#permanent great council

[yourlocalsewerdragon]

being a freshman in highschool is so crazy

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 1: Bruises and Bloodlines]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else's protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm's End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), Aemond stressing everybody out, Aegon hating his life even more than usual, RIP lil Luke Strong, don't touch bats in real life or you will get rabies.

Word count: 6.3k

💙 All my writing can be found HERE! ❤️

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @mrs-starkgaryen @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus

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Cannibal, a noun: one that devours its own.

~~~~~~~~~~

He’s back, you can feel it: a sensation like falling, the impact of Vhagar’s claws against the earth. You get glimpses like this, unpredictable flashes of intuition, a window into the contents of his mind or the scenery he is draped in like how branches hang from a willow tree. You set Blueberry down on the windowsill, where he skitters to the edge and swoops out into the night, chasing white specks of moths and lacewings. Then you leave your bedchamber to meet Aemond in the hallway.

One of the maids is there, trying to be patient as she paces with Maelor in her arms. He’s just like you were at that age: a demon who never sleeps. His white-blonde hair is disheveled, his eyes rheumy and pink from crying in protest. But then they brighten.

“Red Red!” Maelor swipes at you with tiny, grasping hands.

“What are you doing awake?” you coo at him, beaming. “It’s nighttime. You aren’t a bat. Are you a bat, huh? Are you hiding a pair of wings somewhere?”

He giggles as you pretend to inspect him. The maid smiles.

“If you don’t have any wings, I’m afraid you’ll have to go right to sleep. That’s the rule for humans.”

Maelor trills in his toddler lisp: “Then I want to be a bat.”

“Okay! I’ll find some bugs for you to eat.”

“No!” he squeals, dismayed. “No bugs!”

“In that case, I guess you’re a human after all. If you go to bed now, you can help me collect seashells tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Maelor agrees grudgingly, and the maid ferries him away. From the Godswood, great horned owls hoot. One of the knights of Aegon’s Kingsguard, Sir Willis Fell from the Stormlands, passes by on his patrol and gives you a quick nod, polite but a bit avoidant, awkward truths he pretends he can ignore. He doesn’t ask if you need assistance or why you’re awake at this hour. He already knows. He vanishes again, his white cloak swishing behind him like the tail of a wolf or a jackal.

You lurk at the top of the Grand Staircase shrouded in shadows and shifting firelight, feeling night wind skate over your cheek like children playing on a frozen lake, and that breeze is not here but outside where Aemond must be trudging across the courtyard towards the royal apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast. You drum your fingertips impatiently on the stone banister. When at last he appears—first only a silhouette in the darkness, then rippling into color under the torches, black leather and silver hair—Aemond is drenched with rain and ascending swiftly, two stairs at a time.

You grin as you take a step down to him, slinking, conspiratorial. He told you all his plans before he left; he tells you everything. “How was Storm’s End?”

But Aemond doesn’t answer. He blows past you and stalks towards Criston’s chambers, rainwater dripping from his hair and littering the floor with tiny, transluscent pools.

You turn to watch him leave, mystified. “Aemond?”

He says without stopping: “Go wake Aegon and Mother. Tell them to meet me in the small council chamber. I’ll get Criston and Grandsire.”

“Why?” Again, Aemond ignores you. This is unusual. You bolt after him, closing the space between you until your fingers catch his wrist. “Aemond, what—?”

He grabs you and pins you to the wall, the stones cold against your belly through the crimson velvet of your robe, Aemond’s hips braced against yours, domineering, demanding, promising what he will do for you after. You close your eyes and sigh shakily—a savoring, a surrender—and then he is tender, turning your face so he can kiss the apple of your cheek. He murmurs, warm and low: “Do as I ask.”

You nod. “Okay,” you agree in a whisper. Aemond releases you and vanishes to rouse Criston. You break for Aegon’s chambers.

There is a woman in his bed, snoring softly and with long auburn hair spilling over her bare shoulders. He has endeavored to spend less time drinking and philandering since becoming king, and yet…it is so rare for a creature to change its spots or stripes or scales. Aegon has always been this way. Without his vices, you would not recognize him.

You kneel beside the bed and rest a palm lightly on Aegon’s damp forehead. You have to be careful when you wake him; he flinches, he startles, he has too many memories of being ripped from sleep by bruises and crescent-moon indentations of fingernails. “Aegon? I’m really sorry, I know it’s late.”

He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know it’s you. “Fuck off,” he groans into his pillow.

“Aemond’s back from Storm’s End, but something’s wrong. He wants you to meet him in the council chamber.”

Aegon looks up and blinks drowsily. Moonlight spills into the room through gaps in the curtains. He smells strange, like lavender; that must be from his companion. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“He didn’t tell you?”

You shake your head.

Now Aegon is alarmed. The dark, cloudy blue of his irises is rapidly clearing. “Alright. Give me five minutes.”

“Wash the girl’s perfume off you so Mother isn’t quite so disappointed.”

Aegon chuckles, rubbing his eyes; something about the way he does this reminds you of Maelor. They are both just boys; they are both so incendiary and yet so vulnerable. “Get out, whore.”

You tousle his hair roughly, smack a kiss onto his sweat-salted temple as he tries to shove you away, snicker as he hurls pillows at you. You are slipping through the doorway when you hear the woman in bed mumble: “Huh? What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Aegon says. “Thank you very much for your company, your skills were more than adequate, now kindly find your way home…”

You hurry down the hall to Mother’s chambers. There are seven-pointed stars on the walls and the furniture, green tapestries everywhere. She will always be a Hightower, averse to Valyrian oddities and suspicious of that sinister, ancient magic. She does not understand it; she tries to overlook it in her children. It’s the only way she knows how to love them. You sit beside the indistinct shape beneath the blankets, sinking into the goose feather mattress, and nudge what you guess is her shoulder. “Mother?”

She stirs, and then her face fills with concern when she sees you in the dim light from her candles. “What’s happened, darling? Are you ill?” You are prone to headaches and chills and nausea, you always have been, maladies of the flesh that are either a blood inheritance or a curse from bad stars. Once when you were very young, Aemond pushed you into a cold stream during a royal progress to the Vale, and you had been laughing when Criston leapt in and dragged you from the water; but two days later, you began burning up with a fever so hot they thought you might die. Aemond had slept on the floor beside your bed, and when you shivered so violently your bones ached he climbed in beside you and held you until you could sleep again; and later when his eye was cut out on Driftmark and he was half-mad with pain, you did the same for him.

“No, Mother, I’m fine. It’s Aemond.”

She sits up and studies you. “Aemond?”

“He’s back from Storm’s End, and he wants to talk to you.”

“To me?”

“And Criston and Aegon, and Grandsire too.”

She doesn’t understand. “Now? Why? What’s wrong?”

“I have no idea.”

“What did he say?”

Everyone expects you to already know, but you don’t. “I think he wants to tell all of us at the same time. In the small council chamber.”

“Now?” she says again, puzzled, still half-asleep. “What is so important that it can’t wait until morning?”

“Mother, there are only so many ways for me to express that I don’t know. If I had any indications at all, I’d share them.”

“Alright.” She’s smiling; you have amused her. She throws off the covers and touches her bare feet to the floor. “Pass me my robe. It’s on that chair over there.” And of course, the swath of velvet you hand her to wear over her nightgown is a deep emerald green: the color of fertile fields, not blood or beasts.

By the time you and Mother arrive together, everyone else is already taking their places in the council chamber. Aegon is at the head of the table, spinning his stone—a black sphere of volcanic glass—and peering around boredly. Grandsire and Criston are greeting Mother and yawning into the backs of their hands. No one has woken Helaena, and yet she is here, settling nimbly into the chair beside Aegon. He gives her a brief, fond glance, noting that she is fidgeting with a small oak dragonfly he once made for her. Aegon carves wood, Helaena embroiders, you shatter seashells with tiny hammers and use the shards to make mosaics, miniscule yet unladylike violence. Aemond has books and swords in place of crafts. And Daeron…you assume he must have cultivated some artistic talents while away in Oldtown—he was always so imaginative as a boy—but you would not know them. You see him so rarely now. You sit across the table from Aemond. He is the only attendee not dressed in nightclothes. His black leather tunic is still layered with a sheen of rain.

Grandsire lowers himself gingerly into his seat, grinding arthritic bones that pain him. The nights have grown chilly, even here in the south. Winter is coming, the maesters warn. His gaze passes over you and Helaena—the two of you aren’t really supposed to be here, but you’ll be permitted to stay if you cause no trouble—then he smirks humorlessly at Aemond. “So you failed.”

“No,” Aemond says, and you think as you look around the table: No Orwyle, no Lannister, no Wylde, not even Larys Strong. What does Aemond not want them to know? “Lord Baratheon has agreed to marry his youngest daughter to Daeron in one year’s time. He was very enthusiastic about the match.”

“Great!” Aegon declares. “Although, personally, I am of the inexpert opinion that this could have been discussed over bacon and honeycakes at breakfast…”

Grandsire snorts, derisive; he disapproves, though perhaps he is not surprised. He says to Aemond: “You were sent to negotiate your own marriage, not Daeron’s.”

Aemond shrugs, as if it happened by coincidence. “That was Borros Baratheon’s preference.”

“It was your preference, you mean.”

Aemond is careful not to reveal any emotion. “Daeron is young, but he already has a reputation. He is known to be handsome and chivalrous and…” A wave of the hand as he searches for the right word. “Unmutilated. It is not so difficult to imagine why a father would believe him to be a more worthy son-in-law.”

“It doesn’t matter to me, one Targaryen is as good as the next,” Aegon says, and of course nobody pays much attention.

“Perhaps Borros Baratheon’s judgment has been contaminated by certain disturbing and disgraceful rumors,” Grandsire counters and glares at you. You don’t reply; there’s nothing you can say that would help. Everyone knows, but it rarely spoken of aloud, as if it is a ghost nobody wants to inadvertently conjure. All your life there has been this perpetual rebalancing of scales: someone mentions a diplomatic match for you, you stall and Aemond makes excuses, Grandsire and Mother try to convince him, Aemond is immoveable and they aren’t willing to invoke his wrath. Vhagar is the subtext of every dispute. They need her, they are terrified of her.

Criston attempts to deescalate. “Aemond’s task was to ensure the Baratheons’ loyalty to the crown, and he has accomplished that. Perhaps it would be wise to move on.”

“Fine, what else?” Grandsire snaps. “You assembled us here for some reason, I presume. It must be urgent to merit a meeting now. It better be urgent, or I’ll be paying people to shake you awake during the hour of the wolf for the next month.”

“It is urgent,” Aemond says softly, then pauses, gazing down at the ball in front of him, white quartz dappled with blue. Everyone watches him. You share a glance with Aegon; he is curious, but you have nothing to offer him. You turn back to Aemond with bewilderment in your face, furrows in your brow.

“Aemond?” Mother prompts.

He looks at you, only for a second, but you’re thunderstruck by what you see in his remaining eye. You have never known Aemond to be afraid, but he is right now. What happened? you think, horror making the blood in your veins cold and slow and heavy. What did he do?

Aemond begins: “Luke Strong was at Storm’s End too.”

“What?” Grandsire says, more baffled than worried. “That runt? Why?”

“He’s a weasel,” Aegon mutters, spinning his ball again.

“Rhaenyra’s son?” Mother asks. “She sent him there all alone? How peculiar. The way she was always hovering over him while they were here, I’m amazed she let him out of her sight for that long. How old is he now? With that plain, ever-anxious, pug-nosed face, he looks like a little boy—”

Aemond says: “He was sent to remind Borros of his old pledge to uphold Rhaenyra’s claim. But Luke had no incentives to offer.”

“And so Lord Baratheon rejected him,” Grandsire surmises.

Aemond nods, though perhaps halfheartedly.

“Well, good,” Grandsire says, surveying the table for agreement. “That’s good, right? With every house that refuses to aid her, Rhaenyra will be more likely to accept our terms, and we can resolve this question of succession without any bloodshed.”

“Meleys and the Dragonpit,” Aegon reminds him.

“Without further bloodshed,” Grandsire amends.

Mother and Criston concur, but you’re watching Aemond. He hasn’t responded yet. Mother’s gaze flits between the two of you. She is somewhat sympathetic to the affinity you share, but she doesn’t understand it. More than anything, you get the sense she believes it is something you must be saved from. The Hightowers could stomach Aegon and Helaena’s match—Viserys was still healthy enough to insist upon it, and the couple so seemingly platonic it was easy to forget they were married at all—but they have no appetite for a desire that defies political expediency, that burns scorching and wild.

“Aemond, did you quarrel with Luke?” Mother says, her tone patient in an I-won’t-be-mad-if-you-just-tell-me-the-truth sort of way. “I know…your eye…” She touches her own face, wincing at the memory of how he suffered. “Did you seek restitution of some sort from him? Did you make accusations?”

“We…exchanged some words,” Aemond admits. “And then…when Luke left on Arrax…” There is a lull, and everyone stares at him. “Vhagar and I followed.”

“What?!” Grandsire exclaims. “You threatened Rhaenyra’s son?!”

“I…” Aemond closes his eye, then after a moment opens it again and continues. “It was my intention to frighten him, that was all.”

“Idiot,” Grandsire hisses. “You know better. You’re too well-educated to act like you don’t. Now, that one…” He jabs an accusatory finger at Aegon, who is caught off-guard, what the fuck do I have to do with this?

Criston says, more gently: “That was very dangerous, Aemond.” Mother covers her mouth with one hand and shakes her head. Her long coppery hair hangs in uncombed waves, still tangled from sleep.

“So what happened?” Aegon asks. “Where’d you chase him to? All the way back to Dragonstone? You must have scared him to death.”

Aemond chooses his words with great care and agonizing slowness. “Everything was under control. Then Arrax…he unleashed his flames on Vhagar, and she…she attacked.”

Everyone is silent. After a moment, Grandsire says: “What do you mean she attacked?”

“She…” Aemond gestures vaguely with open hands, hands that have held you, caged you, dragged you, pleased you until you were forged to him like a blade to a hilt. Again, he looks at you, and what is he asking for? Help, empathy, compassion, forgiveness? “She bit Arrax.”

“She wounded him?” Aegon says.

“She devoured him.”

Criston blinks. “So…Arrax is dead, and where is Luke now?”

Aemond laces his fingers together on the table like he’s praying. “He’s…he’s gone.”

“Gone?” Mother echoes.

“Did you look for him?” Grandsire demands. “I mean, did you even bother to search for Luke, or did you just leave him in the Stormlands somewhere? Did he fall into the sea, could he be wandering around in a forest? If Luke is injured, we should send out people to find him. We could hold him as a hostage.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Aemond’s voice is frayed. And now for the first time tonight, you finally know what he’s going to say. Your eyes snag on Aegon’s, and he reads the terror there, and then it hits him too. “There is nothing to search for.”

Mother is gaping at him, the unwanted knowledge seeping in like rain through earth. “Nothing?”

“There is no body. Pieces, perhaps.”

Unspeakable, suffocating dread fills the room, and then Grandsire leaps to his feet and slams his fists down on the table. “Useless!” he roars at Aemond. “Worse than useless, a saboteur, a curse, a plague, you have ruined everything your Mother and I worked for, Rhaenyra was considering our terms and now you’ve condemned us all!”

“You killed Lucerys Velaryon?” Mother says, stunned. Her large dark eyes glisten with unpardonable betrayal. She’ll never look at him the same way again. “You murdered Rhaenyra’s son? A prince, the heir to Driftmark?”

“It wasn’t murder,” Aemond pleads. “It was…it was combat, it was a battle—”

“A battle with that child?!” Grandsire thunders. Helaena begins to cry, and Aegon places a hand on her wrist as his wide eyes dart around the table. “Everyone’s seen him, it’s no secret, and not a single person in the realm would be delusional enough to believe a clash between Vhagar and Arrax was anything but a slaughter!”

“Aemond,” Criston says quietly, appalled, astonished.

Aemond can’t meet his eyes. He peers down at the table, and despite everything—what will happen to us, what will happen to me?—there is an ache in your chest like cracked ribs trying to heal, a profound lightless distress, a ricochet of the pain he’s feeling. “It wasn’t my intention to harm Luke.”

Grandsire shouts: “Did you give Vhagar the order or not?!”

It feels like a long time before Aemond answers. “No.”

“Oh gods,” Criston says as he sinks down in his chair, turning to Alicent. She has hidden her face with both hands and seems to be weeping.

“So you can’t control Vhagar,” Grandsire seethes. “You ride the largest and most dangerous dragon in the world and you can’t stop her from eating people.”

“I never would have purposefully—”

“But you created the situation! You pursued Luke, you tormented him, and surely somewhere in your sick brain you considered that you were endangering his life! And now… now…now Rhaenyra will be merciless, she will never submit, she will endeavor to destroy us all!”

“It will bring more allies to her side,” Criston says. “They will believe she was wronged, and she will wield that weapon to great advantage. She is cunning.”

“What about your family, Aemond?!” Mother sobs, her face a hectic, bloody pink. “You and your brothers will have to go to war, you might be maimed or butchered, and your sisters and I…we could be taken as prisoners, we could be executed for treason!”

“That will never happen,” he swears; but his pale blue eye is misty, and he bites his lips together so they won’t tremble.

Mother is desperate, tears streaming down her cheeks “What can we do, Father? How can we salvage this?”

Grandsire points to you. “She must be wed immediately. We’ve already waited too long.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Aegon says, but no one is listening.

“Mother,” you beg. “Please don’t let them—”

“She will be married to whoever can help us in this,” Grandsire says. “The Lannisters or the Redwynes or the Swanns, perhaps the Butterwells or the Mootons if that will coax them to our side—”

“Then the realm will burn,” Aemond replies darkly, leaning over the table. “But I’ll come knocking on your door first, Grandsire.”

Grandsire looks at him, startled. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Shall we find out?”

“Otto, please,” Criston says, holding up a palm. Then he considers how to dissuade him. “All things considered—the military strength that Aemond has brought to our side, the devotion that he has shown this family, present circumstances notwithstanding—he has never asked for much.”

“He asks for the one thing we cannot give him,” Grandsire replies, then turns to you. “What do you think about what Aemond has done? This recklessness, this monstrous error?”

He rarely asks for your opinion about anything. This is not a question but a summons: you are supposed to disavow Aemond. You are the one who can hurt him best. Instead you say, though it’s not what you truly feel: “Luke was an enemy. He perished in combat.”

Grandsire, Mother, and Criston all begin yelling at once. Helaena shrinks into herself, her dragonfly made of oak wood clutched to her chest. Aegon whispers something to her—you can leave, you believe he says—but she shakes her head no. You are stoic as the adults berate and implore you, and perhaps it’s strange that you still think of them that way since you’re an adult now too, and yet…their gravity seems so much heavier than yours, their tethers to the earth overgrown with weeds and moss.

“I’ll gut you myself!” Grandsire screams at Aemond, empty threats woven from helpless terror. “I’ll lock you in the Black Cells, I’ll have you banished to Dorne—!”

“I’ll throw a feast!” Aegon says suddenly, and the others go quiet.

“You’ll what?” Grandsire snarls.

“Little Luke Strong is dead and that’s a victory for our side. There’s no other way to look at it.”

“You intend to celebrate this calamity?”

“What else should we do?” Aegon asks. “Apologize? Go crawling on our bellies to Rhaenyra for forgiveness? No, she’d burn us alive. If it’s done, we must embrace it and use it to bolster our cause as much as possible. It was a battle and a victory. Aemond is a war hero. Onto the next objective.”

“What a disaster,” Criston mutters, rubbing his forehead. “Yes, that might be the only option we have.”

Mother clasps the small seven-pointed star that hangs from the gold chain at her throat. “I must go to the sept. I must pray for our survival.”

Grandsire glowers at Aegon. “You are a humiliation.”

“I am the king. I want a feast.”

Grandsire sighs deeply, pushing his chair away from the table. “I suppose I have letters to write.” And then, to Aemond: “When your sisters are captured and enslaved and married off to whichever Black loyalists will pay Rhaenyra and Daemon the most for them, I trust you’ll remember who’s responsible.”

Aemond gets up and storms out of the small council chamber. Mother mops the tears off her face with the sleeves of her green robe. Criston takes one of her hands and is murmuring promises, assurances, perhaps lies. You, Aegon, and Helaena say nothing. None of you can defend what Aemond has done, but you won’t denounce him either.

Then Grandsire grins at you, a cruel bestial flash of his teeth, an old grizzled animal tough from too many winters, icy wind shrieking through the chambers of its heart. “Oh, are you pretending that you’re not about to run after him?”

You don’t reply. But you rise from the table and flee as Mother watches you, her vast eyes swimming with misery.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s a game with five pieces: the green snake, the yellow butterfly, the blue wolf, the red bat, and the purple shadowcat. They chase each other around the board, and if one of the other pieces lands on the same spot as yours then you have to go all the way back to the start.

Daeron is the youngest, but he almost always seems to win; some people are like that, luck flows like a river in their veins. Helaena enjoys playing even if she finished last. Aegon feigns disinterest but never declines an invitation, sliding his snake across the spaces with his index finger between slurps of wine. And sometimes Aemond is ruthless, taking every single opportunity to land on your spot and send your bat hurtling back to the beginning, sawing your legs out from under you, shattering your hopes like glass again and again until you are so frustrated you can feel embers glowing dry and searing in your throat.

But other times, Aemond pretends to misread the dots on the dice so he lands either too close or too far away and you are spared, and if you win he lies and says you deserve it.

~~~~~~~~~~

He is waiting at your bedroom door; when you are close enough to breathe him in, you taste rain and soot. Perhaps—if it isn’t your imagination—you can even detect the coppery tinge of blood, splatters of little Luke Strong soaked into the black leather of his tunic or his coat. You remember that boy you barely knew, more a phantom than flesh, a wraith who stole Aemond’s eye and then was spirited away to Dragonstone to escape retribution, a tiny god who Viserys worshipped from afar the same way he never stopped loving Rhaenyra. All you knew of your father was absence, and this was a sadness but a relief as well, because you could not escape the sense that if he was there you would only disappoint him.

“What is wrong with you?!” you whisper savagely. Aemond smiles and reaches for your face, but you swat his hand away. “Don’t fucking touch me. You’re insane, you’re going to get us all killed—”

He drags you into your bedchamber, kicking the door shut behind him. He’s lean but wiry, all muscle, and when you fight him—although you both know you want him to win—it is in vain. He tugs your hair out of its braid and hauls you across the room, pushes you down on the bed, rips off his coat and tunic and then follows you onto the mattress. You clamber away until you hit the headboard, your spine flat against the wood. As he closes in on you, your palm cracks across the blind side of Aemond’s face, and he grins. You have often thought that it should have been reversed, you wed to Aegon and Aemond to Helaena. You would not be so scandalized by Aegon’s vices; Aemond would be chivalrous with a meek, compliant wife. But alas, Helaena was born first, and the arrangement was set in stone long before any of your natures became apparent.

Aemond unfastens your robe and reaches under your nightgown of white cotton. “Open your legs.”

“No.” It is always this way with him; it always has been. You fight and he vanquishes, and both of you enjoy it.

He forces your thighs apart and you moan, the resistance bleeding out of you, you muscles going soft and yielding, Aemond radiant with this clandestine conquest on a night when nothing else is under his control. He can only love you when you’re tamed and tractable. Sometimes you think he likes that you don’t have a dragon, that your egg never hatched, that all of the unclaimed beasts denied you. You will always be vulnerable, powerless, at his mercy.

You cling to Aemond, your arms around his neck. He knows exactly what you need because you’ve already done this, more times than either of you could count: everything besides what could get you pregnant, and not just because Aemond would rather slit his own throat than have bastards like Rhaenyra’s. It’s something you’re both saving until at last you are married, and no one except The Stranger can separate you.

You gasp and Aemond growls through your hair: “Shh. Hurry up.”

“I missed you.”

“I know.” He doesn’t have to say it back; if he hadn’t missed you, he wouldn’t be here right now, two fingers buried to the knuckles and the heel of his hand grinding against you, almost, almost, almost…

The bedchamber door bangs opens, and Aegon saunters in with a goblet of wine, emeralds gleaming on the rim.

“Stop,” you tell Aemond, but he knows you don’t mean it, not really; beneath your nightgown his hand works faster, more roughly. You sigh and kiss him, deep and messy, surrendering, very close.

Aegon takes a swig of wine, licks the stray drops from his lips, and frowns down at you both, slightly intrigued but mostly nauseated. He cannot fathom a hunger for his own.

Aemond looks to him and says casually: “Do you want something?”

“I do, actually,” Aegon replies. “Were you planning to thank me?”

“Thank you for what?”

“For what I did for you in the council chamber, obviously. For the feast.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“Thank you, Aegon,” you say, and you are sincere.

Aegon raises his goblet in a mock toast. “That���s very kind, Red, but I wasn’t asking you.”

You whimper against Aemond’s throat, embarrassed but in ecstasy, not able to hold off much longer. “Aemond, just thank him.”

“Well I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment.”

“That’s okay,” Aegon says. “I can wait.” He sits at the end of the bed, then bounces up and down a few times. “Oh, this is a great mattress! Very soft, like sleeping on a cloud! Why isn’t mine this nice?”

“Probably because you’ve ejaculated all over it five thousand times,” Aemond says.

“Oh, right,” Aegon jests. “Not quite that frequently, I think.”

“Aemond,” you plead breathlessly. “Just say thank you. Get rid of him.”

Aemond sighs and, with his hand still beneath your nightgown, turns to Aegon. “Thank you.”

Aegon smirks, mischievous. “And how will you repay me?”

“By overcompensating for your shortcomings in order to ensure the enduring success of our family, as I have done since birth.”

“Of course,” Aegon says, though a bit distantly.

Aemond glances down at you and then asks his brother: “Were you hoping to join us?” It’s not a serious question; if Aegon ever tried to touch you with genuine desire, Aemond would break both his arms. Fortunately, Aegon is the closest thing you’ll ever have to a real brother, and thus his limbs are safe.

Aegon chuckles and stands. “No, this is a bit unsavory, even for my taste.” He gulps the last of his wine and says as he leaves: “Enjoy, freaks.”

“Bye, Aegon,” you call, laughing. He waves and then closes the door behind him.

Seconds later—twenty, thirty, time evaporates like mist burned away at dawn—Aemond is making you come, and then you are yanking off his trousers and taking him in your mouth, and when you do this he always has to be touching you, smoothing back your hair, telling you how well you’re doing, and even though he warns you so you can pull away if you choose to, tonight you swallow every last drop of him and think of the sea that Lucerys Velaryon’s scraps tumbled into, the mineral bite of salt and metal and blood.

But when he finishes, Aemond doesn’t collapse like a dead man as he usually does. He throws you onto your back, licks and nuzzles his way down your breasts and belly, parts your legs and murmurs against the inside of your thigh before he begins again: “I want you, I want you, I want you, I can’t wait much longer.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s one of your earliest memories. You are in the garden, and it’s a blazing hot day, and a million varieties of blooms cut through the greenery: goldenrods, orchids, lilies, irises, daisies, bellflowers, red roses, blue forget-me-nots. Butterflies whirl in the air and land on Helaena’s outstretched fingertips. Grandsire is slapping Aegon and calling him an imbecile for trying to pet a bumblebee, and Aegon is wailing: But it’s fuzzy! Why can’t I hold it?!

You must not be very steady on your feet yet, because Aemond is pulling you up by both of your hands and asking: If I ran, do you think you could catch me?

Yes, you had said, and then you’d staggered after him as he darted into the foliage. Under the shade of blossoms and shrubs that towered so much taller than you, you tripped and fell and scraped your palms, one of them bleeding from striking a pebble. You cried out, but no one was there to pick you up: no Mother, no Criston, no Helaena or Aegon. You wept pitifully, thinking—as children do—that you would be lost forever, that you would never see your family again.

But Aemond came back for you, and he studied your bloodied palm, carefully plucking out every grain of brown soil; and then he kissed it, held it against his cheek, painted himself with the scarlet ink of your arteries and veins.

See? he had said, smiling so you knew everything would be okay. Now we’re both red.

~~~~~~~~~~

“How are the babies?” Aemond asks when he arrives, dressed for the feast in a green tunic embroidered with shimmering gold threads in the shapes of dragons, flying, shrieking, breathing fire. Helaena made it for him, of course. Each of you have wardrobes full of garments she’s sewn, a collection of Aegon’s woodcarvings scattered around your rooms, seashell mosaics hanging from walls: insects for Helaena, Sunfyre for Aegon, heroes from myths for Aemond.

You grin over your shoulder. “Come see them.”

It’s dusk now, so they are leaving the roost you keep in one corner of your bedchamber, covered with dark velvet to blot out light and sound as they slumber. Aemond kneels beside you and holds out his hand so River can scurry from your palm into his, clawing with his hooklike appendages. All of your bats are named after blue things—Blueberry, Sailfish, Clear Sky, Bluejay, Misty, Dragonfly, Lagoon, Lightning, Kingfisher—just as Aemond’s hawks and war horses are given names like Fox and Rusty and Cherry and Pomegranate. He is the only one who defends your pets when Mother threatens to banish them back to the Godswood or the seaside cliffs. You have no dragon; you must find solace with some other creature that inspires dread and revulsion. But you think they’re beautiful, and strange, and fearless, and wrongly unloved.

“Let’s move things along,” Aegon says as he appears in the doorway, wearing all green except for the Conqueror’s crown. “No one can dig into the roast boar until the guest of honor enters the Great Hall. So I need Aemond to show up immediately.”

“Almost ready,” Aemond replies without looking away from River, who is now scrambling up his forearm. Lighting takes flight and attempts to land on Aegon’s shoulder; Aegon yelps and flings him away.

“No, you can’t!” you say, rushing across the room to scoop up Lightning and cradle him in your arms. Fortunately, he is unharmed. “I told you, Aegon. They have tiny bones, you have to be gentle or you’ll hurt them.”

Aegon shudders. “They’re fucking disgusting. Rats with wings.”

Aemond sets River on the windowsill, goes to his brother, shoves him hard; Aegon’s back hits the wall. His crown is knocked from his head and clatters against the floor.

“I’m not apologizing,” Aegon insists. “I’m a victim of grave injustice. I was attacked. That thing could have bitten me.”

You say to Aemond in High Valyrian: “Should we do this for a while to annoy him?”

Aemond smiles. “Yes. We should talk a lot. A great amount, we should talk. Very much talking.”

“Hey, hey, stop that,” Aegon says.

“Aemond, what else will they serve besides boar?”

“I heard something about pies.”

“What kinds of pies?”

“Who knows. Maybe apple, or cherry, or plum…”

“Oh, I adore apple pies. Perfect for autumn. I could eat them all day.”

“I could eat you all day.”

“Don’t tease me, or we’ll never make it to the feast.”

Aegon is distressed. “I mean it! Stop!”

“They aren’t saying anything important,” Helaena assures him as she swishes into your bedchamber wearing a butter yellow gown. In her hair are gold pins shaped like ladybugs.

“Okay, but what are they talking about?”

Helaena says matter-of-factly: “Sex and pastries.”

Aegon groans and rolls his eyes. “Why did I ask. Okay, time to go.”

You walk together to the Great Hall, where Helaena and Jaehaera and Grandsire will dance in the center of the floor, and you and Aemond will whisper in shadowy corners, and Mother will peer around worriedly with her large watery eyes as Criston yearns to console her, and Aegon will smile patiently and never scold Jaehaerys when he gets underfoot or spills his pomegranate juice.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s another game, or maybe it’s a ritual; you are a little girl again, and every once in a while, without any warning, Aemond will shove you into a closet or a heavy wooden trunk and lock you inside. You will scream and pound on the door, but no one will hear, and you will spend what feels like hours alone in the darkness, wondering if this will be the time when you are not discovered until you have died of thirst and hunger, until there is nothing left but bones.

Then you hear approaching footsteps and Aemond lets you out, and when you strike and scratch at him he embraces you fiercely, like he’s a soldier who’s been away for a year or more; and he holds you until you stop fighting it and your heartbeat goes quiet in your chest.

[natalievoncatte]

She had it. She actually had it, in her hands.

Myriad. The ultimate weapon of a dying race, brought to Earth to subjugate its people and rebuild an empire from a shattered world, possibly the key to saving this one. The key Lena needed to unlock Non Nocere and

(take over)

heal the world. End all strife. Eradicate all conflict. No more pain. No more deceit. No more greed, or cruelty, a world without malice, a peace without end.

No more lies.

It was in her hands, such a small petty little thing, barely more than a trinket.

Lena dropped it too sharply on the stainless steel lab table, took three steps, and vomited, the contents of her stomach noisily splashing at her feet. It was the effects of portal travel, she told herself- like jumping from a great height and into cold water at the same time.

(oh god what did I do)

She just needed a few moments to steady herself, collect her bearings, clean up.

(oh god oh god I hurt her what have I done)

Then, she could begin her work immediately. She shrugged out of her coat and found a bottle of vodka, hardly her weapon of choice, and took a pull straight from it to wash the

(pain away)

sour taste of her own puke out of her mouth and dull the sour churning in her stomach, because she couldn’t get the image out of her head, the image of Kara lying broken on the fortress floor with green lines of agony carved in her flawless skin and the most heartbroken look of remorse and fear in her eyes.

(Lena don’t do this)

(please don’t do this I’m SORRY)

Snatching the Myriad core from the lab table, she went to shove it into place. The final work would take only a few hours and then…

Lena stopped. Her hand hovered inches above her work. All she had to do was make the connection, but something was stopping her, as if her own arm revelled against her. She tasted puke and alcohol in her mouth and she was crying, hot tears burning down her cheeks in razor lines.

(Lena please)

No more lies.

It was heavy in her hand, the alien device suspiciously heavy and cool to her touch. Why didn’t she just do it? She was here, key in hand, ready to open the door and she couldn’t do it. Why?

Gritting her teeth, Lena took it in both hands, staring at it.

This was good. This was right. Lena had given Kara everything. Everything! Her friendship, her support, her comfort, her secret council. She killed her own brother for her and what did she get in return? Lies! Deception!

(soft hugs and kind words and powerful arms shielding her from harm and strong hands… holding her)

It had all meant nothing. It was all a lie.

Right?

It was, wasn’t it? It was! It had to be, she needed it to be! If it wasn’t, if she was wrong, then she betrayed and tortured the only person who cared about her for what? For this fucking thing?

Lena held Myriad over her head. She hadn’t even been aware she’d raised it high, ready to smash it to the ground. Bringing it down, she stared at the device and saw a stranger’s face, a distorted visage of a pale, stress-thinned woman with red-rimmed eyes.

Oh God.

The watch! There was still time. It still had the coordinates.

Lena’s hand hovered over the watch. She could push the button and erase the only way she’d ever reach the fortress again, and it would be decided. She’d make it permanent, make it real. She could finalize the destruction of the most important relationship she’d ever had. Deny Kara. Give her up.

(leave her locked in a cage of agony)

Lena pressed the button.

The portal opened behind her with a gust of wind.

She stepped through.

The first thing that hit her was the cold. She didn’t think to put her coat back on.

The second thing was a right hook from Alex Danvers that sent Lena sprawling across the floor and Myriad spinning out of her grip.

“You bitch,” Alex snarled. “I knew it. I fucking knew it. I should have put a bullet in the back of your head the first time you set foot in my town.”

Alex stood over her, boiling with fury.

“I knew it was all a lie. I knew! I know what you did. You and your little lip bites and your flirty looks and your coffee dates. Was breaking my little sister’s heart part of the plan or just a sadistic bonus?”

For once in her life, Lena was truly speechless. She stared up at her attacker, absently touching the trickle of blood from her split lip.

“I didn’t, I wouldn’t,”

“You fucking did,” Alex hissed. “How dare you come back here? Didn’t you steal enough? Was the rest of the armory too much temptation for you?”

“I couldn’t leave her,” Lena choked out.

“Alex,” a harsh voice rasped, “that’s enough.”

Kara was on her feet, clutching her side. The Kryptonite had left her pale and pallid and hunched over a little, her normally bright eyes dull.

Lena pushed herself to her feet, wobbled, and started for Kara.

“Don’t you dare,” Alex stepped between them.

“I said that’s enough,” said Kara, pushing past her.

“I’m sorry,” Lena blurted. “Oh God, I’m sorry, Kara I…”

“Shhh,” Kara whispered. “It’s okay.”

Lena’s hands seemed to move on their own, palms cupping Kara’s cheeks. God, she was cold. She was shivering. Kara was shivering. She leaned into Lena’s grasp, falling against her.

“I’m sorry,” Lena whimpered.

“It’s okay,” Kara said, gathering Lena in her arms.

“The hell it is,” Alex cut in. “Jesus Christ, she robbed the Fortress of Solitude! She hurt you, Kara!”

“I hurt her first.”

“Kara, she’s right.”

Kara shook her head.

“You can’t just forgive her!” Alex almost screamed.

Kara looked at Alex, then at Lena.

“You’re forgetting. I’m Supergirl. I can do anything.”

The tears began to flow and Lena couldn’t stop them. She collapsed into Kara’s arms and sobbed, her body shaking with exertion.

Alex bent down and picked up Myriad.

“Give me that,” said Kara.

Alex looked at her quizzically, and placed the device in Kara’s hand.

She looked at it for a moment, then looked down at Lena.

“Do it,” Lena whispered.

Without the slightest appearance of effort, Kara closed her hand and the device exploded between her fingers, circuits and alien technology clattering to the floor.

“Let’s go home,” said Kara. “I think we need to talk.”

[junedenim]

it's three in the morning

for the long haul

warnings: piv, eating, pregnancy piv, mild dad!alex, and probably some other stuff too

word count: 8.8k

There was an attitude when you first met that you each would hold a sense of permanence in each other's lives. It wasn't completely romantic at first. You and Alex met through a series of shared friends.

This was 2013 and you were both otherwise occupied with separate relationships. His was longer and much more stable. Yours was a short passionate fury that ended by early 2014. Coincidentally, as did his.

But still, it wasn't a direct rebound. He was touring and when the band stopped in New York—your home at the time—you stuck around at the after-party with Alex. Nothing much happened there other than a questionable conversation three rounds in.

"It's all speeding up," he said. It was drunk talk and you weren't paying attention to the idea he had spoken before it but you tried your best to follow after. His body came closer and huddled so close to yours, which was excusable in the February chill, but debatable with the indoor heating.

He slung an arm over your shoulder and, with great camaraderie, you slid your arm behind his back; a "friendly" side hug. "Time is weird," you said.

Alex looked at you. His eyes were alcohol-glazy but his soul was bursting to say something. You could both feel the unsaid left lingering and his head moved forward at one point as if he were going to kiss you but it was then decided he would hesitate on that front.

He chuckled through his nose as if some joke had been made before turning his head to look at the buzzing partiers. He nodded at something and you weren't sure if it was related to your statement or not. You took another sip of your vodka Coke and he said, "Timing is everything."

He slipped away from you after that and it's possible he slept with someone else that night but you aren't sure. You don't even know if he would remember. He slept with a lot of people in 2014. It was a messy time.

Later in the year, toward the end of July, he called you from Iowa. Despite the hour, somewhere in the early morning, neither of you was drunk. Alex's sleep schedule had little idea of the concept of time with the mad case of severe jet lag he could be diagnosed with and you, well, you were asleep but you acted like it was normal for him to wake you up at 3 AM.

"Where in Iowa are you from?" He asked. Neither of you had really gotten to know one another. Not those small details. You knew he was from Sheffield but you don't know what college he went to or his parents' names or if he's ever broken a bone. Your relationship had never been built on knowing each other. It was always just about feeling each other. You had always gotten on well, never fought, always laughed, slung arms around one another, and thought about the maybes.

"Why do you ask?" You laughed at the idea of him calling you in the dead of night, sitting outside his tour bus, smoking a cigarette, talking about your tiny hometown.

"We're playing there tomorrow. Council Bluffs or something. You're the only person I know from Iowa." You told him that the first night you met and he latched onto it like it was some lie you told to impress people because people are usually so impressed with the concept of being a Hawkeye. Although, he never got more information about it. He didn't know that you grew up on a corn farm and you learned how to drive your dad's truck at 9 years old.

You scoffed, "Council Bluffs. You might as well just be in Nebraska."

He chuckled. "Sorry. I'll plan it out better for you next time."

"I'm from Beaman. It's close to the center. Very small town," you told him. "But there's a library and a basketball court that becomes an ice skating rink in the winter. It was dull but I liked it."

"Sounds like a nice place to grow up." You shrugged, not that he'd be able to see it. An air of silence hung over the conversation and you're not sure if he was waiting for you to say something in return. And then he suddenly said, "I've been thinking about you. Not just in Iowa."

You weren't sure what that meant. He was still so new to you and a one-on-one phone call had never been done before. You couldn't yet tell what he was trying to convey through the tone of his voice if this was some playful thing, a joke or something serious, a flirtation. "Why?" You questioned.

It was silent and you imagined him shrugging but you'd never know for sure if he did or not. Eventually, he answered, "Guess I just missed you. Is that allowed?" It was rolled in humour and tucked in a laugh so you took it as a joking sweetness. Some sense of sincerity lingered but it wasn't packed with desperation.

So, you told him you missed him too and hopefully you'd hang out again soon. The conversation ended and soon wasn't around the corner. You kept in touch, by text and through friends, but he didn't return from the road until November and you weren't yet one of the people he would hang out with as soon as he was back, especially since you were in New York and he was in LA when he wasn't on the other side of the pond.

But then you moved to LA, right at the beginning of 2015. Truthfully, it was for your boyfriend. It was an awful idea and you knew it. You had only been dating the guy for a few months and retrospectively it was never serious but in the moment fantasy and blurred visions came to mind and they took the wheel from you. Besides, you had a career that you could do anywhere, most of your friends were in LA, and there was, of course, Alex.

At a shared friend's birthday party, you saw Alex again through a barrier of smoke. Your boyfriend was off in the bathroom and Alex was pushing himself off the wall with a drunken stumble and throwing his arms around you.

"Huck told me you'd be here. Told me you're out in LA. How come you didn't tell me?" His words were rolling out of him quickly with little care where they ended up.

You did your best to reciprocate the hug and follow his sloppy manner as he leaned back against the wall. You stirred your gin & tonic with the flick of your wrist, still sober having just arrived. "It's all been hectic. We're just starting to settle out here."

His eyes drifted away, looking behind you, and when the cold hand touched your back you realized what he was looking at. "Yeah, well, once you are, we should get together or something. Alex, by the way." He waved to your boyfriend, staying against the wall this time. He looked like he was having trouble keeping his eyes open but his speech was clear with no slurring sounded.

You put your arm around your boyfriend's back, returning his hold. "I'd like that. We'll probably have some housewarming party at some point so..."

Alex hummed his acknowledgment like words were becoming too much work. He brought the spliff to his lips and the smell of marijuana began to give you a headache and a craving at the same time. Someone tapped him on the shoulder, pulling him away from you. It took a moment of staring before you moved to find residency on the couch, but more lingered in the air than just the smell of weed. Uncertainty persisted.

A month later, the house had been settled and a housewarming party occurred but Alex didn't attend. He had said he was out of town but you're not sure where out of town. It didn't matter much. You didn't live in that house for very long.

It would seem like fate stepped in at some point or a mere happenstance that the night you and your boyfriend broke up everyone in the world seemed to be busy. Friends were away for the weekend or had guests staying with them or simply didn't pick up their phones at 2 AM. But Alex did.

When you arrived at his house, he was peculiarly waiting in his driveway. His hands were on his hips and his head cocked in a way that some might interpret as pissed but you knew it was just his resting position.

Your unaffected nature could also be misinterpreted. You didn't feel the urge to cry, and though you were upset at the demise of a loving relationship, it didn't provoke your tear ducts and you remained indifferent.

After exiting your car, he asked, "Are you okay?"

And it was easy to nod and answer, "Truthfully, yes." It's probably easier to feel this way when you are the one who initiated the break-up.

It's also easy to feel that way when instead of going to bed you're accompanied by Alex and drinks. No rejection was involved when downing a bottle of hard liquor, especially when Alex seemed to have it stockpiled. You both operated better drunk, which could have been alarming to an outsider, but for you and Alex it was understandable. It wasn't used as coping, each other was used for that. The alcohol was just an additional treat.

"It's hard to not feel like I'm wasting away my youth," you told him, leaning your head on the back of the couch.

He was on the opposite end, cigarette stuck in his mouth as he spoke, "You're still young."

"Not forever," you lamented. "I guess that's the thing. I'm not particularly pissed it's over. I think I did us both a favour but I'm pissed about running out of time for these things. I mean, I moved across the country for this guy. I used to have fun with guys! Now I'm just following them places and desperately trying to play the role of wife. Like, who am I?"

Alex openly laughed in response.

You giggled in return, "Don't laugh at me."

He shook his head, removing smoke and cigarette from his lips. "I think you're getting worked up over nothing."

"Maybe." You shrugged. "But I don't think so. I don't know what I'm saying. Wait, yes, I do." Alex laughed again. "I'm saying I want to have fun again."

"Right." He nods.

His eyes locked with yours and once his cigarette was stubbed out and the bottle you had been clutching was placed down on the coffee table, his lips then locked with yours. It was harsh and rough like every drunk kiss that had occurred before in history.

It must have been around 4 AM at this point and everything felt hungry. Like this was—he was—your midnight snack. This is when desperation occurs. The quick need for satisfaction with no care about the journey to get there.

Alex's arms clutched around your lower back up to your shoulder blades, pulling you on top of him. Her hands grasped around the endpoints of his sharp jaw making it impossible to be stuck in a heated makeout. You straddled him but it was hard (in two ways) to not feel frustrated quickly.

You reached down, swiping your hands along his chest, and landing on the button of his jeans. Everything must come undone and he understood that perfectly. You didn't even bother to pull his zipper down, instead reaching your hand into his underwear and letting the force drag the zipper apart.

He pulled your hand out just so you could get your top off of you and while your arms were up in the air, you grind on him and soft moans escaped, swallowing it up when your lips reunited. He was a master at unclasping a bra and had easy access to your pussy through your small skirt made up of flowy material.

Your hand made small movements around his cock and his fingers grazed through your folds and he seemed to want to do a version of shared masturbation but you ached for something stronger. You lifted yourself off of him to remove your skirt and panties. He shuffled just enough to kick his jeans and underwear off the bottom of his feet. You finished reaching nudity at the same time.

Alex didn't allow you to straddle him again, pushing you onto your back as he took off his shirt. His nude body hovered over you and the back of your head hit the arm of the couch. You curled your legs around him, pushing his hips toward yours. Everything is non-verbal, all performed through signs. You've always been on the same wavelength and it feels like words would have ruined this and made this all seem questionable.

He quit the foreplay of kissing your neck and pinching your breasts and became rough like this is what you wanted, now shut up and take it. He was in you and on top of you and it's exactly what you wanted: fun. He could be described as a pleasurable jackhammer as he moved in and out of you. Everything was hard and skin was slapping but you're both moaning and none of it was silent whimpers. It was shouts of "Fuck!" and "Harder!" and "Holy shit!" and "Right there!"

It's all responded to correctly. You nipped at his neck and toward the end, he reached down to rub your clit. It's all masterfully done on both of your parts. Your walls clenched around his dick and he stretched you open to a degree that has you grasping at the couch cushions until you've come. Then, he pulled out of you, letting it all go, straight onto your stomach.

Exhaustion and complete silence fell. Alex laid back on his side of the couch, panting. A few breaths passed before he rose and grabbed a rag from the kitchen, wiping his cum off you.

"Is that your cum towel?" You joked.

His face broke a smirk and he nodded. A question hung in the air of what to do next, stuck in the middle of his hot living room. He towered over you as you sat up, slowly adjusting. He folded the rag up in his hand and then asked, "You wanna use it again?"

Laughter erupted from you but you did end up using it again the next time in his bedroom, which allowed comfort and greater sensuality. It was less rushed but left you both exhausted by the end of it. You slept like rag dolls, limbs hanging over one another, and powerful sleep.

In the morning (or afternoon, you're unsure), with your bodies connected, you both awoke around the same time, blinking away sleep and finding his eyes doing the same. Your unsaid nature returned and you weren't sure if you should even leave the bed or if you should be racing out the front door.

"Thanks for letting me stay," you whispered with tired vocal chords.

He shuffled closer, sheets rustling, and licking away sleep. "Course," he croaked. "You could stay forever."

It might have meant more, especially after fucking each other, but it felt more like a favour than a request. You ate breakfast together before you left, no goodbye kisses, and he said goodbye at the door instead of walking you to your car. Two weeks later, he joined you and a group of friends for drinks where you shared light small talk and he bought a round. You left for New York two days later with no acknowledgment of anything more. It just was what it was and neither of you was hurt by that, but both of you still felt longing for it to be otherwise.

In the heat of summer, you visited LA and met up with Alex for dinner. The LA visit was more for business but you decided to sort out the personal while you're there. His hair was longer, cut around the ears, no longer greased back. It's a reminder of that morning when everything was thrown about without care. He was dressed in a white button-down that was unbuttoned enough to have a clear view of the chain that hung around his neck and his seductiveness was so clear you have a hard time believing he didn't know exactly how this night was going to end.

There was small talk but Alex was quick to cut through the bullshit and get to the heart of things. "We've never had dinner together before," he said. "Not just the two of us." A smirk played on his face and lewd images flashed in your mind.

You sipped your wine as a coping mechanism and leaned back in your chair. You needed to be far from him, at least for now. Playing it cool was the main goal. "Are you telling me you don't want to hang out with me?"

"Oh, I want to hang out with you but I was thinking of something much different."

Intentions were clear and things were laid out on the table so when he invited you back to his house for drinks, you had no issue with him stopping in an abandoned parking lot so you could fuck each other.

Because fucking was easy and you always felt things together instead of knowing things together. So, when he takes you in the backseat, confined, and hot & heavy, it feels romantic for something usually so drenched in the word "dirty."

The leather seats stick against your sweaty back while he undoes his belt and then his trousers before sliding your underwear aside and going into you. The AC is blasting but you don't feel it and there's a lightheaded feeling likely from wine and dehydration but you blame the way his cock hits that spot in you.

The rest of the drive isn't awkward and that's when things started to feel different. It became clear that the sense of permanence with one another wasn't a platonic coincidence of sharing friends but something much more loving. You laughed that his car radio was stuck on the sports channel and made fun of the baseball announcers shouting over the Dodgers losing to the Phillies.

Before this shift, you expected to continue your intense rush to instant passion; fucking in the hallway, fucking in the living room, fucking in the kitchen, fucking on the bathroom floor, fucking in the shower, fucking in his bed, fucking against a wall, fucking on the washing machine, fucking on the ceiling if you could. Instead, you watched the rest of the Dodgers v. Phillies game, despite knowing little about baseball and Alex's knowledge reliant on Bad News Bears and high school phys ed.

Besides, little attention was paid to the game itself. He drank a beer and made you a vodka Coke and baseball is boring and Alex had suddenly become everything.

"There's a reason baseball is America's pastime," you commented. "Who the fuck wants to sit and watch this all day?"

Alex shrugged, a smile playing on his cheeks. "It's fun when they get a home run."

"It's fun when I get a strike in bowling, doesn't mean everyone wants to sit and watch me," I struck back.

He chuckled, wiping his beer lip. "You like bowling?"

"Yeah. My dad used to set up empty cans and have us play. The nearest bowling alley was 45 minutes away so we went there on special occasions."

Alex smiled, completely charmed, and that's when you started knowing each other. Later, you walked to his bedroom and had sex and while it was passionate, it had lost its spontaneity quality, which didn't lessen it, instead changing it into something new.

The following morning, you took his old words of "stay forever" to heart and never left LA. Your return move to LA was mocked by your friends for your coming-and-going nature and moving everything all over again was a pain in the ass but Alex flew to New York and helped pack your things. When you moved into your new place, Alex helped you unpack and helped "Christen the place," as he put it by going down on you on those marble kitchen counters.

Separate places felt ideal not to rush things, but soon it seemed wasteful as most nights were spent at Alex's. You weren't a big fan of your new place in comparison to Alex'ss, which wasn't shocking. Alex had a pool for Christ's sake.

Although, it still felt like the best fit. You didn't like how much Alex smoked and Alex didn't like how messy you were. While technically not living together, you fought over these things like you did.

Smoking usually went:

"It's my house. I can do it however much I want to!"

"You're going to ruin the house by smoking inside it!"

"I paid for it!"

"You're killing yourself!"

"It's my lungs!"

"I'm gonna die from secondhand smoking!"

Messiness usually went:

"You can't come over and trash my house!"

"It's barely anything! If you let me have a drawer this wouldn't be a problem!"

"It's not just your clothes! You leave dirty dishes everywhere!"

"I get to it eventually!"

"So do the rats!"

But all and all, it always ended relatively positively. Alex took to smoking on his balcony more and you would join him from time to time. You didn't really clean up more, but Alex did give you a top drawer in his dresser.

At the beginning of December, you both attended a Christmas party, where you and Alex wore a Santa hat you bought at Party City because neither of you owned anything festive. However, everyone at the party considered it to make you the cutest couple there. You both thought it was rather cheesy but you leaned into the cliche of it and got drunk off eggnog and roleplayed Mr. & Mrs. Claus at the party until it verged on too creepy.

Over a shared cup of eggnog, Alex asked you, "You want to come to Sheffield?"

Meeting the parents had never been discussed. It was easy when his parents lived in another country and your parents were scared of planes. Though excitement and nerves bubbled, you answered, "Sure" before taking a sip.

He chuckled, now accustomed to what your reactions meant. "We could do Christmas there."

You said, "Sure" and sipped the eggnog again because it helped fight against those nerves in your stomach.

Alex chucked again because he was charmed, now completely lost in you.

Christmas in Sheffield was cold. It rained heavily the whole time you were there. You and Alex only braved walking around town once on the 23rd when the rain had stopped momentarily. The city centre was time for sightseeing all his old haunts. You walked arm-in-arm with Alex in an effort to combat the cold but still keep your hands in your coat pockets.

You got a half hour in before it started pouring rain and you were left feeling like idiots for not bringing an umbrella with you. The car was far away and you both debated ducking into a bookstore but you were both already too soaked and cold and decided just to head back to the car. He grabbed your hand, leading the way, as you raced through the unbearably cold beating rain.

On the way back to his childhood home, the rain had increased even more making it nearly impossible for Alex to see properly while driving. "This is how you end up killing someone," you said.

Alex put his hand on your shoulder but kept his eyes steady on the road. "Relax. I know how to drive."

You removed his hand from your shoulder and placed it back on the wheel. "Then, keep both hands at 10 and 2," you ordered.

He laughed and reached over to kiss your cheek and while the affection made you gain a cavity, your nerves bubbled up as you pushed him away. "Eyes on the road, mister!"

You both made it back unscathed, minus your socks, which had been soaked through. The house was warm and the smell of dinner wafted through the air. The house was quiet other than the pattering of rain and some jazz record his dad had put on. It felt like coming home.

Christmas dinner, however, was hectic. You drove out to his grandparents' place and the quiet 4-person car ride led to a fistful of screaming grandchildren and uncles whose laughs broke the sound barrier.

It had you turning to him. "This is your family?"

"Yeah. Hard to believe, right?" The calmness of Alex must come from his mum's side of the family.

Once dinner was served, the noise level calmed down as people stuffed their faces and they wished to show a great impression to their American guest of honour. The questions were light and it was clear that you weren't the first American girl Alex had brought home but everyone was welcoming and Alex placed a reassuring arm on the back of your chair. He would occasionally lift his hand and play with the longest strands of your hair, bouncing the curls you had made that morning.

Later, while the young kids played with the toys they had just received as gifts, Alex and you drank tea together. It was a warm distance for the fast nights of Los Angeles. You leaned close to Alex on the settee so he could hear your words. "I like Sheffield a lot."

He turned his head away from watching the kids, meeting your eyes. A smile crept to his lips. "Good." His hand smoothed down your sweater-covered arm. "I'm happy you're happy."

That in turn made you smile. "I like this quietness. You know, of the city, not this house."

Alex chuckled and pushed the front hanging pieces of hair behind your shoulder, eyes sculpting over your body. "It's nice to come back. Feels like a reset."

You took your fancy tea cup off your fancy tea plate and took a sip, feeling like a proper English lady. "You should come to Beaman. You'll probably hate it but it's like no one else in the world exists out there."

He hummed, staring softly at you. His eyes made the ice in you melt. "If you love it, I'll love it," he promised.

"It'll just be you, me, and the chickens," you giggled.

Alex grinned, skimming his thumb over your cheekbone. "Hm. I love you."

It caught all the air in the room and it suddenly didn't feel as cold as it did a minute before. You inched closer to him and smiled because he was smiling. "You've never told me that before, you know."

He furrows his brows, playing up his acting. "I haven't?"

"Actually, you told me when you were drunk once. Back in October, at that Halloween party."

He squints seriously this time. "I don't remember this."

You coyly smile. "I know. It was when Miles and me were carrying you inside and I couldn't figure out if you were saying it to me or him."

He leaned forward, his arm pulling you toward him as he laughed in your ear before kissing your cheek. "You. Always you."

"Good." You clapped your hands. "I'll hang this over Miles's head for decades."

That night, Alex fell asleep quickly, allowing you to realize something. You nudged him awake, making him groan. "What?"

You curled your arm around him. "Nothing. I'm sorry I woke you."

His arms moved around your waist, laying you on top of him. His eyes stayed shut, not wanting to lose his sleepiness. "It's alright," he mumbled. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah." You leaned into his ear, whispering, "Love you."

A grin spread across his lips, enticing you to lean over and kiss the corner of it. He hummed. "Love you too. Night."

The following year, Alex went away on tour. You stayed, he went, but it never felt like it placed a strain on the relationship. There was longing and missing but never any resentment and as Alex would put it, "It always makes for great reunion sex."

You briefly joined them in August when they played California: Santa Ana, San Diego, and Outside Lands in San Francisco. They were all one after the next and left you exhausted and though Alex was much more well-adjusted to the pace of touring, it was reaching the tail end and he struggled with the comedown on it all.

Those were the only times you grew frustrated with one another. You never really yelled or fought—maybe because you didn't want to or maybe because you were in close quarters with other people—although, you had tiffs.

Much like your annoyances at home, traveling or touring only amplified what truly annoyed you about each other but in a way—a super corny, cheesy way—you loved Alex even more for that.

"I like that you're not perfect," you said late to him one night. He was smoking a cigarette and though the weather was hot, there was a nighttime breeze that settled over the two of you.

"Gee, thanks," he quipped, puffing away.

You knocked a shoulder into him. "I'm being sweet. If you were perfect then I'd feel inadequate all the time in comparison but since you've got these flaws and vices that make you more real, in a roundabout way, you are perfect. For me, at least."

Alex grew amused with every passing word, tucking an arm behind you. "Well, you're perfect. I hope you feel that."

You shifted your body to get a full look at him. "Maybe not perfect but I feel worthy or something. You always make me feel adequate. I appreciate that."

He shrugged, unsure of how to respond. "You're easy to love. I've never struggled with that."

That's always been the word: easy. From the moment you met, it was a clear link holding you two together, and with time doing its thing, it only grew slowly into what it should be. There was never a force of change, you held onto each other until you clicked at the right time. After that, there was no way to disrupt it.

You moved into Alex's in September. After the tour (and even before), you spent all your time there anyway. He decided over breakfast one day to make it official.

He pulled out a pan to make eggs but before he could place it on the stove, he stared at it. "This is your pan," he said."

You looked up from your cereal. "Oh, yeah, you don't have small pans so I brought mine over. It's better for your eggs, you know. Heats up quicker."

Alex began to laugh, placing the pan down on the stove, and his hands on his hips. You chuckled along with him, even though you were confused. "What's so funny?"

He shook his head, trying to shake off the laughter. "Do you even have anything at your place anymore?"

"Um, I don't know." you thought aloud. You shoveled a pile of cereal in your mouth.

"Why don't you just sell the place?" He suggested. "Move in here."

You shrugged. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" He questioned.

"Yeah, I mean, I like my place."

Alex snorted. "You're never at your place."

"I still like it," you insisted.

He moved over, coming behind you like a snake, and hugging your waist tightly. "Come on, move in," he whispered in your ear.

"I'll think about it," you said as he kissed your neck.

Alex decided on other plans for breakfast. You stood up to clean your bowl but his arms stopped you from making it to the kitchen sink. "I have a convincing argument," he said, taking the bowl out of your hands and setting it down.

You laughed at his bravado but you were soon overpowered by it. He bent you over the counter harshly with a kiss to your left shoulder blade as a form of salvation. He kneeled down on both his knees and grazed his hands on your butt, playing with the fabric of your shorts. He squeezed and pulled and yanked, eventually dragging the material off of you and having it lay at your feet.

Alex's slow nature in the morning took hold as he danced his fingers around your cunt. The tips of his fingers edged on the lips of your pussy. The thumb on his other hand, touched over your asshole, making it pucker up with tension.

"Your teasing is only making me want to say no," you said, desiring relief as soon as possible.

Alex only hummed and muttered, "Interesting." He placed a light kiss on your inner thigh but it only felt like he was moving further away from the point of release. He moved up and kissed your left butt cheek, his hand squeezing the right.

His touch became light and he moved his hand back down to your lips. "I know how to get you there," he insisted. He tapped both your knees. "Spread. They're so close together. It's like you don't want me to touch you."

"It's called being bored," you retorted.

Then, Alex slapped your ass. He'd never done anything more than a pat and it was usually more in a casual setting, not when you were butt naked and not that hard.

You turned your head around, looking down at him with a squint. "Did you just slap my ass?"

"Yeah," he quickly admitted. "Why? Did you like it?" A smirk presented as if he already knew the answer.

You didn't want to give in to him. This was frustration, it wasn't supposed to be satisfaction. You wanted him begging for you, not the other way around. But you couldn't help it. You bit your lip and turned away, not wanting him to see the pleasurable smile on your face. "Maybe."

But then he overwhelmed you, diving straight in and placing his mouth directly on your cunt, dragging a long moan out of you. You could feel the coldness of the counter through your shirt, erecting your nipples. Your hands made a fist, unable to grab onto anything, thwarting you.

His tongue plunged into you and then moved up to your clit before pulling away again, making everything unbearable. His mouth moved to kiss your inner thigh before he left completely to slap your ass again. "You alright?" He asked to make sure, even if you gasped in delight at every feeling.

"Go back down," you demanded.

Alex listened and returned to your core, licking his way through your fold, and reaching his tongue up to your clit. He continued the game of agony, moving back and forth from the pleasurable, but slowly the edging made for a great build-up and he began to lay it on thick, never abandoning your clit until your legs were shaking and you were practically pushing him away from you.

He stood up and slapped your ass. You moved in on Tuesday.

Not much changed. You already had drawers in his dresser and space in his closet and pans in his kitchen. You had already infected his house with your essence and the only difference was you weren't paying rent on a place you were barely ever sleeping.

As the new year began, things slowed. Alex started growing his hair out, stopped shaving, and became far more reclusive. He had grown tired from the road, was now in his 30s, and, most importantly, settled. At times, that thought was terrifying for you, staring down the barrel of this being the rest of your life. Other times, it was comforting, usually waking up in the morning next to Alex.

But there was a lifestyle shift in Alex that you weren't yet aligned with. He rebuffed the idea of going out, talked about leaving LA, and locked himself away in his music room. You weren't particularly annoyed at the latter other than it sometimes felt like he was locking you out of part of him. The idea of leaving LA wasn't unappealing, but he longed for England more and you were American through and through. Going out, well, maybe that's where you got into trouble.

Alex's newfound life as a hermit wasn't horrible now that you were living together but you started to go out more and more without him. Usually with various groups of friends, sometimes for work, two times with Miles, and one time by yourself. Alex said no to going so often that you stopped asking. Soon, you weren't spending many nights together. He'd stay up late working on music or you'd stay out late drinking. Like everything else, it eventually came to a head.

"I think I'm going to Beaman next week," you told him while getting ready to go out one night.

He was in the shower. He was staying in. "Why?"

You furrowed your brows toward the shower curtain. "I haven't been back in a while. My mom's birthday is at the end of the month."

"Alright," he said over the sound of rushing water.

"Do you want to come with me?"

For a moment, only the shower made a noise. It didn't even sound like Alex moved an inch. You stared at the shower curtain and thought he might pop his head out. But he didn't and you didn't move to open the curtain either. Finally, he answered, "No, no. I think I'll stay here. Jamie's coming into town soon."

You thought about fighting it or asking him if he was going to do anything with Jamie, instead, you said, "Okay. I'm leaving now."

"Alright," he said, "Have fun. I love you." He never came out from behind the curtain. When you came home he was asleep.

Upon your return from Iowa, Alex picked you up at the airport. The car ride home was pleasant and he made dinner. You were scraping your fork along the plate when he asked, "Would you ever want to live in Iowa again?"

You snorted at the ridiculousness. "I left home when I was 18 and have only lived in New York and LA. Does that strike you as someone who wants to move back to the Midwest?"

 Alex shrugged and thoughtfully looked down at his nearly empty plate. "I just never knew if you thought about it."

"Are you thinking about it? About England?" You leaned on your fist, eager for the answer.

He shook his head. "I'm just homesick, I guess." He then stood up and took his plate to the dishwasher.

"Do you want to talk about it?" You shouted into the kitchen.

You awaited an answer from the other side of the wall. You heard the dishwasher shut and his feet pad across the wooden floor, he stopped in the archway, facing you. With certainty, he said, "I'm happy here."

You stayed seated. "Would you want to move back?"

He looked unsure but answered, "I don't think so."

"You can be honest," you assured him. "If you think I'm worried or going to shoot it down. I mean, I'm not saying yes, but if you're thinking about it I think we should talk about it."

He shook his head. "I'm not saying I want to be here forever and maybe that's something we should talk about since..."

"Since?" You questioned, clueless of where his words were leading.

Alex laughed at you, turning away, not bearing to make eye contact. "Since we're us. You and me."

"I'm confused," you said, crossing your brows. "What's this have to do with England?"

He laughed again, nerves tackling him. "We're not just fooling around here anymore. This direction..." He motioned a straight line and though you were catching on you still wished to hear him talk in full.

"This direction?"

He rolled his eyes with a smile, exasperated by your questioning. "Look, we've talked about it."

You playfully raised an eyebrow. "It?"

He wagged his finger at you. "Quit playing games with me here."

"Oh," you nodded enthusiastically, "the marrying me thing. You talk around it like it's a curse word."

"'Cause it makes me nervous." He played with the ends of his hair as a soothing mechanism. 

You shifted forward, leaning your head onto your hand, resting it on your knee. You genuinely asked, "Why does it make you nervous?"

A nervous smile played at his lips as he calmly said, "Why the fuck do you think?" He laughed, feeling overwhelmed, both of you.

"You tell me," you egged him on.

Alex threw his head back, exhausted from you toying him. "You do the laundry. I know you've been in my underwear drawer."

You giggled, remembering the sight. "Well, you put it in your underwear drawer, how cliche are you?"

"At least I didn't do my sock drawer!" He shouted, trying to insist he wasn't such an idiot. "I didn't think you'd go digging around in there."

"Hey!" You assert. "I didn't find it. It found me."

You both laughed and soon the room fell quiet. "Hey," you said. "You got me a princess cut." It was dainty like you wanted, no giant diamonds, and no uncomfortability. A simple, classic look. He did good.

He kept a small smile, despite both of your racing hearts. "Well, that's what you wanted."

You grinned back, sitting up straight, and leaning your side into the back of the dining room chair. "You got my ring size right too."

He raised his eyebrows. "You put it on?"

"On my right hand that way I didn't break any rules."

Smiles were plastered on each of your faces. "Should I just go get it?" You'll probably cry if he does go get it.

"Yes. And yes to your next question too."

"I haven't even gotten down on one knee."

You shook your head. "You don't have to get down on one knee."

"I want to." He does. And the ring fits just as well on the left as it did on the right.

Just like moving in, being engaged isn't that much different either with the exception of getting your mother off your back and a nice new piece of jewelry. Alex enjoyed calling you "fiancée" when introducing you.

You started to go out less but when he did he came more often. It was a non-verbal comparison and with a new album on the horizon, you started to stockpile time together. Any wedding talk was limited but agreed upon to take place after the tour so you could enjoy married life together. Alex also heavily enjoyed the in-between state of being engaged and what you thought would be the dull before the actual excitement of marriage, turned into its own new game.

You accompanied him more on tour, mostly because it was much longer this time. You joined him for branches, attended the US shows, made him shave his head in Texas, and made your way over to London. There were bigger breaks this time with things not packed so closely together. You spent Christmas in Iowa with Alex for the first time. You went to Hawaii for his birthday. You went bowling for Valentine's Day.

When the tour ended and there was an actual wedding to plan, everything felt stuck. It was either too cliche or too underwhelming. It became easier to just get married and worry more about planning a party. So, you got married at a cute small inn with sycamore trees with a small number of guests. Those who would be willing to sit through a wedding without getting antsy.

The reception party grew in numbers and the loveliest part is you didn't have to worry about cleaning any of the mess up. Alex got cake on his suit and you went to the bathroom more times than you can count. But overall, it was a simple, sweet night. 

Honeymooning (fucking) in Fiji and then resuming life two weeks later. "Wife" became Alex's new favourite word but everything else stayed the same. Well, for about a month.

You just had a feeling. You woke up one day and felt it. You nudged him awake, it was early before the sun was up. "Alex."

He hummed in acknowledgment, shut-eyed.

You burrowed into him and nonchalantly said, "I'm pregnant."

"What?!" His eyes were wide and his face wrinkled in confusion. "Seriously? When did you find out?"

You flopped onto your back, turning your head to the side to look at him. "Just now. I can feel it."

"So, you feel like you're pregnant?" He questioned.

"Yeah."

"But you don't know it. You didn't take a test?"

"No, but I know. I'll take one in the morning, I just wanted to let you know. Night." You turned over into your pillow and closed your eyes.

Alex sat with his mouth agape. "Yeah. Night." He didn't fall back asleep.

And you were right. You shrugged and said, "Told ya." Alex laughed. Then, he cried. Then, he hugged you. Then, he kissed your stomach, but you thought that was too weird so you told him to stop.

Being pregnant definitely changed things but things felt the same just with one more thing. You fucked. A lot. Your sexual appetite increased but you had always been horny for Alex. It's just a given. But there was a point where things did change.

It was the first ultrasound. You felt it when you entered the room. The air was cold and there was a shift, everything suddenly becoming real. You enjoyed watching Alex twiddle his thumbs while you waited for the technician. 

When they started to move the wand around your stomach, he became fascinated with the machine, continuously asking questions. More of them were about the machine rather than the baby. 

And, well, then the whole twin thing happened.

"Like two of them?" Alex held two fingers up like he couldn't quite comprehend it. 

The technician nodded and you still couldn't think of a verbal response to the news.

Then, Alex said, "We've been having a lot of sex, did we like make another baby when we—"

You interrupted, "Are you the dumbest person alive?"

Alex pinned the ultrasound to your fridge and kept a copy in his wallet. He held an affection for it that you didn't. Maybe because you were the pregnant one. The proof came attached to you. Nonetheless, you were charmed by Alex in his fatherly role, even if he stressed you out with the need to be super-ultra-prepared. His nervousness about what you could and couldn't do got annoying by the second month. He calmed down after you yelled at him.

Although, it was nice for him to take on the extra work. You picked out the design for the nursery and he did all the work, citing that you couldn't paint because of the toxic fumes and everything was a heavy load.

He knew you were full of bullshit but he didn't care. "I like helping out. Being the man in charge."

You told him not to get too full of himself. His insistence on doing everything led him to break his index finger.

But after everything had healed and two babies became two girls, you both relaxed into your final months of solitude, which really just meant lots of sex. You fucked and he went down on you but sometimes you felt too sore down there from all the pelvic pressure and though Alex insisted that no sex was fine, you insisted that release was release, even if it wasn't your release. Alex still fondled your breasts too, saying that's where all his horniness came from.

"How can I not be turned on when they're just staring at me?" They were bigger and Alex was always insatiable.

"I feel like a cow," you whined. You were bigger with two babies and the only way you did have sex was doggy style with everything hanging.

"You're not a cow," Alex said, climbing into bed. You were under the sheets, exhausted at 9 PM. He curled up behind you, whispering in your ear, "You want me to fuck you on your side?"

You thought about it, felt the ache, and said, "Okay."

You were already underwear-free because they hurt your vagina too much when you slept. You had returned to your old days of quickness. Alex pulled himself out of his boxers, gave himself a few pumps, and slid into you. You softly moaned as Alex pushed into you slowly at first before his thrusts grew quicker. He knew you were tired and needed a quick release. 

"Fuck," he harshly whispered as his speed picked up, skins slapped, and sweat beads formed. He clutched your hipbone tightly and you fisted your pillowcase. Every action rushed and a final slam resulted in you falling apart and him emptying into you. His hand caressed up your bump and you knew he was very turned on but the whole pregnancy sex things and not just because of the boobs. However, he did love those too, and gave them a quick squeeze before cleaning up.

The final change came in an expected way. Labour was shorter if only for the epidural and the C-section. You wanted to resist the idea until the thought of pushing two babies out set in and the pain became too unbearable and Twin A was breached and then a C-section seemed like the best thing, even if it was surgery.

Alex liked wearing the medical gear and kept adjusting his mask. Oh, Alex, sweet naive Alex. Luckily, everything was smooth, except for the fact you couldn't hold the babies until they had sewn everything up. But Alex cut the umbilical cord and got to hold them, which was a sweet enough sight.

When you were placed in recovery and finally got to hold them, then came the hard part. "What do we name them?" You asked.

Alex shook his head. "I got no fucking idea." Names had been discussed but you never really landed on one let alone two. "You should name them. You carried them and they're getting my last name."

"It's too much pressure," you whined.

Alex sighed and concluded, "Thing 1 and Thing 2 it is then."

Eventually, you decided on Wren and Willow. You initially hated the shared first initial but Alex liked it and it became too frustrating to think of any other names.

The first month was harsh. Your body was slowly healing and you ached all the time. You had backup with both sets of parents but then everyone went back home and everything shut down and it was just you, Alex, and Wren & Willow. It didn't actually feel like much had changed. It's not like you would have left the house anyway.

Alex takes to having the girls nap on him. Sometimes one at a time, sometimes both. Sometimes he will let you nap in his arms too. The days are long but the weeks move fast.

One day, Willow laughs. It's the first time either of them has laughed. It took you both by surprise. You were feeding Wren while Willow laid on her back with Alex loomed over her. Usually, when he would blow raspberries on her stomach she would just gurgle and flap her arms and legs around, but this time she laughed, and it’s the loudest sound you've ever heard.

Alex looked down at her, completely engaged, not bearing to take his eyes off, scared to miss the sight. It gets him laughing too with tears in his throat. He leaned down again and blew more air against her tummy. She shrieks this time, giggling, and you want to capture the sound forever. Run and have Alex record it.

But you looked down at Wren and rubbed your finger against her tiny baby cheek, deciding that there was no need to move from this comfort.

They aren't easy babies. There are two of them too. They both wake each other up, which means both you and Alex have to get up because it's 2 v. 2 and they're small but mighty. They eventually get on a sleep schedule and a routine and trade-off between you and Alex is set into place.

By the end of the year, it's the new normal and you don't remember a time when they weren't around. You want to be with them all the time just like you want to be with Alex all the time.

They're great. But then they wake you up at 3 AM.

*

a/n: so...this slowly became a prequel to my dad!al fic and i decided to just finish it that way. i also have not read through it because i'm tired so any mistakes you did not see.

[princessbrunette]

Jedi John b breaking his code to fuck you, the princess of a distant planet he was assigned to protect

•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•

john b had his serious face on today.

his eyes had clouded over almost, brows in a permanent frown and it was like you could see every thought racing through his head though you didn’t know what they were. you’d stayed quiet on the journey, hands in your lap as the stars flash past you through the windows. whatever john b was planning, it must’ve been important.

you’re not expecting to land in the most beautiful planet you’d ever seen. as a princess, you’d had the privilege of getting to see the galaxy. some beautiful, some struck by war and impoverished — but you’d never seen this place before.

when you’d asked “wow, where are we john b?”

he’d simply responded with “uh, very far from home.” before whistling to his droid to get it to follow the two of you down the ramp.

you’d walked for a while, and you didn’t question anything merely because you were too amazed by the beauty of your surroundings. forestscape surrounds you, vibrant purple flowers entwining the thick branches and the sun beginning to set leaving a pink hue over everything light touched. he cranes round to check on you as he leads you through the scenery, eyes lingering on you when he sees you smiling, a bird like creature you’d never seen before fluttering past, your eyes following in amusement. maker, you were beautiful.

you eventually come to a building, seemingly abandoned at the edge of the forest overlooking the great waterfalls and he holds his hand out. this strikes you as odd because john b never offers to hold your hand, attempting to be professional, you usually simply grab it anyway.

soon, you’re standing in the bright orange sunset infront of the open balcony doors, sheet curtains blowing in the gentle humid breeze.

“why are we here, john b?” your voice is soft like fine silk a hand gently touching his back as he faces away from you.

“so… the other night you begged me for something.” he begins sincerely, staring into your eyes in the intense way he always did once he turns to face you. you’re immediately swarmed by the memory of you begging him to touch you and physically cringe.

“john b, i’m terribly sorry. i had simply had too much wine at the senate gala and i was absolutely beside myself. i shouldn’t have—”

“no just… listen, okay?” he raises his eyebrows, forehead crinkling at the stress on his face and you sink, nodding as you hear him out. he wipes a hand along his jaw in thought before speaking once more. “people seem to think i’m this… perfect jedi, as if that even exists.” he rants, shaking his head, voice low and timbery. “truth is it’s never been hard for me to act like one. i believe in all the rules so, why would i disobey them right?”

he steps closer to you, tilting his head as your eyes drift off in thought to catch your gaze, his own eyes wide and puppy like.

“you make that hard for me because i… just wanna have you all to myself.”

your breath hitches in your throat. he looked insanely gorgeous in that moment, orange glow of the sunset casting shadows across him and warming the highest points of his face, his brown wavy hair lit up and highlighted by the unrelenting sun.

“you do?” you whisper but it’s barely audible. he presses his lips together, brows raised as he nods slowly, taking another step until you were practically chest to chest.

“yep, yes. i do.” his deep voice rumbles infront of you. your brows furrow sympathetically, doe eyes making it hard for him to resist you.

“i’m sorry john b. i never wanted to make it difficult to remain faithful to the jedi council.” you shake your head in worry and he stills you with a soft hand on your cheek, ducking his head.

“hey. don’t be sorry. you… make me feel like a person.” his voice lowers, and you can’t help but selfishly glance at his mouth — in which he does the same.

“s’that why you brought me here john b? to feel like a person?” you breathe, practically sharing oxygen.

“i brought you here…” he begins to walk you slowly backwards towards the large bed. “to make you feel as good as you make me feel. without the concern of anyone else catching us.” he promises and your legs hit the back of the bed, sitting you down with a bounce. you feel the heat rush over your body, the same arousal you felt the night you begged him to touch you — already feeling the slick coating your opening, body desperate to take him. “if, you know… that’s alright with you ma’am.” his lips twitch a little and you bite your smile back, nodding violently.

one thing about the jedi, they had phenomenal stamina. it feels like you’re in and out of consciousness at some points, so lost in a haze of pleasure that you’d forgotten where you were and what was happening. nothing else in the galaxy mattered but john b’s head between your legs, his thick arms, toned from the extensive training a jedi goes through wrapped around your thighs to hold you open, naked body glowing with perspiration as you writhe on the bed.

“m’mph— john—john b, my goodness i’m—” you cry, like actually cry — because it had been such a long time coming. he lifts his head with a sweet smile, chin glossed with your slick and he pushes himself up to hover over you, lips ghosting over yours. you can smell yourself, taste yourself on him, it was all too much.

“you’re crying sweet girl?” he hums in awe, nudging your legs open with his own to slot himself over you.

“please let me feel you. please!” you beg once more, this time with no shame and he pecks your cheek.

“oh you will. it’s a good thing being a jedi taught me patience, right? because… i’m not done making you cum on my tongue.” he drops his voice for the last part, tilting his head, hot breath on your jaw as you shudder. he was right, he was patient — but even you could see the way he was throbbing in his pants for you.

•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•

[aeithalian]

Hermes: the ultimate middle child

And now for the other promised meta!

There was a great discussion on the TOA discord earlier that I got the chance to read once it was over that was basically exactly what I wanted to talk about - Hermes as a character and how he is very subtly contrasted with Apollo in multiple ways.

First, for a curiosity I've had ever since I finished TON. We learn several very interesting things about Hermes in the scene when Apollo returns to the Council:

He initiated the bets on Apollo's success (and then has the nerve to say he was worried about Apollo)

He bet against Apollo (and it was enough money to make him look visibly upset by the loss)

He was not among the gods who looked happy at Zeus' proclamation of Apollo's success (Artemis makes sense for being happy, Dionysus makes sense for not, but Hermes is supposedly a close brother figure in the myths, so what gives?)

He immediately suggested that Apollo cause outright harm to some mortals with his renewed power, despite displaying no such malice in his previous appearances

There is an interesting play of contrast here when you look at Hermes' other notable scene in the Riordanverse - his conversation with Percy at the end of TLO.

Hermes is generally portrayed as much more serious right here. He's grieving Luke's death at this point, but Hermes knew that was coming, and this demeanor is consistent with his other appearances up until this point: put-together, down-to-business, pragmatic, and so on.

This doesn't seem like the same person we see at the end of TON: making jokes, placing bets, and the like. And THEN you go back to the myths and the Hermes there seems much more similar to the one we meet in TON.

My point being, there is a very obvious disconnect here between who Hermes used to be, who he is now, and who he is pretending to be.

And it has a lot to do with Zeus, and as a result, Apollo.

I think there's a twofold reason for this dichotomy: one, Hermes and Apollo have fundamentally contradictory views on both fate and change which have larger implications for Hermes' overall morality; and two, Hermes resents Apollo for being Zeus' favorite when Apollo probably doesn't deserve it (or Hermes believes he deserves it more).

Part I: Fate and Change

I'd like to go back to that conversation between Percy and Hermes at the end of The Last Olympian. The entire conversation is so strange to me: here's a sixteen-year-old who has never had a positive father figure in his life (save Paul, who is still a recent addition to his family at this point) trying to comfort a 4,000-year-old god that he's not a bad father:

"I thought you were a bad father," I admitted. "I thought you abandoned Luke because you knew his future and didn't do anything to stop it."

The main point of that conversation comes from Hermes' response to Percy's statement. To paraphrase, Hermes says 'I couldn't have saved Luke, it's against the laws and I can't defy the fates. I loved him, yes, but I couldn't save him. Those laws aren't going to change anytime soon, and neither are the gods.'

What we get from this conversation is this: Hermes was resigned to being unable to help Luke because he views the future as inevitable and the Fates as all-powerful (as does Zeus). He also doesn't believe that gods can change in the ways Percy wants them to; he scoffs at the idea that Percy's proposed changes will be permanent:

"No one can tamper with fate, Percy. Not even a god."

and then:

He laughed. "After three thousand years, you think gods can change their nature?"

To Hermes? Fate is inevitable and the gods can't change.

On the other hand, to Apollo? The future is behind any number of unlocked doors, and the only thing stopping the gods from changing are themselves:

[Regarding Frank burning his stick in TTT] "Frank went into that tunnel knowing he might die. He willingly sacrificed himself for a noble cause. In doing so, he broke free of his own fate. By burning his own tinder, he kind of... I don't know, started a new fire with it. He's in charge of his own destiny now."

Frank broke free of his fate, and the way Apollo talks about it indicates that he believes that such things are certainly possible.

And this:

[After regaining his godhood in TON] I could only try to be different from [Zeus]. Better. More... human.

Apollo intends to change the way he acts now that he is returned to Olympus, and has the support of everyone else who noted that he has already grown as a person: Jason, Sally, Will, Reyna, and so many more.

I feel like Hermes has always felt that he has the excuse of being a god when Percy asks him to do better for the sake of Luke's memory: "We gods have never been very good at keeping oaths." and "Eventually we'll become forgetful. We always do." and generally lots of other sentiments that give the impression that he believes that failure to do right by mortals is inevitable for gods. He's been so used to thinking that Luke was resigned to his fate from the very beginning, and that Hermes was never capable of changing it. Hermes didn't fail because he didn't try to succeed.

But Apollo ruins that for him when he returns - Apollo has not and will not let that same excuse stop him, and now Hermes is losing the only reason he had for not helping Luke. If Hermes is right, that gods can never help their mortal children and Luke was born to die at Kronos' hand, it was excusable for Hermes to turn his back on his own son. But if Apollo is right that gods can change and you can shape your own destiny, then it was Hermes and his inaction that killed Luke, not Kronos.

And we know that Apollo is right. Apollo did defy his fate. Apollo did change. And Hermes saw it all from the safety of his throne on Olympus.

Which means that Hermes was always wrong, and he knows it now. Hermes says that not helping Luke was the hardest thing he's ever done, because it would have amounted to nothing. Hermes thought he was completely incapable of helping Luke, but Apollo is living proof that he could have.

So now, Apollo is a daily reminder that Hermes failed Luke. Every day.

That would be enough to drive a wedge between any two people, much less two gods. And I don't think Apollo would ever truly realize that this is the case, so one day, Hermes is going to break, and Apollo will be left blindsided.

It only makes sense that Hermes might have some very heavy clown makeup on when we see him at the end of TON. I can't speak for him when we talk about the gambling, but I bet it's because Hermes, like he did with Luke, thought that Apollo would be resigned to his death the very moment Delphi-Python said that "Apollo will fall". And the fact that Apollo survived against all the odds (and seemingly against the Fates themselves) is just another smack to the face. I believe his behavior and comments in this scene are him lashing out in anger and frustration at the solid fact of the matter; that Hermes failed his own family, which is something he values to no end.

That's got to suck.

But now I think we have to closely examine why Hermes believes those things. Hermes has been brainwashed in a sense to believe that he can't defy fate and can't change. By who, then?

Do I really need to answer that? You have a brain. It's obvious, isn't it?

Part II: The fight to be the golden child

Let's rewind a bit, shall we?

The entire discussion had over on discord was started with talking about the potentials of Apollo's relationships with Ares and the rest of his siblings, then someone (I believe it was @fearlessinger, along with some very valid points made by uke) said this:

...but Ares, who was always the least favored of Zeus's children, the family's scapegoat, and who gave up on trying to get on Zeus's good side basically as soon as he was born and deemed a failure… he of all ppl would actually have no reason to resent Apollo for his success, nor for throwing away that success

To which I replied:

so i wonder then who has the reason to resent Apollo the most?... it’s probably a son, because they’re the ones who have to fight the most for Zeus’ approval ... maybe Hermes? because he’s never really done anything wrong and still doesn’t receive the title he deserves ...

To summarize: Apollo was the golden child, and used to be Zeus' favorite. We are certain he faces a lot of resentment for this fact (he admits to it himself), and Hermes definitely fits the bill.

Think about it.

Besides Luke, what has Hermes ever done that would put him out of the running for golden child? He's useful, talented, powerful enough to be on the Council, and despite being a god of liars and thieves, is work-driven enough that his father still trusts him. Even in the myths, he's clever in a very Zeus-y way.

Apollo, on the other hand, acts like a complete and utter fool pre-trials. He's vain, self-centered, and shallow. He's a chronic attention-seeker, and, in the myths tried to overthrow Zeus, and had angered him to the point of turning him mortal, not once, but twice. So what gives? Why is Apollo the favorite son, and not Hermes?

Honestly, I couldn't say, besides vague suggestions that it's because Zeus likes the idea of having the powerful and popular son as a favorite, rather than the less noticeable behind-the-scenes son. But who knows how Zeus and his favoritism work. Apollo doesn't, and I don't think Hermes does either.

I rather think Hermes is, as I said in the title, the ultimate middle child. Overlooked by his father in favor of his siblings, whether they be rebellious (Apollo), perfect in every way (Athena or Artemis) or just plain failures (Ares or Dionysus). In comparison, Hermes is invisible, having never done anything to make him stand out in the eyes of his father, nor having done anything that deserves a strict punishment. Nothing worthy of attention.

I've seen people wonder why Hermes never suffered the same consequences for Luke's actions in the way Apollo did for Octavian. But that's because Hermes never broke Zeus' fundamental law: do not interact with your mortal children.

The problems Octavian caused were supposedly because Apollo defied Zeus and created a forbidden connection with his legacy.

On the other hand, the problems Luke caused were because Hermes obeyed Zeus to the letter.

Why would Zeus punish Hermes for being obedient? And why wouldn't Zeus punish Apollo for breaking the 'ancient laws'?

Arguably, Hermes is Zeus' best behaved child (which is ironic, considering a few notable domains of his). Hermes is one of a trend that we see a lot with toxic parents who don't give attention and approval freely - Hermes and Apollo are on opposite sides of this spectrum. Apollo in the past has acted out in order to gain attention, whereas Hermes has glued himself to Zeus' side in an attempt to be perfect.

And this perfection includes indoctrinating into Zeus' belief systems and fears. Zeus fears the inevitability of fate. So does Hermes. Zeus refuses to let the gods change. So Hermes believes change impossible. Zeus says that you may not have contact with your mortal children. And although to Hermes this is the hardest of all, he turns his back on Luke.

And yet, 'golden child' is still not his title to claim. That rests with Apollo, still, who has not met Zeus' standards, openly rejects Zeus' belief systems, and yet continues to rise above the rest.

That is the formula for a deteriorating relationship between brothers: Apollo's mere existence being an everyday reminder to Hermes that he is a failure both to his son and to his father.

Everyone say hello to our old friend resentment.

Now, I'm not necessarily saying that Hermes and Apollo's relationship is inherently negative. But there's a lot of reason for there to be some contention coming from Hermes (and I didn't even touch on May Castellan - basically, I think Apollo refused to oversee her attempt to become the next Oracle because he knew it wouldn't work, which is why he wasn't present for May's attempt, but was for Rachel's; later on, Hermes could start seeing Apollo's domain and subsequent absence as the thing that drove her mad).

We don't have a lot of hints for whether or not he plans to act on those feelings of resentment. But they're there. And in a new, post-trials Olympus, they're going to come to light sooner or later.

Because Percy was right.

"I thought you were a bad father," I admitted. "I thought you abandoned Luke because you knew his future and didn't do anything to stop it."

That's exactly what happened. And because of Apollo, Hermes now knows it.

(a list of my other metas if you'd like to read)

And a very special shoutout to @firealder2005 for writing this absolutely gut-wrenching and angsty but super cool fic based around this very idea that i am absolutely in love with and everyone should go read it ❤️

[gaybd1]

Here’s another one that is So Canon To Me that I forget I’m not on the same page as everyone else about it:

Katara gets elected Chief of the Southern Water Tribe and Sokka pretty much never goes back

Let’s please give Katara something permanent to do oh my god. Aang is the Avatar, Toph ends up a cop, Sokka is involved in the running of Republic City. Can Katara please get another role other than Avatar’s Wife Who’s Also A Good Healer??

We’ve seen in the show that she’s a very inspiring leader with a huge sense of loyalty. It seems to me like she’d be a natural at politics and strategically a great choice to lead because of her relationship with the world’s other leaders. Also as the last Southern Waterbender and a great healer, she’d have a lot of respect in the tribe as a warrior and as someone also knowledgeable about spiritual matters.

She’s always had a strong connection to her people and her culture and she’s still living there during Korra. I think she trained to be chief under Hakoda and she and Aang and their family split their time between Republic City and the SWT at first. She probably gets elected a few years later and they live there more permanently, then when her term ends they focus more on RC for a while. I think when Aang dies she’s so happy to move back permanently, having moved away due to duty but her heart has always belonged in the South and its next generation of benders.

Sokka meanwhile… We’ve talked about his trauma. I made a post about this somewhere before I think he’s one of those guys that definitely prefers to visit back home than to spend time there permanently. The memories of losing essentially both his parents and being responsible for all his people’s survival… I don’t think he ever fully deals with those. He’s always had a more global outlook on life and I think his skills in engineering and diplomacy would be better used in the Fir Nation and eventually Republic City. I know we hear him called Chief Sokka in I think S3 of Korra but it’s always made way more sense to me that he would be appointed chief of the Water Tribe folks living in the United Republic, which would reconcile the role we see him in on its council.

Also with his disability later in life… the cold weather in the South would probably not be great for him at all…

I do see a lot of stuff about Sokka being chief post-canon and then Katara just kind of fades into oblivion and I mean we know why that is but consider this instead.. ^^

[sotwk]

apologies if you've answered this question before, but i was wondering about your take on Oropher? his role in Doriath, what his rule of Eryn Galen was like, how he was as a person, or anything you'd like to talk about!

Elvenking Oropher, Founder and Ruler of Eryn Galen 

25 SotWK AU Headcanon Facts

SotWK Fancast: Jason Isaacs as Oropher

Oropher’s grandfather was the brother of Elmo's wife, which makes Oropher and Celeborn second cousins. Oropher is therefore related to Elu Thingol, but not by blood.

Oropher was born in Y.T. 1345 in Doriath, soon after the completion of Menegroth.

Celeborn was born in the same Valian year as Oropher. Although 1 Valian year is ~10 Solar years (with Oropher being slightly older), this technically makes them “birthmates”.

Thus, Oropher and Celeborn grew up together and were very close friends from childhood to young adulthood.

Oropher had a younger sister named Ferinsil who had been in love with Celeborn her whole life. Unfortunately, Celeborn only ever saw her as a sister, despite Oropher’s attempts to encourage their match.

In FA 106, Oropher married Meluiel, the younger sister of Beleg Cúthalion and a trusted lady-in-waiting to Queen Melian.

Even in his youth, Oropher demonstrated the makings of a gifted politician. He was charming, diplomatic, eloquent, and had an easy way of making friends and gaining followers. In FA 25, just shy of 1,500 years old, Oropher was appointed the youngest member in the council of Thingol.

Oropher had a head for sums and trade, eventually leading to him being put in charge of the royal treasury.

Despite his significant rank and achievements, Oropher remained secretly envious of his friend Celeborn, who, in his status as a prince, was often shown special favor by the King and never seemed to have to work for his privileges.

Oropher did not like or trust the Noldor outsider, Galadriel, and his animosity towards her increased when it became evident that Celeborn loved her. Celeborn's love for Galadriel broke Ferinsil's heart and spirit, and Oropher never quite forgave his cousin for this.

Celeborn's decision to leave Doriath with Galadriel in FA 470, marked the end to the cousins’ friendship, as Oropher viewed this as abandonment of their people.

During the Sacking of Doriath by the Sons of Fëanor, Oropher went first to the rescue of his sister (whom he viewed as weaker and more defenseless), before his wife. Because Meluiel was killed without him at her side, this decision haunted Oropher forever and became a source of self-loathing.

Nonetheless, Oropher was one of the few surviving leaders of King Dior’s court who led the surviving refugees out of Doriath, and was remembered as a hero for it.

In the attacks, Oropher sustained a serious injury to his right leg that left him with a permanent limp even after it was healed. Eventually he started to use a staff to minimize the appearance of his limp. (The same staff Thranduil is seen with in movie promo pics.)

Oropher also witnessed and survived the Third Kinslaying at the Havens of Sirion, but had no significant involvement other than refusing to yield Elwing or the Silmaril.

Oropher’s first major falling out with Thranduil was over his son's decision to participate and fight in the War of Wrath, which he could not prevent. For years he lived in agonizing fear over losing his son, but thankfully Thranduil survived, and they were reunited and reconciled afterward.

After some centuries of living in Lindon (ruled by High King Gil-galad), Oropher and some other surviving families from Doriath, decided to seek a new home across the mountains.

Oropher immediately loved the great forests of Greenwood, as well as the native Silvan people. He was moved by their peaceful, simple lifestyle and pushed for assimilation wherein Silvan culture was upheld as dominant over Sindar.

Although there were a few Sindarin lords who put themselves forward as contenders for the role of King, Oropher was chosen by the overwhelming majority. This was due to his own popularity with the Silvans, and partly because of their admiration for his son, Thranduil.

Oropher was a much beloved and successful ruler of Eryn Galen throughout the Second Age, building the kingdom from the ground up with the help of well-chosen advisors. He was a conciliator who balanced the interests of the Sindar and Silvan sides, until the lines between the two groups grew indistinguishable.

War never touched the lands of Eryn Galen, from outside or within, during Oropher's reign. He had no intention of partaking in the War of the Last Alliance until Thranduil convinced him to do so.

Oropher actually respected Gil-galad and considered him a friend, despite carrying a general grudge and dislike for the Noldor. Although not in the inner circle, he held a position in the royal court as a representative of the Sindarin citizens in Lindon.

Oropher’s alleged refusal to take orders from Gil-galad and his generals, as recorded in historical accounts, was much more nuanced than just being a result of stubbornness and pride. (I would need a separate essay to explain this one.)

A lifelong courtier, Oropher was unapologetically fancy, and had high standards for his personal appearance. This did not mean he had to have luxurious clothing, but he believed that “cleanliness is next to godliness”. He was always polished and unwrinkled, and carried himself with refined manners and bearing. His hair was meticulously braided in the traditional style of the Iathrim and the House of Elmo. Thranduil's wilder, more uncouth ways when he was a child and a young prince, was a point of contention between them. But as Thranduil matured and especially when he ascended the throne himself, he emulated his father's grace and regality.

Alcohol (esp. wine) does not have an inebriating effect on Oropher. In fact, the more he drinks, the sharper his mind gets. He could effortlessly drink his own son under the table.

Thank you for the Ask, @toasterdrake! I've fallen shamefully behind in my development of Oropher's character, and your question gave me the nudge I needed to beef up my notes! <3 I appreciate you so much!

For more Thranduil/Silvan Elf/Mirkwood headcanons: SotWK HC Masterlist

Other useful links:

Introduction to SotWK

Fanfiction Masterlist

[mythologyolympics]

Mythology Olympics tournament round 1

Propaganda!

In Aztec mythology, Xochiquetzal, also called Ichpochtli , was a goddess associated with fertility, beauty, and love, serving as a protector of young mothers and a patroness of pregnancy, childbirth, and the crafts practiced by women such as weaving and embroidery. Unlike several other figures in the complex of Aztec female earth deities connected with agricultural and sexual fecundity, Xochiquetzal is always depicted as an alluring and youthful woman, richly attired and symbolically associated with vegetation and in particular flowers. By connotation, Xochiquetzal is also representative of human desire, pleasure, and excess, appearing also as patroness of artisans involved in the manufacture of luxury items.

Ulmo, also known as Ulubôz or Ullubôz, was an Ainu, one of the Aratar, and the Vala responsible for the control over the oceans of Arda. A lover of water, Ulmo was one of the Arda's chief architects and was always in a close friendship with Manwë. He always distrusted Melkor, and the Dark Lord feared the Sea almost as much as he feared Varda because the sea cannot be tamed. Ulmo had no dwelling in Valinor or any permanent dwelling on land, as he preferred the deeps of the seas and the rivers. Ulmo seldom came to the Councils of Máhanaxar, and only when in great need. He preferred to stay in Arda, not by walking on the land, as his form would fill man or Elf with great dread.

[agentrouka-blog]

I know I'm on record saying it will be Tyrion who makes Bran king, but the more I think about Samwell's successful election campaign on behalf of Jon Snow... he's going to have a hand in it. Convincing a diverse range of voters to choose an unlikely candidate based on identifying and explaining how this candidate can serve their individual interests in different ways?

That's Sam.

Sam who independently met Bran in a magical context, understanding his purpose at least in part, therefore having a credible set-up for a collaboration of a different kind later on, removing the idea that he would simply be supporting Jon's little brother out of loyalty to Jon.

As a Tarly of the Reach he is unlikely to appear terribly biased to the members of a Great Council, in general. A trustworthy source of information.

The Great Council having a great deal of trouble coming to a decision and then electing the least likely little king with Tully-Whent blood to preside over the new permanent parliament at Harrenhal? That's the fitting sequel to the Night's Watch election.

If Tyrion gets the soup going, it's Sam who will put the finishing touches on it.

[probablyasocialecologist]

There are two main ways of comparing military budgets: as a percentage of GDP or as a percentage of the total national budget. Israel stood high on both: in 2022, Israel’s military budget amounted to 4.51 percent of its economy — the highest percentage among OECD countries. That same year, Israel's military budget stood at 12.2 percent of its total annual budget. And that is not the whole story. Economist Yossi Zeira points out that the above GDP figure is partial, as it does not take into account the loss of GDP caused by the fact that a large number of young men are outside the civilian labour force, a fact that translates into a 5.7-percent loss of GDP per year. Once the defence budget is determined, not much is left for other, non-military civilian budgets. In 2023, while the average civilian public expenditure in OECD countries stood at 42.2 percent of GDP (not including interest and military expenditure), in Israel it stood at 32.9 percent — a quarter less. With all those resources, Israel finds it hard to finance the full costs of maintaining its “imperial” military status without foreign assistance. Today, foreign financial and non-financial military aid comes mainly from the US. In the past, it had more varied sources: in 1956, such aid came from France and Great Britain and from 1967 on, from the US. According to the US Council on Foreign Relations, US aid accounts for some 15 percent of Israel’s defence budget. At the time of this writing, the US has signed a memorandum of understanding assuring Israel nearly 4 billion dollars per year through 2028. As for the actual fighting in the present war with Hamas, the US provided Israel with tank and artillery ammunition, bombs, rockets, and small arms, and was considering further supplies, including 50 F-15 fighter aircraft. Enough to keep the fighting going.

[...]

From the very beginning of the present war, Israel’s prime minister and almost all IDF generals have frequently warned that the war will be long. The Bank of Israel seems to agree, as it recently published a figure of 250 billion shekels for the total cost of the present war with Hamas — if the war lasts until 2028. That means a permanent very large military budget, continuous large aid packages from the US, and growing pressures on the budgets for social services, demands for which increase as a result of the ongoing war and seemingly unending dislocations.

18 September 2024

[duchess-of-mandalore]

Do you have any thoughts on what Satine and Obi-Wan's lives and/or the galaxy at large would have looked like if she'd survived the events of The Lawless?

Oh man, this premise has an infinite number of answers depending on where you go with it. But I think I can give some general principles.

Like ... for example, Satine survives The Lawless but Order 66 is subverted. Actually, I wrote a fic about that (Tethers of Inconvenience), where Satine pursues an arranged marriage with a senator from Kuat (Giddean Danu, a character in the RotS deleted scenes) who would be able to help her rebuild and protect Mandalore, which she finds difficult to do on her own since she humiliated Palpatine and the Senate in TCW Season 2.

But more generally, if she survives The Lawless, I think Obi-Wan takes her back to Coruscant and she lives with Padme. She begs the Senate and Jedi to assist in dealing with the mess on Mandalore. I think that Bo's able to take the planet back, and she and/or Korkie lead since her brainless, idiot, fake-news-believing people are still convinced that she killed Pre Vizsla with her own hands and caused the downfall of their city.

Then, let's say that Order 66 does happen. You've got two diverging roads: 1) Obi-Wan is able to find her and bring her to Tatooine with him, in which case they get to raise Luke together and have a kind of strangely (im)perfect happily ever after living a quiet life neither one of them had before (wonderfully explored in @mg024's Two New Hopes) ...

Or 2) He can't get to her and has to leave her when he goes into hiding, like in @the-obiwan-for-me's Krennictine AU. This has a similar premise to my Marriage AU but with Orson Krennic. In both our AUs, I think we're of the same mind that Satine never loses her personal idealism, but she becomes much more practically minded. I think the run-in with Maul proves to her that "Even extremists can be reasoned with" is much, much too hopeful. I think she's always prepared to sacrifice her personal happiness for her people if need-be, but there's always that piece of her that's longing for her happy ending.

Imperial-era Satine is fascinating because she's the one who characterized the idealism of the Republic but who was really spared suffering by dying before the rise of the Empire. Personally, I think that Palpatine would take very great joy in trying to smash her like a bug once he has no guardrails, given that she was one of the only people who publicly stood against him during the Clone War. I mean ... we kind of forget that after the Republic and the CIS, the largest political entity at play in the Clone War was the Council of Neutral Systems, led by Satine. She's a symbol of the Republic era and she wouldn't go quietly into the night once the man she's always despised proclaims himself Emperor.

I think Palpatine would immediately try to take over Mandalore (canonically, he did within the first year of his reign because he was still using a clone trooper army). In a SatineLives AU, whether he immediately succeeds would probably rest on whether she's willing to negotiate for her people's freedoms (like Bo did with Gideon in The Mandalorian), but even if she did, Palpatine would probably just renege on any agreement they had.

In general though, I lean more toward her giving up any claim to the throne permanently because she thinks Bo (and a Korkie hardened by both The Lawless and the rise of the Empire) can meet Mandalore's needs more than she can.

And if that's the case ... if she has no Mandalore and no Obi-Wan ... I could see her doing something like creating a relief organization that essentially goes from planet to planet cleaning up the effects of the Empire and then eventually becoming a secret organization focusing on saving and rehabilitating injured rebels. It's her way of maintaining her pacifistic ideals in a world where she no longer has the ability to remain fully neutral.

If anyone has any thoughts on these ideas or others of your own, I'd love to hear them!

[mxtantrights]

Bounded by shadow and blood (6)

Azriel x magic!fem!reader grab your popcorn, we're meeting some new faces! I promise I'm not making the inner court into villains, it's just the way I see them and how they fit into the plot. things will change!!

It’s been about a week since you caught Lars. Azriel left the next morning. He hadn’t even said goodbye. Which you thought was rude seeing as you were the reason the mission went so well but you didn’t take it personally. 

You wanted him gone anyways. He was asking too many questions about you.

And now that he was gone you could finally think. Think about all the stress that waits for you. Your brother gone, the throne empty and the council wishing for you to take the seat. You have about ten weeks left until you would have to go home. If you didn’t find your way there, they would find their way here and take you back.

Thesan knows everything now. You figured you couldn’t keep him in the dark about this. Especially if you were going to ask him for resources to help you look for your brother. According to Cyril he was headed for the night court. A pit grew in your chest at that information. 

What business did your brother have there? And why hasn’t he returned? 

If you wanted to avoid sitting on the throne you’d have to play nice with the night court. Even though two of its members seem to want to know more about you.

This was the type of spy work you loathed. You liked the violence of it, the attacking and planning. But you didn’t like the political aspects to it. The lie and alliances and backstabbing. You had enough of that when you grew up in Sangri. 

Right now all you wanted to do was find your brother but you would have to wait. Thesan was helping you figure out a way into the night court without having to tell them your real business being there. He had said that would be half the battle.

Apparently the high lord could enter peoples minds. Which meant even thinking about your plan could put you in danger. 

Today was the test run. Thesan invited the high lord and some members of his inner circle to a casual meeting. He’s going to spring the idea of you visiting their court. 

-

You could hear the talking and commotion from the tea room. You brushed down the frills of the dress you were wearing. Thesan told you very last minute that your guests tend to dress formal for almost everything. 

Right now the deep red dress was the only thing you had. Or, it was the only thing you felt comfortable in because everything else was for infiltration missions and you can’t be seen wearing them to this meeting. Also they were too dressy for you.

You take a deep breath and walk down the hall. The tea room doors were open. Great. You keep walking until you enter the room. All the talking stops. 

It’s a full house you realize. Thesan guessed that only four or five of them would show up but all eight of them are here. He had ran down the names for you this morning.

You obviously knew Nesta, who was sitting next to Cassian. They sit facing towards you at the table. And you knew Azriel. He was sitting next to a blonde, Morrigan. And Rhysand was sitting next to his high lady Feyre at one end of the table. Your eyes don’t quite catch who the eighth person is, their back to you. Thesan is at the other end of the table. An empty chair beside him and next to the unknown person.

“I was thinking you weren’t going to show.” Thesan joked.

You rolled your eyes playfully, “how could I miss tiny sandwich time.” 

You walk over to your seat, pulling the chair out. The person you are going to sit next to you becoming familiar all at once.

It had been a long time since you had seen her. Amren. Or at least that is the name she took after being in this world for so long. She looked almost the same as the last time you saw her, which had been some centuries ago. Right before you had come to live in the dawn court permanently you had traveled around. You ran into her once, in the middle of one of her bloodbaths. You had helped her secure the blood more easily.

“Amren?” You ask.

She smiles and launches out of her seat. She wraps her arms around you almost lifting you off the ground. You wrap your arms around her too. 

She pulls away from you first.

“How are you here right now?” She asks.

“I’m Thesan’s emissary.” You answer.

She makes a face, but she seems to pick up on the tone of your answer. You do not want to talk about it in the open.

“How do you two know each other?” 

You turn the voice that asked the question. Nesta. You should have known. 

“That’s private.” You answer.

“Rhysand could just read your mind.” Nesta argues.

“I can’t.” The high lord says.

You look over at him, “You can’t or you won’t.”

He places his elbows on the table and peers closer at you.

“I didn’t misspeak.” 

Huh. That was interesting. 

“Well, I guess tea time will finally be interesting this time Thesan.” You joke.

Thesan, who was sipping on water, almost chocked and spilt it all out. But he regained his composure and diplomacy. You take a seat next to Amren.

-

The meeting was winding down. Thesan had talked you up a bunch to the high lord. And he of course insisted that even you could visit the night court and still return to the dawn court.

Rhysand had said that the sights would surprise you but you remained confident it wouldn’t. You two had a bit of a push and pull throughout the whole meeting that seemed to intrigue everyone.

While the rest of the inner circle lingered in the tea room and you Amren stepped out to talk in private. You brought her to one of the sitting rooms and closed the door. 

“Okay, explain yourself right now.” She speaks.

“It’s a very long story, but I need you to do your best to keep my powers a secret.” You say.

Amren makes a face at that, crosses her arms across her chest too. She wasn’t going to like doing it, but for the time being your abilities are on a need to know basis. The rest of the inner circle doesn’t need to know.

“Azriel told all of us how you took him down. It won’t be hard for them to go digging around with what they know.” She replies.

You nod your head at her words. She is right. It was stupid pulling a movie like that over Azriel. If he didn’t figure it out on his own surely having the help of the rest of the inner circle would help. You just wanted to wipe the smugness that he exuded. 

“My brother has gone missing.” You admit.

Amren uncrosses her arms.

“For how long?” She asks.

You shrug your shoulders, “I mean the council says he was away on a month long trip, but now I’m thinking it was a month long head start.”

“You think he ran?” She asks again.

“I don’t know, no one will tell me anything besides the fact that I am next in line.” You explain.

“What?!” She shouts.

You try to quiet her and grab her hands in yours, “My sentiments exactly. He spawned no children and we have no uncles or aunts. I’m the only one.” 

“So you’re to be queen?” Amren says, shocked.

“I am not to be queen, Amren. I am to find my brother and tie him to the throne if I have to. And I wouldn’t even be queen if I took the throne, I’d be empress.” You clarify.

She lets out a laugh, “And you don’t want that?” 

“Amren the last thing I want to do is rule over people. I just want to do what I want.”

She grips your hands tighter, “And if your brother…”

You know what she means when she lets the words trail off. What if your brother is dead. You can't imagine it, you can't think it. You can't.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. That is why I’m going to visit your court soon.” you say.

“To look for him?” 

You nod, “Apparently he was headed there.”

She gives you a look. As if to ask you if you really believe that he would tell the people he was running from his next location. You sigh. It was the only piece of information you had on the matter. That and the fact that he wasn’t home.

“I’ll put in a word about wanting you to visit to Rhys.” She says.

At that you wrap your arms around her in a hug. She hugs you back.

“Thank you Amren. You don’t know how much this means to me.” You smile.

“If it comes down to them or you, I pick you every time.” She admits.

[starogeorgina]

𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬

Pairing: Harwin Strong x Targ oc

Warnings: Character death

3.07

Vaegon’s brows pull together as you walk slowly through the outer yard, your hand resting on your lower back. His eyes are full of concern. Your sons were of an age where they started to understand the dangers of pregnancy and labor but were still too embarrassed to ask you about it.

“My mother used to tell me discomfort is how we serve the realm,” you say softly. “I had no idea what she truly meant until I was pregnant with you and Aerion, but the discomfort is completely normal. It’s just our bodies changing to make room for the baby.”

“Is it painful?”

“It’s nothing for you to worry about, my sweet; besides, it’s completely worth it.” You squeezed his shoulder with your free hand, but Vaegon still didn’t look convinced. “If women didn’t endure childbirth, then we would never have our children, and I would be without the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Feeling light drops of water on your face, you look up. The ride over from Dragonstone has been peaceful, but since you landed, the sky has become much murkier, and the sun is disappearing quickly behind the thick gray clouds.

You glance back at the knight walking not far behind. “You don’t need to come in if you don’t wish to; the meetings can be rather dull.”

“No, I think being the king's cupbearer would be an honor.”

You smile and stroke his cheek. “Very well then.”

Holding your head high, you enter the same room you have been in countless times, yet you feel as if you don’t belong.

—

It was hard for you to read the expressions of the small council members, especially when they seem to be sleeping with their eyes open after rehashing the same issue over and over again. It was clear Alicent was the ruling force during these meetings, and although many times she was right when it came to saving money for the realm, she left no room for negotiation.

You attempt to hide a yawn with the back of your hand, but it is poorly done. Alicent narrows her eyes and asks, “Are the overcrowded cells not enough of a threat to keep you awake, princess?”

“I recall how tired you were towards the end of each pregnancy,” your father chuckles. “As is the case with most women.”

“I say cut their cocks off and be done with it.”

While a few of the lords nodded in agreement, Alicent scoffs, “That is the type of barbaric method I would expect to hear from Daemon.”

“It was Prince Daemon, the former commander of the gold cloaks, who suggested it many years ago; however, since his methods have stopped, the crime level has risen. And I don’t see how permanently taking away the weapon of men who commit the most heinous acts to stop them from repeating them is any more barbaric than cutting the hands of little children who only stole a loaf of bread so that they wouldn’t starve to death.”

Alicent grinds her teeth. “Then please, share what great solution to these problems you have conjured while sitting comfortably upon the throne of Dragonstone.”

“I don’t sit upon the throne; that is my sister’s seat. As will my fathers be one day.” Alicent rolls her eyes, and you tilt your head to look directly at your father, who looked less than impressed. “These men have been charged with being rapists and will remain a threat to the people of King's Land. Give them two options: they can have their cocks cut off and go north, or they can be put to the sword. The night’s watch is always looking for new blood, and the lords of Winterfell will be thankful for the extra men.”

You pause when Vaegon refills Alicent’s cup for her, and her hateful gaze burns into him. When he goes to refill the kings, your father smiles at him and says, “Good lad.”

“As for the children stealing, Lord Lyonel informed me that nearly all of them are from orphanages. If the crown isn’t feeding the poor, then it’s us who have failed.” Alicent opens her mouth to cut in, but you continue before she can. “Princess Rhaenyra has hired a stonemason to build ovens and will have fresh bread made every morning that will be delivered to the orphanages, and whatever is left will be given to the hungry living on the streets.”

“That is the most hono-”

“And how much will this cost the crown?” Alicent asks, cutting the lord who was speaking off.

“It will cost nothing, your grace. The stonemason did it in exchange for his daughter being allowed to assist the dragon keepers in the dragon pit from time to time. She is fascinated by our dragons.”

Alicent raises her eyebrows, challenging you silently.

“It will be the dragon riders on Dragonstone who will fly back and forth to the docks of the keep with the food from the bakery, and hopefully in the future, fresh fruit and vegetables as well.”

“Very well then,” your father smiles. “We will go forth with the ideas Princess Vaella has put forward. What is next?”

“The Stepstones are under threat again, your grace,” Jasper Wylde, master of law, says. “The pirates are taking root, and we must act as a matter of urgency.”

A sense of dread comes over you. “Many good knights died while defeating Craghas Drahar and his army. My king, you cannot allow this to happen again. Seasmoke and Varos are all familiar with the territory; I shall speak to Ser Laenor when I return home, and I will send a raven to my uncle.”

“Would you not fly out, yourself this time, princess?” The maester asks.

“Not while I’m with a child. Vhagar will most likely follow Caraxes, and hopefully the sight of the largest dragon in the world will be enough to sway anyone foolish enough to try and reclaim the stepstones for themselves.”

The council meeting continues until your father eventually ends it, after covering each subject brought up even though he didn’t seem fully satisfied with the solutions. Just as the lords were rising from their seats, a low rumbling came from outside, and a plume of fire was seen above.

“It’s Aegon returning on Sunfyre and Helaena on Dreamfyre!” Vaegon runs to the window and looks up. Excitedly, he asks, “Mother, may I go to the dragon pit?”

You wanted to say yes, knowing how disappointed he was when he never saw the other dragons when you arrived, but you didn’t feel it was safe for him to go alone, and the majority of the knights and you needed to speak to your father. “I’m afraid—”

“Forgive me, princess,” Ser Tyland says. “But I can escort my nephew to the dragonpit. I’ve been dying to see Nightmare and Ashwing.”

Ser Tyland looks genuinely intrigued as he walks to the door with your son. Just as the knight opens the door for them to leave, Alicent takes a gulp of wine and then asks, “Why those names?”

You weren’t sure who the question was directed at, but Vaegon answered. “I cannot recall why my brother chose that name for his dragon, your grace, but I named my dragon Nightmare because of Ser Harwin.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

“Ser Harwin?”

“Yes, your grace. My stepfather thought he was having a nightmare when he woke during the night and saw something black moving in my crib. He had never seen a baby dragon before and got a fright.”

You smile at the memory; it was one of the few times you’d ever seen Harwin look terrified. The look on his face when you insisted it was cute watching the dragon sleep beside your son and go back to bed was priceless. To you, it was normal, as you used to sleep with your dragon as a baby, but Harwin wasn’t convinced and spent the full night watching over the cribs, doing the same thing when Ashwing hatched.

The queen gives him a doubtful look. “Ser Harwin just happened to be checking on your nursery during the late hours of the night when your dragon hatched?”

“All my children sleep in my bedchambers until they have grown out of their cribs.” You look past her and smile at your son and Ser Tyland. “You better go now if you wish to catch your uncle and auntie before they leave the dragonpit.”

—

Your father makes small talk while the room is cleared, and when it is empty, he cuts straight to the point. “How are the king's hand and his son-in-law holding up?”

“They are both devastated. And I’m afraid Lord Lyonel might not recover from this, and you may need to find yourself a new hand.”

Visibly upset Your father sighs into his hand. “He is a loyal man, a good hand. Lord Lyonel will be difficult to replace.”

“I hope I’m wrong, and he does recover from this.”

“I thought he was no longer ill. The raven Rhaenyra sent suggested he was on the mend.”

“He is no longer physically ill, but mentally, I see him giving up. I hoped being around Harwin and his granddaughter would give him motivation, but he’s sinking deeper into depression.” You take a deep breath as the feeling of dread returns. “Father I… I saw the fire at Harrenhal in a dream years ago. That's why we never returned.”

His face crinkles with concern. “What? You never told me this before.”

“I saw my husband burning in the flames, screaming for his father. So I forbid Harwin from going back; that is why he and his father changed course and returned to Dragonstone. But the same night I had that vision, I had another. I believe it was a prophecy of some kind; on my Valyrian steel, it was written in our mother tongue that my son would be a bringer of blood and flames. I think there is war upon us.”

“Vaella…”

“I’ve been terrified all these years,” you admit. “I never told Harwin because I didn’t want to burden him; he loves those boys as if they were his own. He would gladly give them his house name. and I just never knew how to tell him. Every time I pray, I pray to see which son it is so I can change it and keep them safe.”

“Do you know when this war will start?”

“No, I don’t. This is why it’s so important that if Lord Lyonel doesn’t return to his post, you seek Corlys Velaryon to be your new hand. He is of our blood. He will help keep my children safe, as well as Jace, Luke, and Joff.”

“I think this is premature.”

You reach for his hand and say, “I believe there are vipers hiding amongst the grass, and we will most likely cut them off at the head before they can spread any more venom.”

“And what poison are you alluding to?”

Tears swell in your eyes; you could see it plain as day written on your father's face that he wants to listen to you. “Do not allow Otto Hightower to return to your council; this I beg of you. We spoke of crimes earlier, yet you haven’t addressed the crime of treason. What of those who call Rhaenyra’s sons bastards?”

He wipes your fallen tears away. “I will cut out the tongue of any man or woman who dares say such a thing.”

—

Walking down towards the dragonpit, you feel deflated, knowing your father was blinded by his devotion to his wife to see how the greens plotted against Rhaenyra. You speed up your steps as you smile politely to the lords and ladies you pass. The knight escorting you insisted you slow down; you just needed to leave the red keep.

When you reach the bottom of the staircase, you see Ser Tyland speaking with some other lords. You were confused as to how they made it to the Hill of Rhaenys and back so fast. “Ser Tyland?”

“Princess,” he says. “Prince Vaegon’s dragon is a lot larger than I believed. It must be true what they say about the magic in Dragonstone.”

“Did you travel to the dragonpit?” You ask, trying to catch sight of Vaegon.

“No, when we went outside to the courtyard, Nightmare was flying overhead, so we watched from there. A rare sight indeed.”

Nightmare usually comes and goes from the dragonpit in Dragonstone whenever she wants, so it was expected she’d do so in the keep. You quickly glance around and ask, “Where is my son?”

“With Prince Aegon. He returned shortly after we went outside and went off with him.”

“I just passed my brother in the hallway; my son was not with him.”

Your heart races as you frantically search for any sign of your missing son. Fear grips you like a vice, making it difficult to breathe as you call out for Vaegon. You rush through the different hallways, ignoring Ser Tyland as he calls after you. You feel this new terror could consume you until you spot the one knight in the keep you truly trust.

“Ser Harrold, Ser Harrold!”

He comes to an abrupt stop, as do the knights following behind him, “princess.”

“My son, Prince Vaegon, is missing.”

“You heard the princess; find the prince.” Ser Harrold waves a couple of ladies over. “See to it the princess is resting until we find the prince.”

—

You pace back and forth; fear and panic have a tight grip on your heart. You would not leave until he was found. Feeling a sudden heaviness, you sit with your head in your hands, rethinking your last conversation with Harwin before you leave.

“Stop,” you giggle, feeling your husband's hands roaming over your body. His hands move from your hips to cup your swollen breasts while kissing the back of your neck. “I’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”

“I can work with that,” he laughs.

“It will take more than ten just to remove my skirts,” you say, spinning around to face him. “I’m afraid you’ll need to wait until I return, and then we shall have all night.”

“Oh, it shall be a long wait.”

You peck at his lips and say, “But you’ll survive it.”

Since the night you first kissed Harwin, your desire for him has never ceased, nor has his for you. Over the years, you have become more obsessed with each other. Hearing footsteps approaching inside your rooms, you turn to face your son and ask, “Are you ready?”

He nods.

“Have a safe flight.” Harwin kisses you on the cheek, then goes over to Vaegon and pulls him in for a hug. “Be a good lad and look after your mother, eh?”

He nods again, but smiles this time and says, “I will.”

Your sweet, precious boy, you should never have let him out of your sight. You’d never forgive yourself if anything happened to him. When the door opens, your head snaps up and you look at the knight, whose face is still badly swollen and bruised from Harwin. “Ser Criston, has my son been found?”

“The prince has been located; he and princess Helaena are in Godswood.”

Tears fall as you get to your feet. You brush by Criston, and the other knights mumble a thank you before going to the godswood.

—

“My sweet boy!” You kiss your son on the head multiple times, trying your best not to cry again. “God be good; you had me so worried.”

“I’m sorry, mother; Princess Helaena wanted to show me her bug collection.” His eyes were full of regret. “I told Uncle Tyland I was going with her into the godswood; I thought it would be okay.”

Bloody Tyland.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, my sweet,” you sigh. “I just didn’t know where you went and got a fright.”

You look around, surprised that there aren’t any knights nearby. You watch your younger sister, who was happily sitting on the roots of the tree, playing without bugs, and smile softly. “Helaena, don’t you have a sworn protector?”

She doesn’t answer you because she's caught up in what she’s doing. You were desperate to leave, but don’t feel comfortable leaving Helaena alone outside. You place your hand on her shoulder and ask, “Sister, did a knight come out here with you?”

The young girl flinches at your touch. Tilting her head up, she says, “He’ll always fly but never run again.”

“Okay…”

“Three rivers; three dragon heads; weaving the colors of blue, red, green, black, and white. But no, he will never run again.”

—

The adrenaline from fear and panic was still fresh when you stepped into the great hall. Food was still being brought to the high table, and your family was still sitting around it. When you got closer, you noticed Rhaenyra and your cousin's absence. But Jacaerys and Lucerys were sitting with Aerion and Ada.

You motion for your son to go join his siblings, then look to Harwin. “Are my sister and Laenor not joining us?”

Harwin wraps his arms around you in a comforting embrace. He kisses the crown of your bed; his touch offers a small measure of solace amidst the overwhelming feeling that something terrible has happened.

“Harwin?”

He whispers into your ear so that the children don’t hear. “Rhaenyra is trying to console Ser Laenor. A raven arrived from Pentos.”

“Daemon?”

“I’m afraid Lady Laena has died during childbirth.”

[southernsolarpunk]

Hey what the fuck is this news story?

“ But the world’s largest economies are already there: The total fertility rate among the OECD’s 38 member countries dropped to just 1.5 children per woman in 2022 from 3.3 children in 1960. That’s well below the “replacement level” of 2.1 children per woman needed to keep populations constant.

That means the supply of workers in many countries is quickly diminishing.

In the 1960s, there were six people of working age for every retired person, according to the World Economic Forum. Today, the ratio is closer to three-to-one. By 2035, it’s expected to be two-to-one.

Top executives at publicly traded US companies mentioned labor shortages nearly 7,000 times in earnings calls over the last decade, according to an analysis by the Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis last week.

“A reduction in the share of workers can lead to labor shortages, which may raise the bargaining power of employees and lift wages — all of which is ultimately inflationary,” Simona Paravani-Mellinghoff, managing director at BlackRock, wrote in an analysis last year. “

Is this seriously how normal people think? Improving the bargaining power of workers and increased wages are bad?

“ And while net immigration has helped offset demographic problems facing rich countries in the past, the shrinking population is now a global phenomenon. “This is critical because it implies advanced economies may start to struggle to ‘import’ labour from such places either via migration or sourcing goods,” wrote Paravani-Mellinghoff.

By 2100, only six countries are expected to be having enough children to keep their populations stable: Africa’s Chad, Niger and Somalia, the Pacific islands of Samoa and Tonga, and Tajikistan, according to research published by the Lancet, a medical journal.

BlackRock’s expert advises her clients to invest in inflation-linked bonds, as well as inflation-hedging commodities like energy, industrial metals and agriculture and livestock.

Import labor via migration or sourcing goods? My brother in Christ they are modern day slaves!! I feel like I’m in backwards town reading this what the fuck?!

“ Elon Musk, father of 12 children, has remarked that falling birthrates will lead to “a civilization that ends not with a bang but a whimper, in adult diapers.”

While his words are incendiary, they’re not entirely wrong

P&G and Kimberly-Clark, which together make up more than half of the US diaper market, have seen baby diaper sales decline over the past few years. But adult diapers sales, they say, are a bright spot in their portfolios. “

Oh now the guy with a breeding kink is going to lecture us. Great. /s

“ The AI solution: Some business leaders and technologists see the boom in productivity through artificial intelligence as a potential solution.

“Here are the facts. We are not having enough children, and we have not been having enough children for long enough that there is a demographic crisis, former Google CEO and executive chairman Eric Schmidt said at the Wall Street Journal’s CEO Council Summit in London last year.

“In aggregate, all the demographics say there’s going to be shortage of humans for jobs. Literally too many jobs and not enough people for at least the next 30 years,” Schmidt said.

Oh god not the AI tech bros coming into this shit too. Wasn’t the purpose of improving tech to give people more free time? So they can relax and spend time with family more and actually enjoy life? Isn’t our economy already bloated with useless pencil-pushing number-crunching desk jobs that ultimately don’t serve a purpose?

I’m not going to post the entire article but give it a read. It’s… certainly something. Anyway degrowth is the way of the future.

[workersolidarity]

[ 📹 Civil Defense crews work to recover the dead and wounded after yet another Zionist army airstrike targeted a civilian residence in the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood, southeast of Gaza City, killing 6 Palestinians and wounding several others. 📈 The current death toll in Gaza now exceeds 37'232 Palestinians killed, while another 85'037 others have been wounded. ]

🇮🇱⚔️🇵🇸 🚀🏘️💥🚑 🚨

251 DAYS OF GENOCIDE: GAZANS STARVING TO DEATH AS ISRAELI OCCUPATION CONTINUES CLOSURE OF CROSSINGS, UNRWA WARNS OF CATASTROPHIC ENVIRONMENTAL AND HEALTHCARE RISKS IN GAZA, 61% OF GAZANS HAVE LOST AT LEAST ONE FAMILY MEMBER IN THE GENOCIDE, 32 DEATHS FROM MALNUTRITION, HALF OF ALL CROPLAND DAMAGED BY WAR, MASS MURDER CONTINUES UNABATED

On 251st day of the Israeli occupation's ongoing special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) committed a total of 3 new massacres of Palestinian families, resulting in the deaths of no less than 30 Palestinian civilians, mostly women and children, while another 105 others were wounded over the previous 24-hours.

It should be noted that as a result of the constant Israeli bombardment of Gaza's healthcare system, infrastructure, residential and commercial buildings, local paramedic and civil defense crews are unable to recover countless hundreds, even thousands, of victims who remain trapped under the rubble, or who's bodies remain strewn across the streets of Gaza.

This leaves the official death toll vastly undercounted as Gaza's healthcare officials are unable to accurately tally those killed and maimed in this genocide, which must be kept in mind when considering the scale of the mass murder.

Speaking at a press conference published on its social media platforms, the World Health Organization's Director-General, Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus, warned that the organization had documented “32 deaths in Gaza as a result of malnutrition, including 28 cases of children under the age of five.”

Ghebreyesus went on to add that “Since October 7, we have documented 480 attacks on health facilities in the West Bank, resulting in 16 deaths and 95 injuries.”

Continuing, Ghebreyesus went on to state that “Peace is the best medicine” to the catastrophic conditions faced by Palestinians in the Gaza Strip.

Additionally, Ghebreyesus said he welcomed the resolution passed by the United Nations Security Council proposing a ceasefire and prisoner exchange deal, urging all parties to "take steps to immediately implement the ceasefire decision in Gaza and put a permanent end to the suffering of millions of people."

Additionally, in separate comments, the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine (UNRWA) issued a warning about the catastrophic environmental and health risks faced by the Palestinian population of Gaza.

UNRWA cautioned that "As of 9 June, over 330,000 tons of waste have accumulated in or near populated areas across Gaza, posing catastrophic environmental [and] health risks. Children rummage through trash daily."

The Palestinian refugee organization went on to state that "Unimpeded humanitarian access and [a] ceasefire now are crucial to restore humane living conditions."

In other news, an opinion poll conducted by the Palestinian Center for Policy and Survey Research, conducted in the Gaza Strip, found that 80% of residents of the Strip have lost a relative or had a relative injured in Israel's ongoing genocidal war.

Further, 61% of Palestinians said that one or more members of their family had been killed during the war, while 65% said one or more members of their family were injured in the Israeli entity's war of genocide.

With regards to civilian resources, just 26% of Gazans said they were able to reach a place where they could receive assistance, while 72% say they can receive assistance but with great difficulty or risk, and another 2% said they could not.

Additionally, 64% of residents of the Gaza Strip said they only have enough food for one or two days, while 36% said that they do not have enough food for even one or two days.

According to the Palestinian Center for Policy and Survey Research, which is an independent, non-profit, non-governmental academic research Institution, the sample size of the poll conducted included 1'570 people, of whom, 760 were interviewed face-to-face in the occupied West Bank in 76 residential locations, and 750 people were surveyed from the Gaza Strip in 75 locations.

In more news, according to data analyzed by the United Nations and published in the Hebrew

media, more than half of Gaza's agricultural lands have been degraded by the by the Israeli occupation's ongoing genocidal war in Gaza.

The data accumulated for the study revealed a large rise in the destruction of orchards, field crops and vegetables in the Gaza Strip.

The UN used imagery taken between 2017 and 2025 by UN Satellite Centre (UNOSAT) and the UN Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO) found that 57% of Gaza's permanent crop fields and arable lands critical for food security have shown a major decline in density and health.

"In May 2024, crop health and density across the Gaza Strip showed a marked decline compared to the average of the previous seven seasons,” UNOSAT said, adding that “this deterioration is attributed to conflict-related activities, including razing, heavy vehicle movement, bombing, and shelling.”

The UN also found that crop fields, orchards and greenhouses across the Gaza Strip had sustained significant damage, with an estimated 151-sq. km of agricultural land, making up about 41% of the enclave's territory.

Meanwhile, the Zionist aggression against the Gaza Strip continues unabated as the occupation continued committing massacres across the enclave.

Following a tour of West Asia by US Secretary of State, Antony Blinken, where the US's top diplomat attempted to secure a ceasefire and prisoner exchange deal, violent airstrikes and artillery shelling targeted several areas of the Gaza Strip.

In the Central Gaza Governate, the area's Civil Defense announced the recovery of three bodies found in a bombed-out house in the Nuseirat Camp.

In the meantime, Gaza's Media Office confirmed that the number of humanitarian aid trucks entering the Gaza Strip had decreased by 12% from levels last week, further exacerbating the catastrophic humanitarian conditions being endured by starving Gazans.

South of Gaza, the Al-Qassam Brigades, belonging to the Hamas resistance movement, stated that its forces were engaged in street fighting with the invading Israeli occupation army west of Rafah, while witnesses reported seeing Israeli Apache helicopters and Zionist gunboats opening fire towards the neighborhood.

Reporting states that the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) started a new ground operation, invading west of Rafah, near the Al-Alam roundabout near the coast.

More than 30'000 displaced Palestinians were forcibly displaced again, abandoning their tents to sleep in the streets a distance from the occupation's advancing Merkava tanks and armored vehicles, while large numbers of displaced civilians were wounded as a result falling artillery shells and Israeli gunfire.

Similarly, occupation forces detonated entire residential squares in the Yabna and Shaboura Refugee Camps in the Rafah Governate, while intense artillery shelling pummeled neighborhoods east of Khan Yunis.

Local sources are also reporting intense occupation artillery shelling of residential homes in the Al-Mawasi area, north of Rafah, in the southern Gaza Strip, wounding a number of civilians.

Meanwhile, north of Gaza, several civilians were killed, and others wounded, following the bombing of the Israeli occupation army on a house for the Shanioura family, in the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood, southeast of Gaza City.

Similarly, IOF warplanes bombed a residential home belonging to the Azzam family, also in the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood, killing 6 civilians and wounding a number of others.

Israeli occupation forces also began a new invasion into the south of the Gaza City, coinciding with violent artillery shelling and airstrikes.

Further, an occupation bombing on the Ezbet-Beit Hanoun area in northern Gaza killed one civilian and wounded several others.

Additionally, an Israeli drone bombed a gathering of Palestinian civilians on Al-Rashid Street near the Gaza Port, resulting in the death of one person and the injury of several others.

Zionist artillery shelling also hammered Al-Sika Street in the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood, southeast of Gaza City.

In the Central Governate, Zionist fighter jets bombed a residential house belonging to the Al-Louh family in the Al-Hasayna neighborhood of Al-Nuseirat, resulting in the deaths and wounding of four Palestinians, most of them being children. The deaths included Shams Al-Louh, his wife, and their two children.

Another occupation air raid targeted the village of Al-Mughraqa, north of the Al-Nuseirat Refugee Camp, in the central Gaza Strip, killing 5 Palestinians.

In a statement, medical staff from Al-Awda Hospital in the Nuseirat Camp stated that the medical center had “received 5 martyrs and 8 injured, as a result of an occupation bombing that targeted a gathering of civilians in the town of Al-Mughraqa.”

Another civilian was murdered, and several others wounded, after occupation warplanes bombed a civilian residence belonging to the Jabr family in the Bureij Refugee Camp, in the central Gaza Strip, after which, the wounded were transported to Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital in Deir al-Balah.

Zionist aircraft also bombed an area in the vicinity of the power plant north of the Nuseirat Camp.

In more tragic news, a young man and a child, a young girl, died as a result of wounds sustained during the Al-Nuseirat massacre last weekend.

Elsewhere, another civilian was killed, and two more wounded, resulting from an Israeli bombing of a civilian home in the Bureij Camp, in central Gaza, on Wednesday evening.

As a result of the Israeli occupation's ongoing special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the endlessly rising death toll now exceeds 37'232 Palestinians killed, including over 15'000 children and upwards of 10'000 women, while another 85'037 others have been wounded since the start of the current round of Zionist aggression, beginning with the events of October 7th, 2023.

June 13th, 2024.

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@WorkerSolidarityNews