled over words and paused for kisses in between syllables, and alarming lack of flow within your own space-cadet brain. At this rate, the book would never be finished. You would never see an ending, but he understood this as the only correct way to read from that moment on. 

He could never look at a word again and comprehend it without hearing your voice say it. 

+

He wrote his own history into the book of your life, his fingers flipping through the pages of your body. 

His hands, beginning at your thighs and running up the duration of your being, not only read your words, but studied them. 

His tongue rewrote love back into your lines, but not in the form of quiet mumbles.

He wrote the word "love" into you like fire. He wrote the word "love" into you with only the passion of someone who had seen enough heartbreak to truly know the meaning of the word. 

His words were the color of mulled wine, spilling onto you with intention- he spilled these words into you in the form of art, and soft moans of endearment. 

His tongue began at your neck, but all too slowly traced words that you didn't care to make out down your sternum, across your breasts, and further and further down. 

He spoke the word love in a way that he had never known it.

[theblasianwitch]

Broke Witch Tip #13/Broom Closet Witch Tip #2

Soap Cycling

Get yourself a regular reusable soap dispenser typical for hand washing and whatever refillable soaps you prefer.

Each time you refill you can add your own essential oils and skin safe herbs and spices (or make a tincture/tea out of them before adding so people don't see floating herbs). Whatever you want to have more of in the home for the family or whatever energies you want to stay is your aim when adding the mixture.

For example: orange and coconut essential oils to protect what happiness we have and sea salt to cleanse unwanted energies. Mix it into your refill bottle and done. You have a reusable, easily accessible discreet spell

[nethhiri]

Marooned: Chapter 6

Kid x FemReader x Killer

Warnings: Light Smut, NSFW, Minors DNI (as always)

Innopportune Timing

Out of the kindness of your heart, you let Kid and Killer sleep in your treehouse. First, you had wrapped up your more important items into a big leaf, mostly so that Kid wouldn't go through your shit, but if you were leaving this island soon, you would have to pack it up anyway. There were only a few items you wanted to take with you, one of which being your gun. It was fairly unique and you had made it yourself a long time ago, with some improvements since then. It was essentially a double-barreled revolver, set into an over-sized hunting knife. The blade was nestled right between the two barrels. Actually, you were fairly certain you had it with you when you encountered the newly-minted Kid Pirates. See, the cool thing about it was that you could hold the blade to someone's neck and have someone else at gunpoint at the same time. Which is exactly how you had gotten the best of your two friends at the time, Killer under your blade and Kid in your sights. You had sea prism stone built into it, otherwise Kid would have made quick work of you. Much like now, your observation haki sucked though and the next thing you remembered after that was waking up in a med bay with a head injury. It had probably been long enough that they'd forgotten about it. They'd probably been in much more memorable scuffles since then. Still, you didn't plan on showing it off any time soon. 

Killer was able to take the little tincture you had created for him and had quickly fallen asleep. With both of them in the treehouse, there was very little room to move. You had taken your things and put them on the roof, where you had slept. Occasionally you would sleep there of your own volition just to watch the stars. The leaves that made up the roof weren't that uncomfortable to be honest. You didn't hear Killer cough once during the night. That was good. You really didn't want to use your devil fruit. It took a lot of energy from you and you still hadn't completely figured it out yet. Especially with sharing your resources, you didn't have the energy to spare. Just because Killer was quiet, didn't mean you had slept well. Kid had an awful snoring problem. The Kid Pirates are having the best sleep of their lives right now. That's probably why they haven't tried to find their bastard of a captain yet.

The following day, you went about your normal routine and left them to themselves. The little dose of human interaction felt unfamiliar and combined with being cranky from lack of sleep, you wanted time alone. You walked along the beach, picking some non-poisonous fruits and snacking as you looked out at the horizon. Squinting, you tried to make out any sign of a ship. Nothing. Every now and then you could hear branches being snapped near the edge of the jungle. Seemed like Mini was hoping to scavenge your scraps. The beach had nothing to offer except for several semi-recognizable blue or white pieces. Killer's helmet. Finding more of them occupied the majority of your time until the sky started turning orange. If you found enough of them, you might be able to fix it. Technically, he owed you enough already at this point, but you genuinely did enjoy fiddling with and putting things together again. 

Returning to your treehouse, you put the fragments with your other things and checked on Killer again. You saw where Kid had at some point collected things that looked edible. Appraising the pile, you tossed about three quarters of the stuff out the hatch of the treehouse. Well, if he ate any of that, he's probably busy shitting out in the woods. You shook your head. He doesn't learn. Sighing, you made sure Killer was fine for the time being, and made your way back out of the treehouse. 

For some reason you couldn't shake this 'off' feeling you had and your feet had taken you to the spring. It was your happy place, offering some calming, meditative setting. I guess I could go for a dip. You couldn't swim, courtesy of your devil fruit, but this wasn't salt water and the water was only chest deep. The sound of the small waterfall that fed into the pool was always nice to listen to and the coolness of the water felt refreshing on your skin after a long day in the hot sun. Wading into the water, the shirt-dress you wore was quickly tossed to the side. You dipped your head under the trickling water falling from the overhead rocks and attempted to detangle your hair with your fingers. After you were satisfied with your work, you rubbed the dirt from your skin until you felt as clean as you were going to get without a real shower. You floated on your back and watched the sky turn pink-purple for a while, while the dripping and gentle splashing soothed you. Wading to the edge, you rested your head in your arms crossed over the still-sun-warmed rocks bordering the water. At some point you were lulled into a light sleep.

Your eyes opened at the sound of violently rustling leaves. Soft moonlight soon illuminated the Red Menace bursting forth to ruin your peace. You didn't move from where you rested but let out a groan.

"AND WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YA BEEN ALL DAY?"

You lifted your head and gave him an annoyed look. Who are you? My dad? "You missed me that much? I'm flattered," you sarcastically replied. You went back to being unbothered, laying on crossed arms and letting your eyes close. You missed the light tint of pink that dusted Kid's features, not that you could have seen it anyway in the dark.

"NO. I thought ya were going to bring back food! I had to find myself a bunch of shitty berries!"

"Proud of you," you grumbled. You heard him growl in frustration, surely trying to think of something slick to jab at you. When you continued hearing silence, you thought maybe he stalked off. To your horror, you started hearing the muffled plop of fabric on dirt and the clinking of buckles being undone. "The fuck do you think you're doing?" The change in pitch towards the end of your question was the only thing that betrayed your slight alarm. You didn't look towards him, partially because you didn't want to give him the satisfaction and partially because you were afraid you might like what you saw. Goosebumps crawled down your skin as you tried not to imagine what he looked like. 

"Ya forget who yer talkin' to, girlie." There was a shift in the water as Kid stepped in. "I do whatever I want." And right now Kid wanted to cool off some of his frustration that he was still stuck here. As a bonus, Kid wanted to fluster you. It was amusing to him and he wanted a distraction from this predicament. Distraction, at the moment, came in the form of the bare skin of your lean-muscled back. How easy it was to imagine it pressed into the black, silky sheets of his bed...

Girlie. Heat rose to your face. Ew, why do I like that?  Splashes alerted you to Kid's presence at the opposite side of the pool. A relieved breath left your chest. You thought he would place himself uncomfortably close to you. Sinking lower in the water, you slowly turned to face him. An eyebrow quirked up as you took in the sight before you. His scarlet hair was plastered to his forehead and his eyes burned a dark orange. Pale, muscular arms, well an arm and one-fifth of an arm, were stretched on either side of him as he leaned against the edge. You accidentally caught his gaze and frowned when a smirk spread across his features. 

"Couldn't resist turning around I see." Kid wished you would sit up just a little more. The tops of your breasts were dangerously close to breaching the water's surface. 

"Oh fuck off. I can see you trying to manifest the power to see through water." Even with your scars, you had no lack of self-confidence. That being said, you hadn't gotten a look in a proper mirror, only reflections in the water, so you only had a vague idea of their extent. But, you were highly sought-after before this life, and the cockiness from that lingered. "Glad I can only see out of one eye. I don't have to expose both retinas to your ugly ass." It almost pained you to lie. Almost. The competitive side of you took over and you were determined to win this battle of wills.  

Kid snickered. "Killer's told me I've a fine ass actually." Amber eyes wandered over the parts of you that Kid could see. The moonlight reflected a soft silvery light where it touched your scars. It reminded Kid of the way moonlight reflects off ocean waves. Kid was no stranger to scars or disfigurement. It didn't bother him in the least. Especially since he could tell you wore it with purpose, the badge of a fighter. "I might be inclined to show ya if ya beg."

"Me? Begging?" You scoffed. "I didn't even beg for my life when this happened." You angrily gestured to the ruined side of your face. Fuck you revealed too much, you dumbass. You bit your cheek to cut yourself off from saying anything more. 

His eyes widened for a moment. Kid didn't expect that. He wondered how far he could pry. This started as a little fun game but he genuinely wanted to know your backstory. There were obviously a lot of pieces to it and you seemed to be hiding them purposefully. "What happened?" He asked bluntly. Kid wasn't one to beat around the bush. 

You let out an irked huff. "Don't." What business did he have trying to get to know you? At the most you would be a passenger for a week or two and then you would fuck right off to tie up some loose ends. Since you had been alone between when it happened and now, you didn't realize how poorly you would react at being asked about it. You mentally kicked yourself for opening up the door to this line of questioning.

"Ya don't have to be shy with m-," Kid started to tease.

"I said LEAVE IT." Your prior life as a captain led you back into the habit of issuing commands. As you said it, you had lunged forward and pushed a wall of water towards him. It was pretty childish to splash someone, but your temper was known to get the better of you. Great, now he's probably going to drown me. You retreated back a few steps.

Kid wiped the water out of his eyes, with a wicked smile. "Yer a rotten little brat, ain't ya?" Kid stalked forward. He took great pleasure watching you shrink backwards. 

Before you had the chance to do anything, his hand shot out towards you. Where you anticipated to be hit or grabbed, a cold sheet of water hit you. Holding your arms up defensively didn't do much to block the water from going up your nose. In a fit of coughing, you lashed out again but this time was weaker, since the coughing devolved into half-giggles. This was so stupid. I'm having a fucking splash fight with Eustass Kid. 

This went back and forth a few more times. You were... having fun? Simultaneously you were trying to get the water out of your good eye and blindly splashing towards where you thought he was. An iron grip closed around the wrist trying to get him wet. You had finally cleared your vision and your now-free hand attempted to pry his fingers from your wrist. "Fine! I'm rotten. Are you happy?" You were still half-heartedly laughing. Something burned in your lower abdomen. Oh. That was a feeling you had nearly forgotten. It only got worse when he turned you to face him. 

There was the wicked smile again. "No." Kid tugged you closer until he felt your free hand splayed out on his chest to keep some distance between the two of you. "As the winner, I believe I'm owed a prize." 

Yanking your hand back to no avail, you glared up at him. You wanted to take back your other hand too, but you didn't want him to pull you flush against him. Maybe I do. You cursed the basic human needs of your body for causing your will to falter. Sliding your hand further up his chest, you hooked it around his tree trunk of a neck, giving a little tug to make him lean down. You wouldn't give Kid the chance to make the first move. This was going to be on your terms and your terms only. Kid barely gave you resistance, and it was probably only because he was shocked you didn't fight him on it. 

The second your lips met, your wrist was released and you felt his palm press into the small of your back, forcing you to be pressed up against him. You growled out of annoyance, though it certainly sounded like something else to him. Fuck it. You nudged him towards the shallower area where he could sit and still be partly submerged, sliding your tongue into his mouth while you did it. Pushing him down, you were semi-straddled over him. The kiss was broken only when you both had to stop for air, panting. 

"One hand isn't enough," Kid mumbled into the skin of your neck. His hand alternated between grabbing your ass and titties, which were just as soft as he wanted them to be. 

You let out a low laugh. "That's funny... I was thinking the same thing." You could feel his cock against the inside of your thigh. It was befitting of the giant man under you. In other circumstances, this would be considered romantic, an island oasis under the moonlight. The burning feeling at your core was only getting more intense. Your fingers grasped at his red locks as you kissed him again, letting out a satisfied moan when he bit your lip and moved to do the same thing to your neck. 

Both of your heads snapped towards a chorus of whistles and cheers. "Alright, Captain!" "Any more where she came from?" "Hey, where's Killer?" 

Your eyes flicked to Kid. His face was as red as his hair. Not with embarrassment obviously. Just anger.

"OF ALL THE FUCKIN TIMES TO SHOW YER SORRY ASSES!" Kid smoothly bucked you off of him so that he could remove himself from the water. He snatched his clothes, tossing your shirt closer to you when he came across it. "ONE OF YA IS GONNA SUCK MY FUCKIN COCK TO MAKE UP FOR IT." He stormed over to the group and demanded to be taken to the ship. 

The group of mostly men weren't deterred by Kid's yelling. They were gathered around him asking if he was fine and about Killer. While they were focused on him, you lifted yourself out of the water and threw your clothes on. So much for ending your dry spell. 

Next

[the-ashenstreaked-doctor]

You are certain you’re alone in this wing of the townhouse, but… something makes your skin crawl, as if being watched from just out of sight. Still, you are alone.. right?

[fluffysminion]

Some bizarre disco elysium fanart. Because if a game references stupid heraldry it is my duty to make that a reality.

Termed more properly, this is:

A cockatoo volant recusant descendant in pale, tenne, on a field horrifique

The cockatoo is picked by the man himself, in the game there's a choice of three species he picks from but with heraldic animals they are usually so stylised you can barely tell the rough catagory of animal let alone the species so the result would be the same whatever he picks. Sorry Harry, feel free to decide it's whatever cockatoo you want it to be.

The attitude of the charge (the pose of the cockatoo) is volant (flying) recursant (with it's back to the viewer) descendent (going down, falling, plumeting, crashing to the floor in a way that might be impressive hunting behaviour in a bird of prey but is just sad in a parrot) in pale (the vertical axis of the shield, partially chosen for the falling effect but also just so the description of the arms would include the word pale given the in setting significance)

The tincture (colour), tenne or tawny, is the heraldic term for orange which is his colour, tenne apropriately is considered a stain in heraldry, and suggests at prior dishonour. It was said that a coat of arms carrying a stain had been forced into doing so by the shame of the sin it represented, or in penance and atonement. It has never been a popular colour.

And the field horrifique? a reference to his good neck-hugging friend of course!

[bumblebeesfromvenus]

I'm almost done with my first work for linked universe!!

I CAN'T WAIT ANY LONGER SO HERE'S A SHNEAK PEAK, IT'LL BE UP IN A BIT, I PROMISE 🫶🏻🐝

Time was seated on a log, carving at a piece of wood, while Hyrule and Sky mixed up a salve to help soothe your aching muscles. Four was polishing his sword, sitting next to Wars, who was twirling a small knife in his hand. Wind was snoozing away peacefully at your side, snoring loudly. Twillight was leaning on Epona, gently stroking her mane. She had decided she needed a break too and let herself rest underneath a nearby tree. Legend was kicking rocks. Literally. He paced around the camp and seemed deep in thought, kicking away a small stone every so often. And you? Well, you were in the middle of all of this. But you loved every second of it. It was overall quiet, except for the sounds of nature or the ones your companions were making. The soft sound of Wind's snores, Times wood carving, and the grinding of the mortar and pestle interrupted by the occasional scrape of Legends boots against the ground. And then there were the smells. The smokiness of the fire, the herby scent of the tincture Sky and Hyrule were concocting, and the mouth-watering aromas of Wild's hearty meat stew were filling your nose. As exhausting and draining the journey has been, these moments where everything seemed.. like it would be alright, would replenish your energy as well as your soul for evermore. You couldn't help but smile, looking over at Wind, who was still napping next to you. Staring off into the distance, you admired the grand view that was Hyrule. The towering mountains, green meadows and trees, the pink and orange sky all accompanied by the castle at the horizon. What a sight. You wished it would be under different circumstances, though. Ones where there wasn't in underlying feeling of dread settling in your stomach, wondering how long until everything was turned upside down again. This was too good to be true. But just for a moment, you allowed yourself to bask in the warm embrace of Hyrules setting sun, surrounded by your Links, your friends, companions, and Heroes.

I can't wait for all of you to read it! 🩷

Home is where the Heart is 🌱

@pinkalmondcake 👀

@vampkennedy 👀

[witch-of-the-creek]

Since dragons blood resin comes from a species of tree that is threatened, I’m working on a recipe to mimic the aroma of it

It’s not perfect, but these ingredients in combination get pretty close, no matter if it’s a tincture, oil, tea, or candle

In order of most to least, though it can be changed to individual preferences

Vanilla

Star anise

Citrus (preferably blood orange or grapefruit)

Bay leaf

Pear

This list is done without specific correspondences in mind, and only meant to replace the aroma of dragons blood resin