#princess rusty iron

[the-starry-traveller]

Lore: Queen Chrysalis's successors: Princess Rusty Iron & Prince Chippy

Rusty Iron Bio:

Rusty Iron was born from Celestia's 1st husband, Daemon Prince Artemis. She is the younger sister of Bright Torch. Although born an alicorn, her magic was quite unstable when she was much younger, resulting in much ridicule and bullying from her step siblings, along with her brother. She has a strong relationship with her brother and his family, including little Nebula

Rusty Iron was driven out/fled from Canterlot after Celestia caught her mating with Chippy during the first Changeling invasion. She later stayed in Queen Chrysalis's Hive.

Like her brother, Rusty Iron discovered her true magic was dark aura manipulation, which led to her being hated more by others... During the war, she led the hive forces under the daemon clan banner, mainly performing espionage & sabotage activities against the Southern Alliance. After the war, she plans to govern the hive with her mate and raise her new born grub son, Nox.

Chippy Bio:

Chippy was born from the union of Queen Crystalis and a majestic unicorn. After their wedding, Crystalis was left heartbroken when her mate abandoned her and fled. This experience left her with a deep-seated resentment and suspicion towards ponies. Similar to Rusty, he has always felt like an outsider.

Nevertheless, by displaying kindness and patience towards his fellow hive members and setting a positive example, he gradually gained recognition as the rightful heir to Crystalis's throne. After Throax departed to establish his own hive, he emerged victorious in the hive's election, securing his position as the next leader, triumphing over Cipher Claws.

If all goes according to plan, the intense conflict among the different factions of changelings will finally come to an end. A peace agreement will be reached, ensuring that fair laws are put in place and that changelings receive the recognition they deserve. This will mark the beginning of a new era for changelings, one that promises prosperity and growth.

// Mod will draw princess Celestia's family tree much later, so that it's less confusing.

[sneakydraws]

Illegally bound bits n bobs. Thinking about how often xz would have to shave his head… Tryna pin down the bull family look… And some post-season finale tenderness :3c

[randomdragonfires]

Parallel Lines, Act II

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

SUMMARY | He fears her proximity, and she fears his distance. As war looms, they’ll have to learn to make their marriage work to find comfort in each other. Or at least, try.

PAIRING | Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader

WARNINGS | 18+; SMUT; Angst; Complicated Relationship Themes; Emotional Negligence; Infidelity; Major Character Death; Gore and Graphic Depictions of Violence.

AUTHOR’S NOTE | Henlo! This was meant to be a duology, but the second part became too long so I ended up making it a trilogy instead. Hope it doesn't disappoint! :)

WORD COUNT | 13.9k

On a rare stormy night in King's Landing, the trees danced violently during a torrential downpour. A world-weary mother cloaked in the shadows of the flickering candlelight, whispered her gratitude to the Gods while on her knees - her sickly son had clung to life for yet another day. She thanked the Seven for their mercy upon her child and prayed with a fervent desperation.

"Gentle Mother, I beseech you. Mercy for my boy. He has suffered enough. Rid him of his pain, and give it to me if you can."

Her voice, trembling with exhaustion, echoed through the cold stone walls of the Sept. She turned, the weight of countless nights spent wanting, praying, and begging for her son's life pressing heavily upon her. As her whispered plea lingered in the air, a dark shadow crept through the halls of the Red Keep.

Back in the dimly lit chamber, her son laid fragile and fevered. The babe's suffering ended not by divine mercy but by a blade’s cruel bite, leaving a pool of crimson beneath the crib.

War had come to their doorstep, a brutal retribution for her husband's actions.

As the Princess crossed the threshold of the Sept’s grand doors, the candle flame she had lit in her son's name sputtered and died, extinguished by an unseen hand - that of the Gods, it must be. 

The storm outside seemed to howl with discontent, and an eerie silence settled over the castle, broken only by the distant, mournful wail of the wind. The gods had not answered her prayers - only darkness had.

The funeral had taken place that morning, a bleak procession of mourning and regret. Aemond had stood like a statue, his heart a hollow void as Vhagar’s flames engulfed the little bundle at his command. He had not shed a tear, his grief and rage too immense to be expressed in such simple ways.

She hadn’t either.

Later, he had descended into the castle's black cells, taking Larys Strong with him. The rogue Gold Cloak who had murdered his son lay shackled to a stone slab, his eyes wide with terror.

Aemond approached the man, his eyes cold and dead. "You took my son," he whispered, his voice a venomous hiss. "Now, you will pay."

He began with the nails, gripping the rusty pliers with a hand that trembled not with fear but with a seething rage. One by one, he yanked the nails from the man's fingers, the sickening crack of breaking bone and the wet pop of tearing flesh echoing through the cell. The man's screams were shrill, a high-pitched wail that echoed through the stone walls, but Aemond felt no satisfaction.

"Please," the man gasped, his voice raw and broken. "Mercy..."

Aemond's lips curled into a snarl. "You showed my little son no mercy." He moved to the fingers next, taking a blade and slowly severing them, joint by joint. Blood spurted in thick, dark streams, pooling on the cold stone floor. The man's howls grew frantic, agony that only fueled Aemond's fury.

He grabbed a branding iron, heated until it glowed red-hot, and pressed it against the man's skin. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, acrid and suffocating. The man's screams turned to guttural roars, his body convulsing in torment. Aemond's own face twisted in a mask of hatred and pain, each act of brutality a futile attempt to fill the gaping void in his heart.

"Confess!" Aemond demanded, his voice a thunderous roar. "Confess your crime!"

"I did it!" the man wailed, his voice a ragged sob. "I killed the boy... He made me do it... please, stop… the Rogue Pri-"

But Aemond did not stop. He could not stop. He continued his relentless torture, burning, cutting, and breaking, each act more savage than the last. The man's pleas for mercy turned to incoherent babbling, his mind shattered by the unending pain.

Hours passed, the cell becoming a chamber of horrors. Blood stained the walls and floor, a macabre display of a grieving father’s wrath. Finally, when the man was nothing more than a broken, bleeding husk, Aemond stepped back, his chest heaving with exertion. The rage had not subsided. It never would. But he was too exhausted to continue.

He had been ready to slowly kill the other ratcatcher when found, but Aegon, much less patient, had ordered the hanging of every ratcatcher in the city as recompense for his nephew's life. The streets of King's Landing would run red with blood, a brutal reminder of the price of crossing the King that sits the Iron Throne.

As Aemond ascended from the depths of the castle, the echoes of the man's screams still ringing in his ears, he felt the weight of his failure pressing down on him, a crushing burden that threatened to consume him. He had failed his family, and no amount of blood or pain could ever atone for any of it. Each step he took felt like walking through quicksand, dragging him further into an abyss of guilt and despair.

Now, the greatest task awaited him: facing his wife. How could he? How could he look into her eyes, knowing very well that it may as well have been his own hand that had slain their child? How could he, when he had been out at a whorehouse while his only son was murdered in cold blood?

No matter how angry and fierce he had been moments ago, now he felt small and cowardly. The righteous fury that had fueled his brutal interrogation of the rogue Gold Cloak had dissipated, leaving behind a hollow shell of a man. His rage had been a mask, hiding the unbearable sorrow and guilt that now threatened to overwhelm him.

He paused outside the door to her chambers, his hand trembling as it rested on the fine wood. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and pushed the door open. His wife sat on the floor, clutching Aerys' blanket to her chest, her eyes hollow and fixed on the bloodied crib. The sight of her, so broken and lost, pierced his heart more than anything else ever could.

He’d failed as a husband, father and protector.

The servants moved around her like phantoms, silently removing the stained mattress and the crib that had once held their precious boy. She did not give them a second glance, her body rigid and unyielding, as if she had turned to stone. The servants bowed to Aemond as they passed, their eyes lowered in sorrowful respect and fear. He watched them, his heart shattering with each step they took, carrying away the last remnants of his son.

Aemond's throat tightened, his breath coming in shallow gasps. How could he face her? How could he bear the weight of her grief and anger? He took another deep breath, forcing himself to move. Each step toward her felt like an eternity, the distance between them an insurmountable chasm of pain and regret.

He knelt beside her, reaching out to touch her shoulder. She did not flinch, did not acknowledge his presence. Her gaze remained fixed on the empty space where their son had once lain. If not for the faint rise and fall of her chest, he would have thought her dead.

“You were not there,” she said, her voice a hollow echo in the dim room. “You were not there when he was born. It’s only fitting that you weren’t there when he died as well.”

The words struck Aemond like a physical blow, each one a dagger to his already bleeding heart. Her tone, completely devoid of any emotion, sent a chill through him. The emptiness in her voice was far more terrifying than any rage or grief. It was the voice of someone who had been utterly broken, and it slowly killed him a little more with every passing moment.

His mind flashed back to that night, so long ago now, when Aerys had been born. He had been with the Madame, scared of losing his wife so much that he could not bear to stay - leaving her to bear their son alone. He had returned to find her pale and exhausted, cradling their newborn with a mixture of joy and exhaustion. 

Her eyes, once filled with warmth and love for their boy, now held only a deep, hollow emptiness. “He needed you, Aemond. I needed you, I went out of my way and begged you to protect us. And you weren’t there. Not when he took his first breath, and not when he took his last.”

She turned away, clutching Aerys’ blanket tighter to her chest, her body shaking with silent sobs. “I watched him suffer every night,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I watched him cry out in pain from the fevers, and I couldn’t do anything to save him. I prayed, Aemond. I prayed so much, and the gods took him anyway. And how… how he must have suffered…”

“I don’t know how to live with this,” she continued, her voice cracking. “Everywhere I look, I see him. His toys, his clothes, his empty crib. And I see you, and I wonder how we’ll bear it. How can we live with ourselves, knowing very well that we’d failed him?”

Her choked sobs gave way to cries, piercing the silence of the room like a thousand daggers. Aemond turned to hold her close, desperate to offer any semblance of comfort. She pounded on his chest with her fists, weakly at first, then with growing strength as her grief overwhelmed her. She tried to push him away, but he held her closer with each blow, his arms a fortress around her fragile body. Her screams grew louder, echoing through the empty chambers, the corridors, the entire Keep.

“What do we do, Aemond? How do we go on?”

For what felt like hours, he held her as she struggled, his heart breaking anew with each of her sobs. She pushed him away again and again, but he pulled her back every time, refusing to let her go. He whispered words of solace, though he knew they were hollow, futile against her anguish. The warmth of her tears soaked through his tunic, mingling with his own as they wept together.

Gradually, her struggles weakened, her sobs quieting into shuddering breaths. Exhausted, she slumped against him, her head resting on his shoulder. He stroked her hair gently, his own tears falling into her tangled locks.

When she finally calmed, she lifted her head to look into his eyes. The depth of her pain was mirrored in his gaze, their shared torment powerful enough to get the Gods to bow down their heads n shame. "I see you," she said, her voice throaty, raw and trembling. "I see you, Aemond, and I see the reason our son is dead."

Her words cut through him like a blade, and he flinched, but she continued, her eyes never leaving his. "But I also see the only person who feels this loss as much as I do. I hate you, Aemond, for what you've done, for not being here, for all of it. But I cannot push you away. I don't have the strength to be alone. Not now. Not ever."

Her voice broke on the last word, and she buried her face in his chest again, clutching his tunic with trembling hands. "Do not leave me," she begged, her voice a whisper of desperation. "Please, Aemond, do not leave me today."

She cried against his chest once more, her tears soaking through the fabric. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart, a frantic rhythm that matched his own. The memory of their son lingered in the air, as they clung to each other - two broken souls, adrift.

Aemond and his wife grieved, their methods as different as night and day. He poured himself into the war, throwing himself into strategy and shadow plotting to escape the crushing weight of his anger, guilt and sorrow. Every victory that Criston wrote to him about was a fleeting distraction from the void left by their son's death. The fight, the anger, the bloodied lands had his heart become cold, and his mind was focused on the immediate need to conquer.

She, on the other hand, hid herself away in her apartments, crying until her tears ran dry, only to begin again as soon as the next wave of sorrow crashed over her. The chamber was an eerie tomb of memories, filled with the echoes of a child whose cries were now silenced. She clung to their son's bloodied blanket, refusing to let the maids take it away. It was the last tangible piece of him, the only thing she could still hold. Her grief was raw and unending, a torrent that left her exhausted and hollow.

He watched her more than once, standing silently in the doorway, his heart heavy at the sight of her frail form curled up on their son's blanket. She was a shadow of the woman she once was, a stranger that he shared his deepest failure with - not to mention the subsequent pain of it all. Her sobs were gut-wrenching, a mournful lullaby that haunted the silent halls. Each sob was a reminder of his failure to protect their child, to protect her.

On those nights, he would tentatively approach her, his steps hesitant and unsure. Sometimes she would receive him, allowing him to hold her as she wept, her tears soaking into his leathers. He would murmur soft, broken words, his hand gently stroking her hair in a futile attempt to offer comfort. Her pain was palpable, a living thing that wrapped around them both and squeezed until they could hardly breathe. He felt helpless, his warrior's strength, his proud lineage and dragonrider’s blood useless against the insidious enemy of grief, one that had thoroughly defeated her.

Other nights, she would blame him, her grief turning into fury as she screeched at him to never darken her door again. Her words were sharp, each one a poison-tipped arrow aimed at his heart. She accused him of failing them, of failing their son. He took her anger in silence, his eyes hollow and his heart heavy. Her words cut deep, but he could not refute them. He had failed, and he bore that failure like a scar across his soul. And when she was done screaming, she’d fall into his arms and cry once more - for who else did they have in their grief, apart from each other?

On those nights, the pain of her rejection would drive him to the Madame, seeking the comfort he could not find at home. The whorehouse was a stark contrast to his wife's chambers. It was filled with the scent of perfume and sweat, the air thick with the sounds of laughter and moans. He would lose himself in the warmth of another's body, the physical release a temporary balm for his wounded soul. She was experienced, her touches skilled and knowing. She took him without question, a vessel for his anger and sorrow. He sought solace in the intensity of their embraces, the roughness of their passion, and the desperate attempt to drown out his grief.

The relief was fleeting, and the guilt that followed only deepened his despair. He would leave the Madame's alcove, his body sated yet not, his heart heavy yet not. The walk back to the castle was a walk of shame, each step a reminder of his failure as a husband - what good was he if he could not protect or comfort? 

In stark contrast, his time with his wife was chaste, almost delicate. He would sit beside her, his hand hovering with uncertainty before resting gently on her shoulder. She would not speak, but she would not push him away either. Aemond treated her like fragile glass, afraid that one wrong move would shatter her more than she already had been.

Today was not one such day. Today, he would fly Vhagar to war.

Rook’s Rest beckoned him; his call to glory. This would be the day that he began his legacy.

Aemond stood in his chambers, his fingers trembling as he repeatedly failed to secure his hair with a threadbare tie. His heart pounded with a potent mix of nerves and eagerness. Each time the tie slipped through his fingers, frustration mounted, his movements becoming more erratic.

The door creaked open, and he turned sharply, ready to lash out at whoever dared interrupt his solitary struggle with no warning. But it was not a servant. It was his wife.

She looked to be in good spirits. He knew better.

She entered the room with a quiet grace, her presence a stark contrast to her appearance these past few weeks. She looked every bit the regal princess she was - her posture poised, her expression serene. She held his riding leathers in her hands, a gesture that spoke volumes without a single word. “I… I thought I’d wish you well,” she said softly, her voice a hesitant murmur. 

He didn’t know what to say, so he simply nodded, his throat tightening with a mix of emotions. The lump in his throat made it difficult to speak, and he watched her as she approached him, each step measured and deliberate.

His gaze lingered on her face, committing every detail to memory as he prepared to throw himself headfirst into the fighting. Her hair, cascading in soft waves, framed her delicate features. He noticed the way a few errant strands fell over her forehead, the way her ears peeked out from beneath the locks, adorned with earrings that his mother had gifted her upon the birth of their son.

There was a softness in her eyes, a vulnerability. He traveled the lines of her face with his eye, the gentle slope of her nose, the faint freckles that dusted her cheeks, barely visible but always there. His gaze settled on her lips, lips that he had not kissed since their wedding almost two years ago. They were slightly parted, as if she were about to say something, and he could see the subtle tremor in them. He remembered their first kiss, the way her lips had felt against his - cold and limp.

Her touch sent a jolt of warmth through him, and he found himself highly aware of every movement she made. She helped him into his clothes with a seemingly practiced ease, her fingers grazing his skin and leaving trails of heat in their wake. He stilled, his gaze locked onto her, and her alone.

She started with the undershirt, guiding his arms through the sleeves. Her hands were gentle yet firm, the fabric sliding over his skin. She moved to the leather jerkin then, her fingers deftly fastening the buckles and sending shivers down his spine. He could feel the heat of her hands through the cool leather.

Has she ever helped dress him before?

As she cinched the straps around his waist, her body pressed close to his, and he inhaled the scent of her - a mixture of lilacs and something uniquely her. Her fingers brushed against his neck, and he fought the urge to close his eyes and savor the sensation.

Once the leathers were secured, she stepped back, her eyes scanning his form to ensure everything was in place. "Do you need your hair braided?" she asked, her voice soft and hesitant.

He shook his head no, unable to find his voice. She walked behind him, her fingers threading through his silver strands. Her touch was soothing, and he felt a strange sense of calm wash over him. She gathered the top half of his hair, pulling it into a knot, while leaving the bottom half loose - just the way he preferred. Her movements were deliberate, almost reverent, as if she were committing every strand to memory.

Was she trying to remember him just as he did her?

When she finished, she stepped back to admire her work, her eyes meeting his functional one in the mirror. For a moment, they simply stood there, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. He turned to face her, his gaze never leaving hers.

She laid her hands on his back and began reciting a prayer to the Seven, her voice trembling. Her fingers traced the lines of his muscles, as if memorizing the feel of him, and when she finished, she nodded and smiled weakly - a weak upturn of her lips so full of fear, for him.

She walked away, each step heavy with reluctance, until she stopped midway and turned when he whispered her name. “Your favor.” His voice was steady, almost devoid of emotion, but she knew him too well. The slight upward curve of his lips, the brief twitch of his eyebrow before it settled back, revealed more than words ever could.

Her hand trembled as she reached into her neckline, pulling out a small satin square. He caught her wrist, his grip gentle but firm, and she felt the world narrow down to the space between them. As she handed him the token, she stepped closer until their foreheads met, their breaths mingling, becoming one.

They stood there, suspended in a moment that felt both fleeting and eternal, the possibilities and uncertainties pressing in on them. It was a fragile convergence, their desire to be together finally surfacing, only to be shadowed by the looming threat of separation. The cost of their union was too much - Aerys, was too much - a weight neither of them will ever be rid of.

Her head was nestled against his neck, hidden from the world by the veil of her loose hair. It fell around her like a curtain, hiding her from the chaos. She whispered, her voice barely more than a breath, “I need you to come back.” For me, she didn’t say.

Aemond felt her plea in every fiber of his being. He understood her without needing her to elaborate. As he held her close, he let her imprint his presence into her memory, knowing that she believed that this might be their last shared moment -he was sure of their victory, and he knew she was too. But she was a wife, and he supposed it was in her nature to worry. 

I don’t have anyone else here.

Their foreheads met, a tender touch that spoke volumes. Her eyes searched his own, and he saw the reflection of his own yearning and fear. The intimacy of the moment was almost unbearable, a poignant reminder of what they had already lost, what they stood to lose. Her breath mingled with his, her scent enveloping him, and he memorized every detail - the softness of her skin, the warmth of her body, the depth of her woes.

Any closer, and he could kiss her. But he didn’t.

Later in the yard, the waiting wife watched her warring prince go, her heart heavy as he carried a piece of her with him into battle. 

She didn't pray anymore.

The Gods had seen fit to snatch her son away, and their cruelty had hardened her heart to stone. Yet, as she stood on the battlements of the Keep, watching the wounded men stagger through the gates, she felt the faintest pull toward the Sept, an old, almost forgotten reflex. The soft murmurs of hymns, the flicker of candles, the scent of incense - all seemed like distant memories of a life now lost to endless war.

So many men. Sons, brothers, husbands, uncles…

The scene below was a scene of abject suffering, a picture of agony and despair. Soldiers limped and staggered, their bodies broken and burnt, some supported by their brothers in battle, others barely able to move. Blood stained their armor, their faces twisted in pain, their eyes hollow and vacant. The air was thick with the stench of blood, burnt flesh, and the acrid smoke from dragonfire, a vile miasma that clung to her senses. The cries of the wounded echoed in the courtyard, a chorus of despair that seemed to reverberate off the stone walls and pierce her heart.

Her gaze flitted over the faces, each one etched with pain and horror. She saw men clutching at wounds, their fingers slick with blood, their expressions a mixture of shock and resignation. There were those whose eyes stared unseeing, their bodies no longer vessels of life but remnants of what had once been vibrant souls. Young boys, barely old enough to be called men, uncharacteristically sobbed. Older men, who had seen countless battles, now faced the grim reality that this war may as well bring their end.

Then she saw him.

Barely alive, Aegon’s body was a ruin of burns and bandages, carried on a stretcher like a broken doll. His frame was now a pitiful sight, his breath shallow and labored. She’d never liked Aegon in all truth - but he was her King. If he died, would all this blood be for naught?

Her heart clenched as she tried to move closer, to see the extent of his injuries, but the soldiers turned him away, rushing him towards the Maester’s chambers with a sense of urgency that spoke volumes.

“Make way for the King!”

She felt the strength drain from her legs, her back sliding down the cold, unyielding stone of the castle wall. Shock and despair settled over her like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. How much more of this horror could she endure? How many more lives would be lost before this nightmare ended? The enormity of the suffering, the endless cycle of loss and pain, was almost too much to bear.

Criston Cole emerged from the chaos, looking as though he had walked through the depths of Hell. His armor was blackened, his face lined with exhaustion and grief, his eyes dull and haunted. When their eyes met, she saw a flicker of something she never expected - pity.

“Princess, you should not be here.”

“What happened? Please tell me, Ser Criston.”

“King Aegon valiantly slayed Rhaenys and the Red Queen,” he said, his voice raw and weary, barely more than a whisper - empty. “Led his men into battle with valor. And now he’s brought back in a damned box, fighting for his life.” In his voice was a heaviness she never thought she’d hear from him - but how else was he supposed to sound when he’d watched a boy he helped raise himself come back looking shriveled in burn wounds? Her throat tightened, and tears threatened to spill. The weight of his words crushed her, a stark reminder of the relentless cost of war.

And where was Aemond? Her thoughts turned to him, a fresh wave of dread washing over her, suffocating in its intensity.

“What of my husband?”

“With Vhagar at Blackwater Bay. I… May I suggest that you keep away from him for a time, Princess? Give the Prince time before you go to him. Anger and… one does not have control over their words or actions after having immediately come back from a battle. Especially one like this.” It seemed like he was concerned for her, but she detected a sneer in his tone, especially in his last words.

Since when was Ser Criston Cole’s anger meant for Aemond? What could have possibly happened?

Blackwater Bay stretched out beneath the setting sun, the waters shimmering with hues of gold and crimson. The sky had dark clouds mingling with the fading light. The scent of salt and smoke lingered in the air, mingling with the distant cries of seagulls and the echoes of the day's violence. The waves lapped gently against the shore, a stark contrast to the turmoil that had unfolded earlier.

Aemond stood beside Vhagar, the massive dragon that had been his companion through his latest victory at Rook’s Rest. Her scales, a mottled mix of bronze and green, glistened in the twilight. Vhagar's snout was as wide as a cart, and Aemond leaned against it, his forehead resting gently against her scales. He murmured softly in Valyrian, his voice a soothing melody that calmed the mighty beast. The dragon's breath, warm and steady, seemed to wash over him, ruffling his silver hair. Her massive chest rose and fell with each breath, a rhythm that mirrored the ocean's tides.

From a distance, she watched, her heart pounding in her chest. This was the closest she had ever been to Vhagar, the legendary dragon whose mere presence could instill fear in the bravest of men. She had seen Vhagar from afar many times, a distant silhouette in the sky or a menacing figure on the horizon, but never this close. She hesitated, unsure if she should approach. Would she be welcomed, or would Vhagar see her as an intruder?

Summoning her courage, she stepped forward, her feet sinking into the sand as she made her way toward them. The closer she got, the more details she noticed. Vhagar's scales were not just bronze and green but interspersed with streaks of darker hues. The dragon's claws, as long as swords and just as sharp, dug into the earth, leaving deep gouges in the sand.

Aemond lifted his head slightly, his keen senses alerting him to her presence. He turned, his gaze meeting hers, a mixture of surprise and something softer in his eyes. He didn't say anything, but his eye spoke volumes. With a slight nod, he acknowledged her approach, his silent permission for her to come closer.

She took another step, her breath catching in her throat as Vhagar's massive head turned toward her. The dragon's golden eyes locked onto her, and for a moment, she felt a wave of fear. But Vhagar didn't move, only watched with an inscrutable gaze.

Tentatively, she reached out a hand, stopping just short of touching the dragon's scales. The heat radiating from Vhagar's body was almost overwhelming, a reminder of the sheer power contained within. She glanced at Aemond, seeking reassurance, and he gave a small, encouraging nod.

Gathering her courage, she placed her hand on Vhagar's snout. The scales were surprisingly smooth, warm beneath her touch. She felt a tremor run through the dragon, a rumble that seemed to resonate deep within her own chest.

"She won't harm you," Aemond said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

She took a deep breath, her voice trembling as she spoke. "Are you alright?" she asked, her eyes searching his face for any sign of the turmoil she sensed within him. The tempestuous energy that seemed to emanate from Vhagar mirrored the tension she felt in Aemond, a war-heavy restlessness that seemed to seep from the dragon into her husband.

Aemond's jaw tightened, and he looked away for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. "Hm," he replied, his tone clipped. The anger in his voice was barely contained, simmering just beneath the surface.

She took another step closer, her hand still resting on Vhagar's snout, the warmth grounding her. "I can feel it," she said softly, "...the fury. It's in Vhagar... and in you."

He met her gaze again, his eye hardening. "War does that to a man," he said bitterly. "It changes you."

She nodded slowly, her fingers tracing the smooth scales of the dragon. "It's not just the war, is it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "There's something else."

For a moment, she expected him to speak of the men they had lost, the lives extinguished under his command. As their war general and First Sword, she thought he would be burdened by the weight of their deaths. But as his eye flashed with anger, her heart sank, a knot of dread forming in her stomach.

"Aegon," he spat, the name laced with venom. "That fool rode in on Sunfyre and stole the glory that was rightfully mine. I fought, I orchestrated this victory, and he swoops in at the last moment, drunk as a street lecher, to claim it as his own."

Her breath caught in her throat, the raw bitterness in his voice slicing through her. "Aemond," she said gently, "I know you wanted to prove yourself, to show your worth. But isn't it enough that you fought bravely, that you survived? Aegon is battling for his life, but you have come out unscathed!"

His eye narrowed, the fury in his gaze burning even hotter. "It's not about survival," he snapped. "It's about being remembered, about being recognized for my strength, my skill. And he took that from me."

The realization hit her like a blow. He was not mourning the fallen soldiers or the horrors of war. His rage was fixated on Aegon, on the stolen glory. The bloodshed, the loss of life, barely seemed to register in his mind.

"Aemond," she whispered, her voice trembling. "What about the men we lost? The lives that were sacrificed?"

He looked at her, his expression hardening further. "They were necessary," he said coldly. "A means to an end."

Her heart broke at his words, the chasm between them widening. The man she had married, the man she tried to love, was consumed by ambition and a thirst for recognition to the point of it being beyond inhumane. She glanced at Vhagar, the dragon's golden eyes reflecting her own despair.

"I thought..." she began, her voice faltering. "I thought you would care about them, about the lives we lost."

Aemond's eye softened slightly, a flicker of something like regret passing over his face. "I do care," he said quietly, "but not in the way you think. My duty is to win, to secure our place. Everything else is secondary."

As Aemond's words hung heavy in the air, she felt disillusionment settle upon her heart. She couldn't bear to look at him any longer, her gaze drifting to Vhagar whose golden eyes mirrored her own despair. The dragon, magnificent and fearsome, was a reflection of Aemond's ambition, a creature driven by instinct and power, heedless of the lives trampled beneath its might.

At that moment, she understood Criston's anger.  She felt a wave of sympathy for him, for having to witness the transformation of the boy that he helped raise and taught, into a man driven by ruthless determination. Was this what Ser Criston feared? Was this the monster he saw lurking beneath Aemond's exterior, waiting to be unleashed by the brutality of war?

She didn't blame him for his anger. In fact, she shared it. She was angry at Aemond - for his callousness, for his disregard of the lives lost, for his single-minded pursuit of glory. But underneath all her anger, there lingered a deep, unsettling fear. 

She feared that man he was becoming. What did it say about him that he cared so little for men that fought in his family’s name?

What did it say about her that she still yearned for him all the same?

Sleep eluded her that night.

How could it possibly come, after the horrors she had witnessed? And that too, only from the training yard! Aemond had been on the war ground, surely suffering even worse torments. She longed to seek him out, to offer the solace he might need, as she had done before. But how could she?

What of the men we lost? The lives sacrificed?

They were necessary... A means to an end.

He frightened her. War was transforming her husband into a monster—she knew he was bloodthirsty like every warrior who ever graced the earth, fiery with the dragon blood that coursed through his veins. But was he truly as callous as he seemed today?

A means to an end... Did he think of Aerys that way too?

Her son, her precious boy…

No.

The darkness of the night weighed heavy on her heart, each passing minute a relentless reminder of her fears. The once comforting silence of their chambers now felt oppressive, suffocating. The flicker of candlelight cast dark figures, transforming familiar surroundings into a space that she hated to remain in.

A means to an end... Was that all they were? Was that all their son was? The questions gnawed at her soul, each one a dagger of doubt and despair. She feared for Aemond, for their future, and most of all, for Aerys - the innocent caught in the maelstrom of her husband’s making.

Sleep eluded her that night, and with it, any semblance of comfort.

Her mind spiraled, a whirlwind of anguish and dread, each thought more tortuous than the last. She could no longer bear the torment alone, her heart ached with the weight of her fears. Driven by a desperate need for answers, she found herself rushing to Aemond’s chambers in nothing but a shift and her robe, her hair unkempt, the lack of sleep and stress etched into her face.

Bursting through the door without knocking, she stopped abruptly, her breath catching in her throat. Aemond stood before her in his dark green leathers, a cloak draped over his shoulders, the flicker of the torchlight illuminating his features. He froze at the sight of her, his eye piercing straight into her soul.

“Wife, you are not dressed.”

"And you are. It is late in the night, and you are dressed. Where are you going?" she asked, her voice trembling, barely a whisper.

His silence was deafening. The tension between them was palpable, a suffocating presence in the room. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat echoing her growing despair.

"Where are you going?" she repeated, her voice breaking.

Still, he said nothing. His eyes, usually so full of fire and passion, were now cold and distant. She took a step forward, her hands trembling, reaching out to him as if trying to bridge the chasm that had grown between them.

The whorehouse. Was he going to the whorehouse again? Where else had he ever gone at this time of the night?

Her mind spiraled, a whirlwind of anguish and doubt. The thought of him seeking solace in another’s arms twisted the knife deeper into her heart. Tears welled in her eyes, her voice breaking as she spoke.

“You said the soldiers were a means to an end,” she choked out, her words trembling with emotion. “Is that all Aerys was to you too? Is that all I’ll ever be?”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his face hardening. “Do not bring Aerys into this,” he said, his voice low and menacing.

She wounded him, but she couldn’t stop herself. “How can I not?” she cried, her tears flowing freely now. “You talk about sacrifices and means to an end. Is that what we are to you? Just another sacrifice?”

His eye flashed with a mixture of anger and pain, his body tensing as if ready to strike. “You know nothing of what I endure,” he growled, his voice a dangerous whisper. “Do not presume to understand.”

“Then help me understand,” she pleaded, her voice breaking. “Tell me why you leave me here, alone with my fears.”

“Do not ever suggest,” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous, “that you and our son are anything less than everything to me.”

Her body trembled, not from fear, but from the raw intensity of his emotions. Tears streamed down her face, her voice a broken sob. “I don’t know what to believe. You’re going back to the whorehouse, and I don’t know what to think. I thought we were doing well but—”

Aemond’s silence was like a chasm between them, widening with every passing moment. She could see the struggle in his eyes, the battle between his pride and his vulnerability. But still, he said nothing.

Her heart shattered at his refusal to speak, the weight of her doubts and fears pressing down on her. “Is it the whorehouse?” she whispered, the words barely audible. “Are you seeking comfort in another’s arms again?”

His face contorted with rage, and in a swift, violent motion, he grabbed her shoulders and slammed her against the wall. The force of the impact left her breathless, the pain a sharp reminder of the distance between them.

“How dare you,” he hissed, his face inches from hers.

She trembled beneath his grip, her tears falling like rain. “What am I supposed to think?” she sobbed. “You leave me night after night, and you won’t tell me where you go, or what you do. You insist that you are true to me in your heart, but that means nothing when the servants keep seeing you slip out of the Keep and into Silk Street. How am I supposed to believe in you, when you keep pushing me away?”

Aemond’s grip tightened, his eyes blazing with fury. “I fight for us,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “Everything I do, I do for us. To protect you, to avenge our son. Do not question my loyalty.”

Her voice was a broken whisper, the pain in her heart almost unbearable. “Then why does it feel like you’re slipping away from me?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Why does it feel like I’m losing you?”

He silenced her with a kiss, fierce and desperate, pouring all his anger into that single act. His lips crashed onto hers with an intensity that took her breath away. It was not gentle, but raw and consuming, as if he were trying to convey every unsaid word, every buried emotion, through the touch of his mouth on hers. Her protests melted away, her body responding instinctively to his touch.

She felt his hands tremble as they cupped her face, his fingers threading through her hair, pulling her closer. The kiss deepened, his tongue seeking hers with a hunger that spoke of months of separation, of sleepless nights and lonely days. Her own hands reached up, clutching at his cloak, her fingers digging into the fabric as if she feared he might slip away again.

Their breaths mingled, warm and erratic, each exhale a whisper of longing and regret. She tasted the salt of her own tears on his lips, mingling with the unique taste of him - how could you miss something so much if you had very little of it to begin with? 

His lips moved with a desperate urgency, as if he were trying to memorize every contour, every curve, and commit it to memory.

He was kissing her. He was kissing her. He was kissing h-

His lips on hers, her breath and his as one, their souls entwined. She felt the weight of his body pressing against hers, the solid, reassuring presence of him grounding her in the reality of the moment. The room around them faded away, leaving just the two of them, locked in a world where only their connection mattered.

Her heart pounded in her chest, the rhythm echoing the frantic beat of his. She could feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of her shift, his warmth seeping into her skin, banishing the cold that had settled in her bones during his absence.

He broke the kiss only to rest his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in the scant space between them. His eyes bore into hers, speaking volumes without a single word.

He had not kissed her since their wedding ceremony. This was the first in more than a year.

"Don't go," she whispered, her back pressed against the cold, unyielding stone of his chambers. His dark presence loomed over her, a shadow that both entrapped and intoxicated her. She was in no place to command, but this was a desperate plea, the truest command she had ever uttered. "I am.. I am a mother without a child, but tonight, let me be a wife to my husband. However you'll have me."

Her lips, soft as the brush of a feather, sought the hard line of his jaw, leaving a trail of tentative kisses. She held his head to hers, fingers tangling in his dark hair, lifting herself on tiptoes to reach him.

"Please, for once," she implored, her voice breaking. "I’m begging you, choose me."

His eyes flickered, emotions swirling within their depths. Intensity surged, a fierce storm, yet there was a hint of softness, a vulnerability that made her breath hitch. Then he laughed, a cruel, beautiful sound that sliced through her. She had always despised how his laughter made him even more captivating, even as it shattered her.

Humiliation washed over her, hot and sharp. She released him, feeling the sting of her own words. She had vowed never to beg for his love, yet here she was, laid bare and begging. And he laughed.

Her head bowed, eyes fixed on the floor, she tried to step away, her heart a heavy stone in her chest. But he was quicker, his hand shooting out to slam her back against the wall once more. The force of it rattled her, but she could not escape the vice-like grip of his fingers on her arms. His face was inches from hers, the ridges of his brow now visible to her in a way that it had never been before. His lips twitched, a predatory smile playing at the corners, and his fingers dug deeper into her flesh.

His nose brushed against hers, a tender gesture at odds with the roughness of his hold. She braced herself for more cruelty, but his words were unexpected.

"You once said you didn’t like begging for me. Shame," he murmured, his voice a deadly caress. "I quite like it when you do."

She was ensnared, caught in the dark web of his presence, and despite everything, she realized she didn't want to escape. His touch, his words, his very essence were chains she had willingly bound herself with. All she could do was surrender.

“I now find that I’m not above it if it brings me to you,” she whispered, her voice a fragile murmur lost to the wind.

He sensed her surrender, an unspoken truce formed between them. Was it exhaustion, or a sense of defeat from all they had endured? She couldn’t say. But at this moment, she knew where she stood. She needed him. She had no one else, and she needed him to be there for her, with her. Pathetic, really. The cost of them finally seeing eye to eye was too high, but she couldn't help but crave it all the same. She sought the same comfort he did. It felt heavy, but a bond forged by a loss as monumental as theirs had to be, surely?

His grip softened, the rigid tension in his body easing. Sensing his unspoken assent, she moved her hands to the clasp of his cloak, her fingers trembling as she unclipped it one by one. She nudged him forward as she pushed it off, watching the thick cloth fall to the floor with a soft thud.

In a swift, almost predatory movement, he pushed her onto the vanity near them, his lips crashing down onto hers with a fervent passion that stole her breath away. His kiss was searing, consuming, filled with a desperate urgency that came with not having each other as long as they hadn’t. He moved from her lips to her neck, his hands bunching up her shift with a roughness that sent shivers down her spine. He hauled her thighs forward, spreading her legs wide, and stood between them, his hardness pressing against her clothed cunt as she perched precariously on the edge of the table. His lips marked her skin, each bite and suckle sending jolts of pleasure and pain that mingled until she felt dizzy with desire.

She wrapped her arms around him, her fingers digging into the leather of his back, holding on as if he were her anchor in a storm. A moan escaped her lips when his thumb pressed against her damp smallclothes, a wicked smile curving his mouth in response. The smallclothes were swiftly discarded, his thumb tracing the slick line of her slit before he plunged a long finger into her warmth. She gasped at the sudden intrusion, her body arching into him. It had been so long since she’d felt him.

Her eyes fluttered closed, but his voice, rough and commanding, pulled her back. “Look at me,” he ordered, his tone a dark promise.

Her gaze locked onto his, the intensity of his stare holding her captive as his fingers pumped in and out of her. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure crashing through her, building until she thought she might shatter. Her world narrowed to the man before her, his touch, his presence, his power over her.

His fingers worked her expertly, his thumb circling her pearl as he added another finger, stretching her, filling her. She could feel the coil tightening in her core, the pressure mounting as he brought her closer and closer to the edge. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, her nails digging into his shoulders as she held on for dear life.

“Issa ābrazȳrys,” he growled. His voice a low rumble that sent a thrill through her. My wife.

He thrust harder, faster, his lips capturing hers in a bruising kiss as he drove her over the edge. Aemond tasted the copper tang of blood blooming from her lips from his attention and was certain he was going to lose all control. She came undone around his fingers, her body shattering in a blinding wave of pleasure. Her eyes never left his, her gaze locked onto his as she fell apart, her climax ripping through her with an intensity that left her trembling in its wake.

He held her through it, his fingers slowing but never stopping, prolonging her pleasure until she was spent, her body limp and sated in his arms. As the last tremors subsided, he pulled his fingers from her, bringing them to his lips and tasting her essence with a satisfied smirk.

She was his, utterly and completely, and in that moment, she knew she would never be free of him. Nor did she want to be. It scared her, but she could not help herself.

Her lord husband. Hers, hers, hers, h-

“Gevie.” Beautiful.

“What?” she asked, her voice breathless and filled with anticipation.

He responded with a firm squeeze of her hips, urging her to remove his jerkin and undershirt. Her fingers trembled with excitement and desire as she worked at the fastenings, feeling the heat radiating from his body. She wobbled slightly as he lowered her to stand, catching the smirk on his face as he steadied her. The look in his eye, dark and predatory, sent a thrill through her. His touch was both gentle and commanding, a stark contrast that made her knees weak.

Her robe and shift followed quickly, sliding from her shoulders in a soft whisper of fabric. She stood before him, exposed and vulnerable, watching his single eye darken with raw desire as her breasts spilled free. The intensity of his gaze made her shiver, a delicious anticipation coiling low in her belly.

This time, she was the one who initiated the kiss, her lips seeking him with a desperate hunger. She pressed herself against him, reveling in the sensation of his bare skin against hers, his muscles taut and unyielding beneath her fingers. His hands roamed her body with a possessive urgency, gripping and kneading her flesh as if he couldn’t get enough of her.

He guided her gently backwards, his movements controlled and purposeful. The back of her knees hit the edge of the bed, and she let out a soft gasp as he laid her down, the plush, satin-chased mattress cushioning her fall. She bounced slightly, her hair fanning out around her head, and looked up at him with wide, expectant eyes. Her gaze flickered to his eyepatch, a question forming in her mind, but she made no move to remove it. 

His growl, low and primal, reverberated through her, sending a shiver down her spine. His hands moved to her thighs, spreading them wide, exposing her to his heated gaze. He lowered himself over her, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along her neck and collarbone. She arched beneath him, her nails digging into his back, leaving red marks in their wake.

“Gevie,” he whispered against her ear, the word a rough caress that sent a jolt of desire straight to her core.

His fingers found her entrance, teasing and testing, before he thrust his hardened cock in her with a single, powerful stroke. She cried out, a mix of pleasure and pain, her body stretching to accommodate him. He set a relentless pace, each thrust driving her higher, pushing her closer to the edge of oblivion.

Her hands clung to him, nails scraping down his back, drawing blood. She bit down on his shoulder, sucking hard enough to bruise, marking him as hers. He responded with a harsh slap to her thigh, the sting adding to the heat between them. His hand then moved to her breast, squeezing and kneading, his mouth descending to capture a nipple. 

“A mother without a child,” she had once said. He remembered those words as he let go of her leaking breast and thrust into her with renewed vigor. Her second climax came swiftly, his fingers working her to pleasure, rubbing in tight circles as he pounded into her. She shattered around him, her body convulsing, her cries filling the room.

Even as she came undone, he didn’t stop. He continued to thrust, using her body to chase his own release. She clung to him, her body spent, her mind a whirl of incoherent thoughts. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, as he neared his peak. His movements became erratic, desperate.

“I’ll make your belly round with my heir again,” he murmured, his voice strained. “I want to see you dripping with my seed.”

She could only moan in response, the thought of another child not something she had entertained - not so soon after Aerys. But in that moment, with him inside her, it was all she could think about. He thrust one final time, burying himself deep inside her as he came, his release filling her, marking her as his.

Another child. Another child. Another-

The words echoed in her mind as she lay there, sated and spent before she fell asleep in his chambers for the very first time.

He was back at the Keep that fateful night, the acrid smell of blood thick in the air, mixed with the metallic tang of fear and sorrow. He pushed open the door to Aerys' room, his heart pounding in his chest. The once pristine nursery was a scene of unimaginable carnage.

Blood smeared the carpet in grotesque patterns, splattered as if by some violent, monstrous force. It pooled on the floor, thick and dark, congealing around the lifeless body of his son. Aerys' headless form lay cradled in the arms of his wife, her wails piercing the oppressive silence. Her face was one anguish, her eyes red and swollen from relentless tears.

She was screaming, but he couldn’t hear her - only the ringing in his ears.

Aemond's legs felt like lead as he stumbled forward, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “No,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “No, no, no…” His eyes were drawn to the small, severed head lying a few feet away, Aerys' lifeless eyes staring up at him with a silent accusation that pierced at him.

The scene shifted violently, and he was atop Vhagar, the ancient dragon roaring beneath him. They were in the skies, the cold wind and rain biting at his skin. Below, he saw the small figure of Lucerys Velaryon, desperately trying to evade him. The storm raged around them, but nothing could drown out the roar of Vhagar as she lunged, her massive jaws closing around the boy and his dragon.

“No, Vhagar! No!” Aemond screamed, though his voice was swallowed by the wind. He watched in horror as Vhagar's teeth tore through dragon and rider alike, the blood raining down upon the stormy sea. The boy's scream echoed in his mind, a sound that would haunt him forever.

The scene shifted again, and he was back at the Keep. This time, he saw Aegon, battered and broken, lying on the stone floor. Aemond’s chest tightened with a mixture of anger and regret. He had warned Aegon, advised him to stay put, to avoid the fight. 

“Why didn’t you listen?” Aemond’s voice trembled with rage and sorrow. “I wouldn’t have had to burn you if you stayed home, brother. If you learnt to respect me, to fear me!”

In his nightmare, Aegon's eyes opened, filled with a pain that mirrored Aemond’s own. “This is your fault,” Aegon whispered, burnt beyond recognition, his voice a hollow echo. “All of it. You started it!”

The nightmare repeated in a relentless loop. Aerys' bloodied room, Vhagar's deadly bite, Aegon's broken body. The guilt and horror twisted inside him, a never-ending torment.

Suddenly, amidst the chaos, a warm sensation began to seep into his consciousness. It started faintly, then grew stronger, more insistent. A vision of his wife appeared before him, holding their son, Aerys, who was smiling and content. Her eyes, filled with love and concern - he has seen concern on her face, but she looks much more beautiful in love with him, he decided - reached out to him.

“I'm here, it's me. Just me, husband. Please, come back to me.”

Her words pierced through the fog of his nightmare, anchoring him. He kept hearing it, over and over, until he realized it wasn’t just a dream. The warmth he felt was real. Her touch, her voice, were pulling him back from the brink.

His wife had stayed to share his bed.

Aemond’s eyes snapped open, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was disoriented, the remnants of his nightmare still clinging to him. He heard her voice again, soft and soothing, as she held him close.

“I'm here, it's me. Just me, husband. Please, come back to me.”

He felt her arms around him, her hand moving to his head, stroking his hair. He could still hear her voice, the same words repeated like a prayer, grounding him in reality. Aemond buried his face against her breast, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his nightmare. She rocked him gently, her touch a balm to his tormented mind.

After what seemed like hours, he began to calm down, his breathing evening out. She continued to hold him, kissing his head, her presence a constant reassurance. Aemond’s hand moved instinctively to her breast, seeking the comfort of her body. He wrapped his arm around her, clinging to her like a lifeline, squeezing her so tight like she’d slip through his fingers. When his weight became too much for her to bear, she gently lifted his head, making him look into her eyes. She kissed his forehead, her touch tender and reassuring.

This time, she reached up and unclasped his eyepatch with no hesitation. 

Does she see what everyone sees? Does he terrify her?

She adjusted herself, crossing her legs to allow him to rest his head upon her thigh. She began to massage his scalp, her fingers working through his hair with a soothing rhythm.

No signs of terror. Or was she indifferent?

As he lay there, her touch grounding him, Aemond’s mind replayed the words he had uttered in his nightmare.

“I wouldn’t have had to burn you if you stayed home, brother.”

The realization hit him like a blow. In his delirium, he had revealed a truth he had kept hidden. Would she have him still?

She was worried. The entire night and everyday forward, she worried about the man her husband had become.

He’d attacked his own brother at Rook’s Rest.

And yet when he took her once more the same night, she didn’t want to push him away.

What’s a cold-blooded killer to a simple woman who only wants to be held in her husband’s arms?

“I forgive you.”

He stood by the windows, the moonlight spilling over his form, highlighting the sharp angles of his face. His hair, pale as starlight, shimmered in the dim light, and he seemed lost in thought, gazing out at the night sky.

She paused, taking a moment to observe him. Two days had passed since their night together, and in that brief span, something had shifted between them. It wasn’t love, no - but a deeper understanding, a mutual respect that had begun to root itself in their marriage. They were not affectionate, no tender kisses or whispered endearments passed between them. But there was a newfound ease in their interactions, a subtle partnership that had grown stronger in its quiet way.

He turned, sensing her presence, and their eyes met. She had come to understand his character, the motivations that drove him, and the burdens he carried. She wouldn’t ever justify any of it, not when the price was too steep. But it was a time of war, and she had to see everything around her differently now.

In her heart, she pondered their relationship, this delicate bond. They were equals, a balance of strengths and weaknesses, each compensating for the other. In Aemond, she saw a man driven by a relentless need to prove himself, to carve out a legacy that would be remembered. He was formidable, fierce, yet there was a loneliness to him, a void that no amount of ambition could fill.

They never addressed what he’d divulged to her in his nightmare-addled hours, how he’d treated his own brother as collateral damage. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a silent agreement to support his ambitions without question. It was this unvoiced pact that had solidified their marriage, making it stronger in its own peculiar way. She admired his cunning, his strategic mind, and in return, she offered her own strengths, her own form of loyalty that was unwavering.

What else was she to do? She couldn’t leave him for fear of her life, but she could choose to be useful to him in their time together. She could try.

Besides, is this not what she wanted?

No, she did not want a man who tried to bathe his own brother in dragonfire, she thought. But he has been good to her since Aerys’ death, so good…

As she looked at him now, she saw not just her husband, but her partner. They were two sides of the same coin, bound by a common goal, driven by a shared determination. 

To survive, to thrive. They might never be lovers in the traditional sense, but they had forged something perhaps more enduring. 

She tilted her head up in acknowledgement, but then she noticed what he held in his hands. 

The iron and ruby crown of Aegon the Conqueror. His brother’s crown.

A quick and cutting reminder of what he’d done. A crown that his brother had been anointed with, now in her husband’s nimble fingers. He let the crown dangle from one hand as he reached out to her with the other, so she came to him, her steps uneasy but surer than ever.

He lifted the crown up to her bosom, gesturing for her to take it - so take it she did.

The weight of Aegon the Conqueror's crown was the first thing she noticed - it was heavier than she had imagined. As her fingers traced the intricate designs, she marveled at the craftsmanship that had gone into creating this legendary symbol of Targaryen rule.

The crown was a perfect mix of beauty and menace, reflecting the dual nature of its wearers. The metal was cool to the touch, smooth yet deceptively heavy. The rubies caught the firelight and seemed to burn with a fire of their own. The crown's inner band was lined with rich, black velvet, worn smooth by the many heads it had adorned. She ran her fingers along the lining, feeling the faint indentations left by those who had worn it before her, from Aegon himself to the rulers who had followed in his wake.

Now, her own husband was empowered by the power this crown symbolized.

With a steady breath, she stood on her toes, lifting the crown higher. Aemond lowered his head slightly, allowing her to place the crown upon his brow. The moment was charged with tension, the air thick. As she settled the crown onto his head, it fit as if it had been made for him, the rubies gleaming against his silver hair.

Her hands lingered for a moment, adjusting the crown until it sat perfectly. She stepped back, her eyes never leaving his as he turned to the mirror on his vanity. She stood right by his side, catching his gaze in their reflections.

Aemond straightened, the crown now firmly on his brow, and he looked every inch the king he aspired to be. The shadows in the room seemed to recede, and for a moment, the firelight cast a golden halo around him.

“Looks better on me than it ever did on him,” Aemond said, his voice low and edged with a bitter satisfaction, the statement hanging heavy in the air.

The shock of his words registered in a flicker of her eyes, a tightening of her lips, but it was there, palpable between them. Sensing her reaction, he squeezed her hip, his touch possessive, as if to anchor her to him.

“Do you not agree, wife?” he pressed, his tone challenging, almost playful but with an undercurrent of something darker. His words passed like heat through her ear as he bent down onto her shoulder to utter them, in heavy contrast to the coolness of the crown that now kissed her skin.

“You mustn’t say such things,” she replied, her voice a careful blend of caution and reprimand.

“‘Tis the truth, is it not?” he insisted, his gaze unwavering, boring into hers, seeking affirmation or defiance.

“I will not answer that question,” she said firmly, her tone brokering no argument.

Aemond’s eyes flashed, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. “I wear it better than the King,” he spat, the last word laden with contempt.

She met his eyes in the mirror, her reflection as resolute as her stance. “You are my lord husband, the Prince Regent. It is not my place to disagree,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, a clear indication of her refusal to partake in a conversation that bordered dangerously on treason.

“Perhaps I should commission a crown for you. A queen to stand by me,” he mused, a dangerous glint in his eye, his hand sliding from her hip to the small of her back, pulling her closer.

Her mind raced, a cold dread seeping into her thoughts. If they were to be the King and Queen, then half his family would have to be dead. Aemond was not above hurting Aegon - he’s already done it once. No, no, no—

In a sudden and decisive moment, she broke away from his grasp, her skirts swishing as she whirled around. The silk and velvet fabric rustled in the heavy silence. She reached up and took the crown from his head, her hands steady despite the tumult in her mind. She set it on the vanity with deliberate care, the metal clinking softly against the polished wood.

Aemond’s smirk deepened at her defiance, a spark of amusement in his eyes. He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of her hair behind her ear, his touch lingering on her cheek. “You’ve never been a woman of growth then?” he challenged, his voice a low murmur, his breath warm against her skin.

“Only that which comes without bloodshed,” she retorted, her voice steady, though her heart pounded in her chest.

“Hm,” he hummed, his expression inscrutable as he took a step back, giving her space but never breaking eye contact.

The room was thick with tension, the crown now a silent witness to their exchange. As she looked at him, she saw not just the ambition that drove him but the danger that lurked beneath. 

His ambition was a fire, one that could either warm him or consume him entirely.

In that moment, she knew that their survival depended not just on their unity but on her ability to temper his desires. She would stand by him, support him, but she would also be the voice of caution, the anchor that kept them from drifting into chaos.

The tension in the room ebbed. "When do you march to Harrenhal?" she asked softly, her fingers deftly working the fastenings of his tunic so she can undress him for bed.

"In a fortnight," Aemond replied, his voice steady. "Cole and I will amass the troops needed by then." He lifted his arms slightly, allowing her to pull the tunic over his head. The fabric rustled as it fell to the floor, leaving him bare from the waist up.

Her movements were precise and practiced as she helped him undress. She removed his eyepatch too, revealing the sapphire set in his empty socket. This act, once so charged with tension, had become almost inconsequential - their marriage has grown, she thought.

As she moved to unlace her own dress, Aemond stepped behind her, his fingers skillfully undoing the laces of her bodice. "My mother does not speak much to me anymore," he said quietly, his breath warm against the nape of her neck. "I believe she is jealous of my authority - power that she would have liked to wield in Aegon's stead, if the council hadn't chosen me."

She listened in silence, feeling the weight of his words as he undid the last lace. She shrugged off the dress, letting it pool around her feet before stepping out of it. "Your mother loves you," she said, her voice gentle yet firm. "But the burden of power is heavy, and it changes people."

Aemond’s hands lingered on her shoulders for a moment before he stepped back, allowing her to put on her shift. She moved to the vanity, removing the pins from her hair and letting it fall in loose waves around her shoulders. She caught his reflection in the mirror, already under the sheets, watching her with an intensity that made her heart quicken.

When she turned to join him in bed, the faint firelight cast a soft glow over their room. Aemond's gaze followed her every movement and she slipped under the covers, the warmth of his body a welcome contrast to the cool air of the chamber.

They lay facing each other, the silence between them comfortable. She reached out, her fingers tracing the contours of his face, feeling the roughness of his scar and the smoothness of his skin.

Aemond's hand moved to her forehead, brushing away a stray lock of hair before trailing down the side of her face, his touch light and deliberate. "The war progresses," he began, his fingers following a slow, deliberate path down her neck to her collarbone. "Our troops are amassing strength, and Vhagar has had her rest."

She gasped softly as his hand moved lower, his thumb brushing over her breast, lingering there as he spoke. "The Small Council debates strategy for Harrenhal," he continued, his voice a low rumble, "and I've been training harder than ever."

“Of course you have.”

His hand moved to the other breast, cupping it gently, his thumb circling the nipple until it hardened under his touch. She moaned softly, her breath catching as she watched his hand in her line of sight, mesmerized by his touch and his words.

"We will strike with precision and force," Aemond said, his hand sliding further down her body, grazing her ribs and stomach. "Cole believes we can take them by surprise."

His hand slipped under her shift, his fingers finding her wet and wanting. She gasped, her hips arching toward his touch, her need palpable. "Aemond," she breathed, her voice a mix of plea and desire.

He wasted no time, his body moving to hover over hers. His lips followed the path his hand had taken, leaving a trail of fiery hot kisses from her neck to her breasts, each kiss punctuated by his words. "We will defeat them," he murmured against her skin, his lips closing around a clothed nipple, sucking gently before continuing downward. "We will take Harrenhal."

Her hands gripped the sheets, her knuckles white with effort, but he took one hand and guided it to him. He moved lower, his kisses searing a path down her stomach as he pushed her shift up, his tongue dipping into her navel. "Husband, please," she moaned, her body trembling with anticipation.

He descended further, his lips finally reaching her cunt. He licked a long, slow line from her entrance to her pearl, his tongue swirling around the sensitive nub before sucking it gently. She cried out, her fingers tightening in his hair, her hips bucking against his mouth.

His tongue worked her with a practiced skill, flicking and swirling, his lips sucking and tugging. "So wet for me," he murmured between licks, his voice sending shivers down her spine. 

She moaned louder, her body writhing under his touch, her need building with every flick of his tongue. "Aemond," she gasped, "I'm going to—”

"Sīr gevie." So beautiful.

His words pushed her over the edge, her body tensing as she came undone beneath him. She cried out, her fingers clutching his hair, her body shaking with the force of her peak. He lapped at her pleasure through her climax, drawing out every last wave of pleasure until she lay spent and trembling.

When she finally stilled, he kissed his way back up her body, his lips lingering on her breasts, his tongue flicking over her nipples one last time. He settled beside her, his head nestled between her breasts, his hand resting possessively on her hip.

She offered to return the favor, her hand trailing down his chest, but he stopped her gently. "Not tonight," he said softly, his voice a soothing balm as he buried himself into her chest as tightly as he could. His breath warm against her skin, he calmed down at the steady fall and rise of her chest. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. 

The vision of the Conqueror’s crown on his desk - gleaming, taunting, terrifying - was the last thing she saw before she closed her eyes and let sleep take her.

Aemond found himself weighed down by emotions that he neither anticipated nor fully understood. This newfound closeness with his wife was a double-edged sword, cutting through his well-guarded defenses. The loss of their son had forged a bond between them, a shared grief that brought them closer in ways he couldn't have predicted. Yet, he felt an undercurrent of unease.

His mind, ever analytical and cautious, wrestled with the implications of their growing connection. The admission of his near-fratricidal thoughts should have been a cause for her to recoil, to distance herself from him. Instead, she had not only forgiven him but had also invited him into her bed, an act of trust that both warmed and unnerved him.

Why? Why? Why?

Aemond's wariness stemmed from the unfamiliarity of it all. Affections had always been something to grasp at. His life had been a series of calculated moves, a constant struggle for power and control. But now, he found himself speaking truths he had never intended to share, revealing parts of his soul he had long kept hidden. It annoyed him, this loss of control. It annoyed him how easily she could draw out his secrets, how her presence softened the edges of his guarded heart.

She’s never proven herself to be anything but faithful, his wife. Even when he was less than good to her, she did her duty like the Princess she married him to be.

Yet, beneath the irritation and paranoia, there was a deeper, more profound desire. He wanted this connection, this closeness that terrified him. He yearned for the comfort of her touch, the solace of her understanding. It was a maddening paradox: the need to protect himself clashing with the desire to surrender to her completely.

This was not like with Sylvi, whom he had not gone to see since his wife had willingly come to him that fateful night. Here, it was a partnership of equals. Neither of them knew where it was taking them, no experienced hand to guide them.

He’d begun fucking her each night too, and he wondered how long it’d be before her womb quickened with his child. They needed an heir, and he needed to give her a child again.

He’d wronged her the first time, he won’t do it again.

Aemond sat on a chair beside the hearth, with her sitting at his feet with her embroidery in a rare moment of undisturbed rest. His fingers dug into her scalp in a calming manner, though it was more an effort to calm himself than her. 

Regency. The word lingered in Aemond's mind, a whisper of power and responsibility. He would approach it with an iron fist. He would not be made a fool of, not like Aegon. His thoughts of being better than his brother consumed him, a fire that burned with fierce determination. He would rule justly, with strength and decisiveness. No one would dare challenge his authority or question his decisions. He would be a leader worthy of his name, a ruler who commanded respect and fear in equal measure.

And he would have to do it all in his brother’s name.

He looked down at his wife, her presence grounding him in the reality of the moment. His fingers moved gently, tracing the contours of her scalp, feeling the softness of her hair. This simple act of touch was a rare comfort for him, a connection that soothed the tumultuous thoughts swirling in his mind.

“He has bastard children, you know?” he said abruptly, breaking the silence.

“Yes?” she replied softly, her eyes focused on her embroidery.

“He used to watch them fight.”

“Fight?” she echoed, her voice tinged with curiosity.

“Silver-haired baseborn babes, thrown into fighting pits to satiate the peculiar needs of the likes of him,” Aemond continued, his tone hardening with disgust. “I’ve had to pull him back to the castle many times after his outings to these places. It is depraved. He… is depraved and a fool. He dishonors Helaena and their children, and then he goes on to make a mockery of his mistakes by watching them scratch and bite at each other, sometimes even until death.”

She then looked up at him, her fingers hovering over his knee in patterns he could not see, her embroidery forgotten. Her eyes searched his, a quiet intensity in her gaze.

“Do you have any baseborn children?” she asked, her voice calm but probing.

“I would not sully myself as such,” he responded sharply, a flicker of anger igniting in his chest.

“You used to frequent the whorehouse too. It would not be completely out of the question.”

Her words stung, and he thought of how he’d always made Sylvi take moon tea after their trysts, how careful he had been. “None of them are worthy of a child born of Valyrian seed… of dragonfire.”

“And I was?” She referred to her time as a mother in the past tense, and it made him bristle.

“You are my wife. Would you be so stupid as to keep yourself on level with a commonborn whore?”

“They used to warm your bed the same way I do.”

“It was never the same,” he snapped, his voice cold and final. A long silence followed, the weight of their conversation hanging heavy in the air. 

She then spoke again, her voice softer. “It’s good that you don’t have any illegitimate children. Say what you will about them, but they are simply babes. Born through no fault of their own. If anything, it is not the children that are illegitimate, but the fathers that seed them.”

If anything, it is not the children that are illegitimate, but the fathers that seed them. Her words echoed in his mind, striking a chord deep within him. He was taken aback by the weight of her statement, the truth that lay beneath her gentle rebuke.

“Are you calling the King illegitimate, wife?” he asked, his tone challenging.

“I will admit to no such thing,” she said, her voice steady and unwavering with a playful smile. 

Minx.

She then stood, the movement breaking the tension that had settled between them. He watched her, waiting for her to help undress him for bed, but she stopped in front of him, her toes shuffling anxiously. He could see the uncertainty in her eyes, the hesitation that held her back.

“Out with it, wife,” he commanded, his voice softer now, a hint of concern creeping into his tone.

“I think I may be with child again. I am not sure, but my blood is late and… I simply feel it. It is too early. Anything could happen, but I did not want to keep it from you. Not now, not in a time of war when things are uncertain.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Aemond felt the world pause. He stared at her, the implications of her revelation sinking in slowly, like a ship slipping beneath the waves. He was not visibly overjoyed, but he hoped she saw his calmness in the way he let his hand rest on her now-flat belly, in the way his eye crinkled and his jaw slackened.

Aerys, Aerys, Aerys.

The name echoed in his mind, a reminder of their shared loss, a shadow that still haunted them. He shared her caution, so he tried to not get his hopes up until she carried the child to term, birthed it, and then watched it grow. His heart thudded in his chest.

“Good,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Mirrī zaldrīzes syt issa naejot gaomagon paktot ondoso.” A little dragon for me to do right by.

He let his hand linger on her belly. His mind wandered to the possibilities, the future they could have. A child, their child, born from both their strengths and their shared grief. He wanted to prove that he could be a better father, a better husband. 

He wanted her to think better of him. It was a fragile thing, this warmth they had built – delicate and easily shattered, but it was there. 

A few days later, she kept her eyes glued to him as he began his trip to Harrenhal. She only turned briefly to assess all that was happening around her as the troops readied themselves, and he wondered about how much of this was new to her; how much of the world she’d actually seen.

He then remembered Aerys, and that she’d spent most of their marriage in pain, heartache and horror.

Perhaps she’d seen enough.

MASTERLIST

NO TAG LIST. PLEASE FOLLOW AND TURN ON POST NOTIFS FOR @randomdragonfics for fic updates!

[heartysworld]

Thy blood shall flow through mine || Aemond Targaryen x Reader

What's up my loves, it's been a while! After I watched the new trailer and everything I couldn't contain my excitement and I just HAD to write something to cope with the 1 month we have left until season 2! I got the inspo for this from my Old English classes and as much as I was disgusted during class my mind had to turn this into an Aemond fic bc let's be honest, that man could be nastyyyy...

I'm not gonna lie this one is a bit rusty but it's been a while since I've written about Aemond and I was in my 3rd coffee omfor the day as I wrote it so yeah...enjoy

Masterlist

W.C: 1k

Mark but this knife, and mark in this, How little that which thou deniest me is;

It sucked me first, and now sucks thee, And in it our two bloods mingled be;

Thou know’st that this cannot be said

A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead, Yet this enjoys before it woo, And pampered swells with one blood made of two, And this, alas, is more than we would do.

The letter was ripped apart in your hands moments after you read it out loud. Your uncle stood in front of you, his face covered with an unreadable expression as he watched you read his letter, the one of many you had found in your rooms.

The beautiful letter A sat neatly written in the bottom right corner of the parchment.

The first time you received one of these you were scandalized. Who could be so shameless to address such shameful writings to a princess? The first person who came to mind was your uncle Aegon, after all this was something that he would do with no doubt.

But then, as the letters kept coming you realized that the fool who dared call himself the future heir to the Iron Throne lacked the mental capacity to come up with such carefully crafted words, arranged in such way that send chills down your spine every time you read them. Aemond. It had to be him.

"Have you lost your mind, Aemond?" You asked, voice raising slightly as you looked at him, a desperate expression plastered on your face. "What if one of my maids found it? What if it got to my mother? Or the Queen? Not even Balerion himself could save me from their wrath. How could you be so senseless? And they call you the brightest one of the King's children!"

Everything that had been piling inside of you for the past few weeks finally came out as you voiced all of your frustrations.

The ripped pieces of paper gracefully fell from your fingers as they made their way towards the burning fire that lit up your chambers.

Your hand slowly made its way towards your face, touching the now wrinkled skin of your forehead as you felt the slowly forming headache that was going to torment you until dawn.

Seconds later, a larger, colder hand wrapped itself around yours, pulling you closer to a firm chest. The much familiar aroma of leather from riding gear, and hints of smoke and ash filled your nostrils.

"Hush, little hatchling. Do not fill yourself with excess frustrations. The Red Keep does not need another burnt scrub of the gardens." Aemond hushed against your ear. You could feel the corners of his mouth curl upwards as they hovered over the shell of your ear.

The contact with his body alongside his raspy voice stirred something deep inside you that made you shiver.

"We both know the way you've been looking at me for the past few moons. After that day in the courtyard, when my blade cut across your arm. It is soaked with your blood as much as it is with mine. Tell me, hatchling, does this not count as the consumation of a marriage? Is our blood not mingled together as it would be inside our own child? You are mine, hatchling, you've always been and will always be."

Aemond's words caused your breath to get caught inside your lungs, hot waves pulsating through your body.

His arms slowly encircled your waist, like a snake wrapping around their pray. He was the beast, you were his pray, and you've been willingly letting him sink his teeth in your neck for weeks now, taming you as his pet, his little hatchling that was about to become him forever.

" We can't, Aemond. Not when a war is about to rage above King's Landing and we're about to be on the opposing sides. I cannot let you take my hart in your possession only for you to shatter it to pieces the moment your grandfather blows his whistle at you like a dog and makes you drive a sword in between my mothers eyes!" You voice came out broken, eyes misty and reddish.

" I would rather drive that same sword through my grandfather's skull than let him take you away from me, Y/N!" Aemond snapped, his anger finally surfacing despite the facade he attempted to put up for you.

It never worked with you, him trying to hide what he truly felt. It's always been like this, to you, he was like an open book. No secrets, no nothing.

Masterlist

[sonicgirlsmackdown]

Sonic Girl Smackdown Official Bracket!

102 will enter, but only 1 can leave!

Matchups below the cut, and round one will begin sometime soon!

Breezie the Hedgehog & Relic the Pika

Nicole the Holo-Lynx & Lupe the Wolf

Dulcy the Dragon & Thunderbolt the Chinchilla

Bunnie Rabbot & Matilda the Armadillo

Clove the Pronghorn & Nephthys the Vulture

Sally Acorn & Conquering Storm the Lynx

Fiona Fox & Julie-su

Mina Mongoose & Gold the Tenrec

Cassia the Pronghorn & Echo the Dolphin

Pearly the Manta Ray & Abyss the Squid

Sonar the Fennec & Coral the Betta

Opal the Jellyfish & Bernadette Hedgehog

Rosy the Rascal & Merna the Merhog

Jian the Tiger & Bunker the Tortoise

Cinder the Pheasant & Carrotia the Rabbit

Princess Undina & Rosie the Woodchuck

Hope Kintobor & The Iron Queen

Metal Amy & Phage

Blade the Shark & Nic the Weasel

Lara-su & [winner of Blade v. Nic]

Whisper the Wolf & Lumina

Blaze the Cat & Tikal the Echidna

The End & Shahra

Tekno the Canary & Squad Commander Red

Tiara Boobowski & [winner of Helen v. Black Rose]

Amy Rose & Vanilla the Rabbit

Avatar & Scarlet Garcia

Rebel Rouge & Thorn Rose

Momma Robotnik & Lady Goat

Lah & Rachel

Surge the Tenrec & Topaz

Queen Aleena & Rusty Rose

Witchcart & Maddie Wachowski

Sticks the Badger & Sage the AI

Cream the Rabbit & Wave the Swallow

Lindsey Thorndyke & Zeena the Zeti

Molly & Sonia the Hedgehog

Honey the Cat & Belle the Tinkerer

Princess Elise the Third & Knuckles the Echidna

Frances & Jewel the Beetle

Sara/Seira & Nimue

Merlina & Tangle the Lemur

Shade the Echidna & Lanolin the Sheep

Prim Rouge & Maria Robotnik

Perci the Bandicoot & Sir Percival

Helen & Black Rose

Marine the Raccoon & Rouge the Bat

Cosmo the Seedrian & Amy Doll

Claire Voyance & Ella

Zooey the Fox & Jojo

Ebony & Batten Rouge

Lady Walrus & Mrs. Vandersnout

[sloth-babied]

Just for a Few Minutes

Shuri x POC reader

Summary: In the midst of a mission, you and Shuri get stranded in space. Months later of failing to get back home, you catch her crying and try to make her feel better.

or

Reader is a touch-starved pathetic loser who Shuri takes an interest in.

Contains: Angst, hurt/comfort, shy reader, smut (18+), and a sprinkle of fluff.

Word count: 2.7k

Shuri’s been stuck at the wheel, stressing on getting back home. She hates this ship, if you can even call it that. It’s old and rusty. You’re surprised the ship hasn’t blown up yet.

You got used to the grumbling and shouting. It’s the same pattern over and over again, and it always ends with a dent in the metal wall or absolute silence: Shuri cheers, believing she’s tracked Earth’s location, then shouts profanities that you don’t understand when the janky ship randomly reroutes the coordinates.

All day Shuri sits in the cockpit, determined she’ll beat the ship at its ridiculous game, and you watch with crossed fingers each time. You often try to lend a hand, although she’s not very fun to work with when she’s angry.

And when she’s not angry, she cries. But only when she thinks you’re asleep. You’ll lay on your bed, back facing the rest of the ship, and glue your eyes on the wall, unable to sleep while she stifles her sobs either in the bathroom or her bed. 

Unlike Shuri, you didn’t have anyone to lose. Your teammates would tease you—call you a lone wolf. Unfortunately, they’re not wrong. 

Today, you hear the same quiet sniffling. 

You lay there, hesitant to move so she doesn’t know you’re listening. Or trying not to listen. But it’s hard not to when you’re a light sleeper. 

The benefit of being a light sleeper? No one can sneak up on you. 

The setback? Waking up to the only person you see every day cry almost every night.

However this night—or day, who knows really—is different. She doesn’t lay in the bed across from yours. Instead she sits in the cockpit, elbows on her lap and face buried in her hands.

Shuri’s body jumps when she hears the soft pads of your feet make their way over to her, but she doesn’t look at you. Maybe that’s for the best considering you have no idea what draws you to take the co-pilot’s seat. 

You’re unsure what to do. You rarely find yourself in a situation where you have to comfort someone, much less yourself. 

Looking straight ahead at the stars and distant galaxies, you speak. 

“I don’t miss anyone.” Wow. You’re already terrible at this.

Nonetheless, Shuri’s faintly head lifts, curious to hear where you’re going next.

You gulp, hoping you only say the right words.

“I mean, like, I don’t have anyone to, like, you know, miss. And there’s no one on Earth who’s, you know, missing me right now. Or looking for me for that matter. But I know that there are people searching for you.”

Shuri also looks ahead. “We’re galaxies away,” she states hopelessly.

“Which is probably why they’re taking so long,” you jokingly reply in an attempt to seem sensible.

You turn to Shuri, and the glint of hope that used to live in her eyes has gone, replaced with exhaustion.

“They’ll travel through those galaxies,” you hope to reassure her. “They will.”

You don’t even know if you believe that, though it doesn’t matter if you do or not as long as she believes it. 

For a minute, no one makes a sound before Shuri starts to whimper again.

An inaudible “woah” comes out of your mouth when you watch her conceal her face back in her hands. Mentally, you’re unsure how to react, which is ironic because your body somehow does: your bottom lifts off the seat and your arms make their way around the princess.

That’s what you do to make people feel better, right?

Her body stiffens and you scold yourself for being so hasty. You attempt to pull away and apologize before she snakes her arms around you, burying her head between your shoulder and neck. You stay there for a while, your knees on the hard floor as she soaks your shirt. 

You don’t say anything and she doesn’t need anything to be said. Silence is just fine.

You’re not used to offering affection, not even a simple hug. Its unfamiliarity makes you a little uncomfortable but you stay. She's the one who pulls away eventually. 

“Tired,” she says plainly.

You get on your feet and back up while she stands. The space between you and Shuri returns, mostly because of you. For you, really.

You attempt to shake off the odd feeling on your skin and in your chest as Shuri sits on her bed. She doesn’t tuck herself in though. She just looks at you.

You hate to say that the face she’s wearing seems familiar. It’s a face you’ve ignored on Earth. A face that wants something from you, but you don’t know what. Or you pretend you don’t know.

This time it’s different. You can sense what she wants, and like all the times before, you choose to ignore it, muttering a “goodnight” as you hurriedly walk to your bed.

“Wait.”

There’s no thought to it when your body halts. However, the anticipation flusters you.

It takes a second after you point your ear to her. You hear a heavy exhale leave her nose. 

“Can you…lie down with me?”

If you heard this on Earth, you’d simply tell her to go to sleep. At the moment you consider not even facing her again, but you regrettably turn your shoulder. And damn. There’s that face again–the inner corners of her eyebrows softly angled upward.

“Just for a few minutes,” she adds. 

Her eyes slowly glide away as she recognizes what she just requested. She wonders why she even asked you such a thing. She starts to shake her head, nearly retracting what she said.

“Sure,” you say. This is probably a mistake.

Your answer obviously surprises her. You don’t have that type of relationship to even lay together, let alone make any physical contact that wasn’t a pat on the shoulder.

You take up the little space left after Shuri scooches. She faces the wall and you lay on your back, unable to move freely. Even your leg hangs off the edge.

But you still can’t seem to shake off that feeling. 

It feels strange. Sort of awkward. But something about it also feels…nice, you think. You’ve never done this with someone. The thought of it was too foreign to even consider.

The version of you before would have cringed at the possibility of this happening. But this version of you–the one who has spent months stranded in space, building whatever connection you have with Shuri–doesn’t mind her back pressed against your arm. This version of you doesn’t mind how warm she feels next to you despite the spacecraft’s low temperatures.

You stare at the back of her head contemplating whether or not you should throw your arm over her waist. To comfort her, of course. 

No, probably not. 

Facing the ceiling again, you wait for Shuri to fall asleep until you hear sniffling again. You can’t solve sorrow with one conversation, can you?

“Shuri?” You whisper. She doesn’t respond. You turn over and place your hand on her bicep. “Shuri,” you try again.

You pull at her with no force and she rolls on her back, wiping her cheek. 

“Sorry,” she murmurs sheepishly.

“No, no,” you reach for her face. “It’s alright.”

She gives you full access, staring at you when you begin rubbing away as many tears as you can. You hit a point where her face is mostly dried up, but you don’t remove your hand. You both lay on your sides and you just keep cleaning.

Shuri reaches for your cheek, dragging the back of her hand up and down, mimicking your touch. Your eyes flutter shut, welcoming the new sensation.

She whispers your name.

You open your eyes. “What?”

God, that face.

“I’m gonna kiss you.”

Your hand pauses on her cheek. “Okay.”

She grabs your neck, pressing her lips to yours. And it feels…really good. Her lips are soft, but dry. She observes the same for your lips, but none of you actually mind.  

Oh man, is this what you’ve deprived yourself of all this time? You can’t get enough of this. You can’t get enough of her, especially when she tilts her head, kissing you deeper. She eagerly pushes you on your back and gets on top of you, hungrily molding herself against you. 

A moan escapes the back of your throat when her lips move to your jaw, trailing down. Her lips tingle down your neck, particularly when she rests there to mark your skin. 

You enjoy this feeling. The overwhelming state you’ve never allowed yourself to enter before.

Shuri lifts the hem of your shirt, snaking her hand under your pants. Your thighs instinctively open as she cups your pussy and your breath hitches when her thumb begins circling your clit.

Jesus, you’re sensitive. You’ve touched yourself here and there, but it never felt like this. 

You choose to look down and your arousal grows just by the disappearance of her hand beneath your clothing. She slides her middle finger between your folds and you dismiss her chuckles when she recognizes how incredibly wet you are. You’re too horny and touch-starved to even worry about it. 

She sits up, one hand at your pussy and the other next to your head. She inserts a finger and drags it out, continuing this motion as her thumb messily rubs your bud.

“You like it when I do this?” Oh, she knows you do.

“Yeah,” you mutter after she inserts her ring finger, staring at you writhe below her.

You turn away, squeezing your eyes shut. Your arm sits on your forehead, covering your eyes, but Shuri pulls the arm away from your face.

“Keep looking at me,” she commands softly.

As piercing as her eyes are, you do as she says and she rewards you by pumping faster. Your mouth opens, your breath quickens, and your hand grips her pillow and the other flies to her bicep, seeking to hold something. 

She hums, responding to your desperate whines; your wetness coating her fingers. She takes advantage of your parted mouth and consumes your lips, slipping in her tongue.

You can’t tell if it’s her fingers or her tongue that make you cum, but holy shit, who fucking cares at this point? Your body shakes and your hips lift involuntarily. And even better, Shuri continues to thrust in and out of you, gradually slowing her pace as your orgasm sends you into a disorientated state of ecstasy.

You pull away from her lips, catching your breath.

Shuri smirks. “You look pretty when you cum.” 

And you’re brought back down to…well, not Earth. With a groan, you cover your face, but only for a second, too keen to see an expression that wasn’t a frown on her face.

“I bet you’d look even better,” you sit up to kiss her. “Can you lay back?” 

She obeys, switching positions with you. You hope to appease her even though you don’t fully know what you’re doing. 

“Tell me what to do,” you rub her knee. “I wanna make you feel good, but I don’t know where to start.”

An inquisitive look appears on her face, processing what you’ve just told her. She leans up using her elbows to support her.

“Was that your first time?” 

You tilt your head side to side. “Sorta, yeah. I mean, there was this one girl a while ago, but she didn’t get…as far as you did.” 

You didn’t let her get as far as Shuri did, to be specific.

“Bast,” she gapes at you. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“Please don’t make it awkward.”

She shakes her head. “I…Okay, yeah–no. I won’t.” The gears keep turning in her head to the point where she smiles to herself. “I’m your first?”

“Okay,” you murmur, shifting away from her before Shuri draws you back with your wrist.

“Don’t go,” she giggles. “That’s okay. I’ll guide you.” She pecks your lips. “I’m sorry.” She pecks your lips again. “We’ll go slow.”

You nod nervously.

“What do you wanna do, hm?” She caresses your cheek, seeing how tense you’ve become. 

You peer down at her pants, shrugging. “Wanna touch you…however you want me to.”

“However?” She gives you one last kiss below your jaw before laying on her back. “Okay. Help me take this off.”

The heat kicks back in. You start removing her pants until she impatiently kicks the rest off the bed, leading you both to laugh. 

“Just start by kissing me first,” Shuri reaches for your arm.

You happily oblige, enveloping her lips with yours, your body between her legs. You breathe her in—promptly addicted, that’s for sure. Your chests press together and you can feel her breasts beneath you, nipples as firm as yours. 

Your hand hesitantly slides under her shirt. You stop before you reach her breast. “Is it okay if-”

“It’s okay,” she drags your hand to her breast and you gently squeeze before flicking her nipple. You successfully earn a moan from her. Fuck, you only wanna do things that’ll get a noise out of her. 

You kiss her chin, her jaw, dip to her neck, then down to her clavicle, hoping to descend further. Shuri reads your mind, removing her shirt and throwing it aside. You fervently reconnect your mouth to her skin, stopping at her sternum. Her hand shoots to the back of your head when your lips slide to her breast and your tongue circles around her areola, flicking on her nipple before engulfing it. Another moan leaves her, encouraging you to suck. Your free hand plays with her other breast, flicking and tugging before gliding down to her pussy. You find her clitoris beneath her underwear, circling it between your index and middle finger.

Shuri mumbles in Xhosa as you slip off her underwear.

Your mouth releases her breast and you get up. You gaze at her body, licking your lips. You stay there, naively contemplating what you hope to do to her. She notices. 

Her half-lidded eyes inspect your expression. “What do you wanna do?” 

Your fingers keep playing with her as you think. You look down at them, enthralled by her body’s response to your touch. You land on something. “Wanna eat you out.”

Shuri lets out a breathy laugh. “I’m surprised you know what cunnilingus is,” she jokes.

You chuckle. “Shut up.”

You aim for her stomach, kissing your way down to her pussy. You remove your fingers from her clit, pausing once you’ve positioned your head between her legs. Your eyes lock on hers when you flatten your tongue and lick.

“Yeah,” her hand lands on the side of head, watching you intently. “Just keep doing that.”

And you do. You lick and suck her, allowing the volume of her voice to guide you. You wrap your arms around each of her thighs, getting comfortable the more she coats your mouth and chin.

“Does that feel good?” You muffle against her pussy.

“Yeah,” she grinds on your face. “Feels…feels really good.”

Shuri gasps your name and throws her head back when you sneak a finger inside her cunt, thrusting in and out. She whimpers when you add another digit, curling the pads of your fingers. She curses in her native language, sighing, “right there,” when you hit her spot and you stare, admiring her whine and whimper because of you.

You continue to suck her clit until her body shudders intensely as she approaches her climax. She wonders if you’ve switched off the ship’s gravity because her mind spaces off blissfully.

You want to see that again.

She releases a heavy sigh and lifts herself to look at you while you sit up.

“Did I do okay?” You ask.

She yanks you by your shirt and smashes her lips on yours, tasting herself. 

You laugh against her mouth. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

She pulls away, but lingers with her forehead against yours. She drags her fingernails up and down your neck. “Thank you.”

And she means it. You’re both lonely already. She needed the distraction and you’re apparently much more desperate for affection than you thought you were.

Jokingly you furrow your brows anyway. 

“Do people normally thank each other after sex?”

She clicks her tongue and flicks your forehead, saying your name in a scolding manner.

“Ow!” You yelp, laughing as you palm the spot she flicked. 

Shuri smiles humorously, rubbing your forehead despite the lack of pain.

[voraciousvore]

Giganterra (Chapter 21)

Prologue/ TOC | Previous (20) | Next (22)

Content Warning: Vore mention/ threat, vulgar language

Word Count: 2.2k

------ Chapter 21: Royal Lessons ------

A pit of dread settled in Milton’s gut as he gained passage to the castle courtyard, bright and early the next morning. He didn’t want to be here. King Richard severely creeped him out, and he couldn’t stop thinking about that poor little woman, so full of suffering, that he’d seen in the giant’s clutches. He couldn’t imagine what she had to endure, as his personal plaything. He’d witnessed the king fawning over her with tender love, but Hardon was not known for his clemency, even among the commoners. 

Milton was forced to cancel with his other clients. At first, they voiced their displeasure, but once they heard that he was serving the king, their complaints died on their lips. Everyone knew not to cross King Richard. Milton tried to see the positives as he surveyed the magnificent statues and well-manicured gardens. The fragrance of fresh flowers and the steady trickle of a fountain, along with a modest stream that flowed through a channel for irrigation, helped to soothe his troubled mind. The courtyard was peaceful; his steps clacked off the cobblestones and echoed off the stone walls to break up the sound of water. 

He found Leon waiting for him at the entrance to the castle. “Ah, Milton! Glad to see you!” Leon proclaimed with genuine enthusiasm. He was relieved that Milton came, so he wouldn’t have to send out soldiers to compel him. 

Milton genially shook his hand. Leon had a weak grip that lacked confidence, as if he were afraid of squishing the other man’s hand. Milton was struck by the contrast between the headstrong, barbaric king and his wimpy, but kind-hearted, advisor. Leon led him into the castle and proceeded down a long hall, then descended a steep flight of stairs. He continued down a maze of corridors, deep into the bowels of the castle. Milton sensed they were going somewhere of grave importance, far within the inner sanctum. 

Leon stopped at a large, ancient wooden door with thick iron trim and handles. “Here’s the library,” he explained. He inserted a key into the rusty lock and opened the enormous door with a heavy creak. The scratching of the key and the grating squeal of the door resounded through the musty air of the empty, otherwise quiet hall. 

“Wow, I didn’t expect it to be so far underground,” Milton remarked. “You’d think it would be somewhere with windows for natural lighting, for reading. This feels more like a dungeon.” 

“Well...” Leon paused. “This is no ordinary library. Not just anyone can access it.” Milton quirked a brow. “There are secrets here that must not leave the castle. You understand, yes? You can’t take any books home with you. You may only remove them from the library for instructional purposes.” 

Milton nodded, his lips set into a firm line, but inside he was hopping with excitement. Leon earlier had mentioned historical documents, and he could scarcely fathom what sort of state secrets could be buried in the library’s collection, that he wouldn’t be able to find anywhere else. Milton was an intellectual who loved to read and learn, with a natural curiosity for the world around him. He couldn’t wait to dig in and do some research. 

Leon handed him a copy of the big iron key. “As the royal tutor, you will have unlimited access to the library, for the sake of the prince and princess’s education. This is no small privilege; don’t misuse it.” Leon was very perceptive of others: He sensed that Milton was an upstanding fellow he could trust. 

“Thank you.” Milton was rewarded with a brief glance at deep rows of shelves that burrowed into dim underground passages, before Leon closed the door and guided him back to the ground level of the castle. Leon showed him the classroom where he would be teaching, which had a small private study connected where he could plan lessons and leave his teaching materials as needed. Sturdy wooden cupboards lining the wall contained parchment, quills, books, ink, and an assortment of other supplies. 

“How old are the royal children?” Milton asked. In his haste to escape the suffocating confines of the castle the prior day, the question had slipped his mind. He hadn’t been able to prepare or plan at all. 

“Crown Prince Ronny is 21, and Princess Bianca is 19,” Leon informed him. 

“Oh! So they are adults.” Milton rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He wasn’t certain what kind of instruction the royals would be expecting, but he hadn’t realized the prince and princess were already of age. He would have to adjust his lessons accordingly. 

“Any other questions? I really must be going. The prince and princess will arrive for their lessons in about an hour.” 

“I’m all set. Thanks.” Leon left, and Milton unshouldered his satchel with his teaching materials and hastened to slap together a lesson plan. He figured the first logical step would be an assessment to determine the level of instruction required, and what subjects needed additional coverage. While he toiled, Ronny and Bianca woke up, ate breakfast, and prepared for their day. Ronny forgot about Tanya, as he did the prior day, and didn’t bother to feed her or check on her. Bianca was determined to quell her troublesome feelings once and for all. She didn’t want to see her pets as people. Since she didn’t want to get attached, she ignored the human male that seemed to like her and picked up Graham instead, snapped him into her necklace, and stuffed him in between her boobs. 

Milton barely managed to finish preparations before the royals walked in, announced by a servant. The tutor bowed, as he had seen Leon do earlier before the king. Prince Ronny raked him up and down with his dark, cold eyes before sitting sullenly in his chair. Princess Bianca flashed him a supercilious smirk and sat as far away from her brother as she could, with her chin resting lazily in her slim hand. Milton was intimidated by such illustrious personages but maintained an outward calm.  

He cleared his throat. “Good morning. I’ve prepared a written exam for you two to take, to assess your competencies.” He was interrupted with a loud groan from Ronny and an eye roll from Bianca. Milton raised his brows in surprise, not expecting such puerile responses. 

“Ugh, really? You’re going to make us waste our time with this?” Ronny complained. “It’s stupid enough that our father is forcing us to do lessons again.” 

Milton was mildly flustered, but he didn’t allow his feelings to show on his face. He was here on order of the king: His authority superseded that of his offspring. “It’s necessary,” he replied simply. He handed each student their tests and they got to work, despite their complaints, since they did not wish to anger their father.  

Milton sat at his desk and observed them as they took their exams. Ronny furrowed his brow in concentration and chewed absently on the end of his feather pen. Bianca became increasingly frustrated and confused as she perused the questions. She dipped her pen in the ink and scribbled in a few answers, then began doodling in the margins. Ronny gritted his teeth and crumpled the corners of the page as his temper flared at the difficulty of the test. He ran his hand over his slick black hair and massaged his forehead with his fingers, huffing dramatically once every few minutes. 

Bianca got bored and started playing with her necklace. She fished out Graham from her cleavage and started fidgeting with him in her hands like a toy, tugging on his twiggy limbs and rotating him in her fingers. Graham wanted to scream at her and slap away her giant fingers, but he remembered what happened to Gio and kept his mouth shut, as infuriated as he was. Even so, small whines escaped his lips as he pushed back weakly in half-hearted protest. He hated the giantess with a passion, hated her every touch, hated to be prodded and pulled like an object. 

Milton heard the odd noises and noticed Bianca wasn’t working on her test. He got up from his chair and came over to get her back on task. “Princess Bianca, you need to—what is that?” He stopped. At first, he thought she was fiddling with a doll, but then he noticed the small humanoid form was the thing making sounds. It wasn’t a doll: It was a living person. Milton was stunned. 

“Is that—a man?” he asked incredulously. 

“Yup,” Bianca replied. “Neat, huh? Isn’t he cute?” She giggled and held up Graham between her thumb and forefinger so the giant tutor could see him better. Graham couldn’t look the giant in the face, so strong was his shame over his own debasement. Milton was flabbergasted. Ronny glanced over at her in disgust. 

“Cute? Yeah, right. Fucking gross. Nobody wants to see that; put him away,” he growled. 

“Piss off, Ronny. Nobody cares about your opinion.” She stuck her tongue out at her brother, knowing how much her taunting irritated him. Ronny flipped around in his seat, his rage spiking. 

Milton, nonplussed, turned to the prince. “Do you have a human too?” If both the king and the princess possessed a person, it seemed likely that the giant prince did as well. 

Ronny seemed slightly flustered at the question, his wrath unexpectedly cooling. “Y-yeah,” he muttered gruffly. 

“Here? Now?” 

“Ugh, no!” Ronny snapped. “I didn’t even want one to begin with. Dad forced me to take one.” His face puckered up as if he just tasted something exceedingly bitter. 

“You’re always so whiny and dramatic, Ronny,” Bianca interjected. Ronny’s face reddened with anger and he balled up his fists. 

“Alright, enough. Back to your tests,” Milton interrupted before the siblings ripped out each other’s throats. “Bianca, put… him… away, please.” Milton swallowed and turned around with a sickened grimace. He couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. To see humans, so small and helpless, treated like accessories and abused, turned his stomach. He exhaled and smoothed his facial features into a normal expression before returning to his position at his desk. 

He allowed the siblings a short break after they finished their quizzes and then reviewed the answers. He was dismayed to find gaping holes in their knowledge. They flunked every subject, from math to science to the humanities. Milton lectured a bit, asking additional questions, and the royals were clueless. They were rude and badly behaved as well: constantly insulting each other, arguing, whining and griping, diverting from the lesson, engaging in disruptive behavior, and disrespecting their new tutor. Finally, Milton decided to cut the lesson short and dismissed them. He sat with his elbows on his desk, cupped his head in his hands, and sighed. 

“Well? How did their first lesson go?” 

Milton leapt to his feet as if his chair had burst into flames and scrambled into a deep bow. “Um, very well, sir—I mean, Your Majesty?” He gulped. Of all people, he hadn’t anticipated King Richard walking in on him.  

“Is that so? They haven’t engaged in formal studies in years. Not since I… dismissed their last tutor.” Hardon folded his lips back into an ominous sneer. Milton gulped again. 

“Um… I did happen to notice that they seem far behind in their studies,” he admitted timidly. 

King Richard frowned. “Hm?” 

Milton handed the king their papers. “You can see for yourself, Your Grace…” He spun his wedding band on his finger anxiously as Hardon’s pale eyes swept the pages. The king absently reached for his necklace and pulled out Millie, cradling her in his palm and rubbing her with his fingers like she was merely a toy that existed for his amusement. His expression darkened and he squeezed his hand around her briefly, making her yelp. 

“This is atrocious,” the king snarled. “I didn’t realize my kids were such dullards.” He crumbled the papers in his hand, his face blighted with rage. Millie whimpered. Milton’s heart broke when he heard the pitiable sound. 

“Rest assured, I’ll teach them,” Milton promised, if only to mollify the king so he wouldn’t crush the poor woman in his grasp. “We’ll get them back on track where they’re supposed to be.” 

“You’d better.” Milton shuddered internally at his sinister words, discerning the implicit threat. “They never should’ve neglected their studies, particularly my eldest son. I should’ve known they would fail me.” The room abruptly felt darker and colder. Milton almost felt like he was being squeezed in an oversized fist, not just Millie. 

King Richard fixated on Millie, and his visage morphed into a hideous, furious, bloodthirsty leer. Her eyes grew wet with tears as she stared up at his giant face and squirmed in his palm. Milton felt like he couldn’t breathe. 

“Millie, I think lunch would put me in a better mood,” the king sneered. Millie visibly flinched, her face white as a ghost. 

“No, please have mercy,” she pleaded. Her voice dropped to a deathly whisper. “Don’t hurt me…” The king only grinned wider as he lumbered out of the room, hunching over her. Milton stood with his feet glued to the floor, listening as Millie pleaded. “Please, Your Majesty, I’ve been a good pet and done everything you’ve asked of me. Please don’t do this to me. Don’t eat me!”  

As her voice grew fainter and farther away, his ears registered one last heartbreaking scream. “No!” 

Chapter 22

[nintendocafe]

The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom - amiibo rewards

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Treasures: Tunic of Memories Paraglider Fabric and Ancient Blade.

Other Drops: Knight’s Bow, Soldier’s Bow, Assorted Meat and Assorted Fish.

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Treasures: Bokoblin Paraglider Fabric.

Other Drops: Boko Bow, Spiked Boko Bow, Boko Shield, Spiked Boko Shield, Bokoblin Guts, and Assorted Meat.

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Other Drops: Cobble Crusher and Assorted Gems.

Breath of the Wild Guardian - https://amzn.to/3oBO64F

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[rraskolnikov]

1. if you've ever actually played chess the game, 2. what your favorite book(s) as a child were (define that as a child-child, middle school, or high school; your choice), 3. what you would crochet if you had all the time and energy in the world.

response to this ask meme

1. yes i have! i used to be pretty good but i’m rusty now

2. this is tough bc i read so much as a kid but some of my ride or dies were the cinderella adaptation Just Ella and also The Two Princesses of Bamarre… ironic since i now avoid fantasy and sci fi maybe i’ve just lost my sense of childhood whimsy

3. unfortunately while time and energy are very much a constraint i have to take into account my penchant for not finishing projects. that notwithstanding i would probably make some kind of crazy diorama like that lady who crocheted a life size model of herself, or was that ai, i don’t even know

[the-starry-traveller]

Lore: Another Princess Celestia's daughter - Princess Crown Harvest

Likes: Creating her own milkshakes, Nature, Beauty, History, Board Games & Practicing new spells. Playing the piano.

Dislikes: < Secret >

Magic specialization: Floramancy (Nature's Magic)

Relationship status: <Unknown>

Favorite Quote: Prince Blue Blood is a fraud and no one believed me. He's not even part of the royal family!

Profile: Born to Princess Celestia's second's husband, Prince Apollo, Crown Harvest used to have a strong rivalry with her daemon clan half siblings Rusty Iron & Bright Torch.

Even with the rivalry, Harvest supported them in secret when her older siblings banded together and tormented them brutally. She was escorted to safety by Rusty Iron's personal changeling guards a few days before the siege of Canterlot on the account of secrecy.

Crown Harvest is seen as gentle and soft spoken. Previously worked in the Ministry of Agriculture and as a diplomat to Griffonstone & Dragon Lands.

After the war, Harvest would take up her new job as Sweetie Belle's teacher at the magic university at South Equestria...

[amayzingmayzie]

Sometimes I think about my Starlight Express song opinions so here they are:

(PLEASE NOTE THAT I AM AMERICAN SO I CAN ONLY WORK WITH SO MUCH)

Rolling Stock makes me feel manly- something about it makes me wanna pump some fucking iron

Call Me Rusty is adorable and is a better introduction to Rusty than Crazy. Call Me Rusty points out his stubbornness and willpower to win, while also showing that the coaches show genuine concern to his condition and don't just go "man this kid is fuckin insane"

If you think I Got Me is "too empowering," You're weird. I understand thinking it's a little odd for setting up Dinah's character, but there's a difference between that and "oh the women are too independent." I think my biggest problem with I Got Me is that there are not coach intros.

I like Lotta Locomotion for what its worth. It's just a cute lil intro song

Whole Lotta Locomotion- wheeeew- it's certainly... a song! It tries so hard to be girlboss-y but fails lyricwise and makes them even more dependent on men- but Im not gonna lie and say I hate it because Jesus it's catchy-

FREIGHT IS GOOD, YALL ARE JUST MEAN- I specifically like the one version from London 1992 where the coaches ARE BRUTAL FOR NO REASON- Also, versions without CB suck ass

AC/DC is at its best when Electra is an over-the-top diva and the components MUST eat it up.

Pumping Iron makes me feel so ungodly feminine (I wonder which part I sing) AND I LOVE IT. I LOVE FEELING FEMININE. I especially love when Greaseball is super snarky and flirtatious.

He'll Whistle At Me puts me to sleep. Make Up My Heart is beautiful. He Whistled At Me is terrible narrative-wise but MAN OH MAN DOES IT MAKE ME FEEL GIRLY

Coda of Freight is REALLY REALLY GOOD????

There's Me is adorbs and I. MISS. IT.

Poppa's Blues is a banger, yall are just haters. Also, hot take, but Poppa should NEVER be white.

Belle may not have much of a purpose in terms of the story, but jeez, her voice is beautiful. I love Belle so much.

I am a Rap enthusiast, so I have to give you my opinions on all of them. Hey You is a classic and it was my first Rap. It sounds so silly and Electra makes me giggle every time. Check It Out is so stupid but WOW IS ELECTRA GAY- I love the beat too. What Time Is It is so extremely CAMPY but I have a soft spot for it- The only version of Own It, Nail it that I have is the 2017 London workshop, and that one was almost a carbon copy of Check It Out. BORING.

UNCOUPLED is always such a sweet song. I HAVE A GRIPE WITH PEOPLE WHO MAKE DINAH SO MF SOUTHERN. Like, I get it, but don't give her a HUGE accent. See Jane Krakowski.

Girls Rolling Stock makes me feel so girlboss.

CB (or Wide Smile) is a mf bop and a masterpiece

Right Place, Right Time makes me jam out hard

The beginning of He Whistled At Me Reprise makes me so sad- DUSTIN QUIT CRYIN BOY!

Dinahs Disco is so slay and Electra is such a prissy princess-

"CB! CB! YOU GOTTA HELP ME IN THE FINAL SEEECTIOOOON"

One Rock N Roll Too Many makes me lowkey sad- but my god is it funny-

Only He is a masterpiece. BUT... NEXT TIME YOU FALL IN LOOOOOOOVE IT BETTER BE WITH ME THE WAY IT USED TO BE BACK THEN WAS WHEN WE TOUCHED THE STARLIIIIGHT-

Next Time You Fall In Love makes no sense to me lyric-wise but the song slaps

"I love it when romance occurs on the railroad"

The Megamix my beloved

So, tell me what you think! Do you agree? Disagree?

[sticktopia]

Happy Accidents (RocketPrincess AU)

When a drunken one-night stand leaves Mango with an accidental pregnancy, he has to figure out how to keep his secret safe. Turns out, it's easier said than done when the baby's other parent is literally his boss.

Chapter 6

Purple casually whistled as they walked towards their dad’s house. It was a nice summer morning and they were in a really good mood. As Purple unlocked the door, they wondered what they should make for breakfast.

“Mmm. Maybe we’ll eat out today. Depends on Dad’s cravings.” Purple hummed to themself. As the teen opened the door, the scent of rusty iron immediately assaulted his nose. They had to hold back a gag from how strong the smell was.

“What the hell is that?” Purple muttered as they pushed the door open further. As they did, they saw Mango laying on the couch, surrounded by bloody towels, and a baby on his chest. Their jaw was on the floor as they took in the scene before them.

“WHAT THE F-“ Purple’s shout was cut off by a loud wail. Purple watched as Mango lazily rubbed the baby’s back.

“Sssshhhhh, sssshhhhh, it’s ok princess…” The father tiredly muttered. The baby calmed to a soft whimper, still fussing on his chest. Purple finally found their words and began to speak again.

“The ONE NIGHT I was out!!! And y-you had the baby?! You should have-“

“Purple please. I’m not in the mood to argue with you.” Mango tiredly said as he slowly sat up. Purple rushed to their dad’s side, supporting them into their sitting position.

“S-sorry. But still! You could have at least called! What if something had happened to you?!” Purple ranted. Hearing the worry in their voice made Mango feel guilty. They weren’t far off either. Mango felt like he died for an amount of time. He’s lucky that he woke back up when he did.

“I’m fine Purple. The baby’s here, she’s healthy, and I’m not dead.” Mango said, patting Purple’s shoulder. Purple muttered something under their breath before standing.

“Yeah. Whatever.” Purple muttered. “Do you want me to get you some clothes?”

Mango opened his eyes a little wider. Looking past the baby in his arms, he could see there was only a towel laying over his midsection, covering him up.

“Uh, yeah. I need… I need clothes.” Mango said sleepily. Purple nodded and stood to grab things for their dad.

When Purple returned, Mango was bouncing his baby; shushing her as she fussed and cried.

“I got your clothes.” Purple said as he approached their dad. Mango tiredly looked up and nodded.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Mango took the clothes from Purple and tried putting them on with his free hand. Purple watched for a bit before speaking up.

“I can hold the baby for you.” Mango paused and looked at Purple almost agitated. He even held the baby tighter.

“Dad….?” Purple took a cautious step towards Mango; worried, but also fearful of the look he gave. Mango sighed and looked at the fussy baby in his arms.

“F-fine. But if you hurt her I’m kicking you out.” Mango growled. Ever so carefully, Mango handed his princess over to the teenager. Purple sat on the couch as they held their new little sister. They smiled down at the baby in their arms, admiring how adorable she was. 

“What’s her name?” 

“Her name is Mai.”

“That’s cute. Just like her.”

“She is. And that’s why you need to be careful with her. Creators forbid you even upset her.” Purple chuckled awkwardly at Mango’s behavior. It was weird. But also understandable. Purple’s attention went back to the baby in their arms as she cuddled up against their chest, a little calmer than she had previously been. Purple’s heart was two steps away from melting when he noticed Mai’s head. Their brow furrowed as they stared at the baby a little longer.

“Dad, did you sleep with The Chosen one?” Mango sputtered and whirled around.

“Wh-what?! Why would-“

“The baby’s literally a hollow head. And her color is darker than yours. The only darker colored hollow head I can think of is The Chosen One.” Mango stared at the teen like they had grown a third head.

“P-purple! How in the OuterNet would I be able to get in bed with a TERRORIST?! Let alone WHY!”

“Hey I mean, your taste in men is weird. And Chosen isn’t that bad a guy.”

“…… And how would you know that?”

“Well, he’s Second’s brother-“

“WHAT?!” Mai began to cry from the shouting. Mango sighed as he reached to take Mai back, but Purple didn’t let go. Mango arched his brow at the teen.

“Purple-“

“Hold on. Let me just,” Purple began to bounce the baby in their arms. Patting her bottom and gently shushing her. Mai calmed down and opened her eyes. Purple smiled softly as they looked at the baby.

“There you go.” Purple chuckled as they adjusted their hold. Mango watched the teen curiously.

“You‘ve cared for a baby before?” Mango asks.

“Yeah. Back when mom was still in the hospital, I had to make money to keep up with the bills. So I babysat around the city.” Purple explained. Mango hummed as he watched the pair.

“Well, thanks kid. But I can take my daughter back now.” Purple sighed and gently handed the baby over to her father. Once in her carrier’s arms, Mai cooed and nuzzled Mango. Mango smiled softly as his daughter gave him love.

“That’s right princess. Papa has you now.” Mango softly whispered. Purple then stood and stretched a bit.

“Well, I’m gonna make breakfast for you. Anything in particular you want?” Purple asked as they made their way to the kitchen. Mango hummed as he sat back down on the couch.

“Mmmm, I’m craving something sweet.” Mango said as he leaned back.

“Coming right up!” And with that, Purple disappeared behind the doorway.

**********

Mango sat on his bed with Mai in one arm and his phone in his free hand. He hummed as he kept up with emails from work. There weren’t many, but Mango would rather be up to date than leave it all for whenever he returned. As Mango was reading one of the emails, he received a text message. Curious, he opened it up to find that Pivot was texting him; again.

“Hey Mango! Just checking in on you! How you doing?”

“Hey there Piv. I'm doing fine. A little tired but nothing unusual.”

“That’s good to hear. How’s the baby? Still making you sick? Lol”

“Nah. She’s just sleeping. She’s actually a great sleeper.”

“She? I thought you were going to leave the gender unknown.”

“I did. I gave birth to her last night.”

Mango jumped as his phone suddenly rang, causing Mai to wake and fuss. Mango quickly hushed his baby before looking at the caller ID. Pivot was trying to facetime him. That made Mango nervous. He didn't want to risk Pivot seeing Mai. He might suspect something when he sees her. But he couldn't just ignore the call either. So he accepted the call with the camera off. As Pivot’s camera turned on, Mango could see it wasn't just Pivot. But the other mercenaries as well.

“What’s with the call?” Mango asked.

“Why is your camera off?! We wanna see the baby!” Ballista shouted, excitedly shoving his face into the camera. Mango quickly turned the volume down as Mai began to fuss again.

“Is that her?” Pivot asked, shoving Ballista away.

“Yeah that’s my princess” Mango chuckled as he gently bounced his daughter.

“Come on, turn on the camera! Let us see her!” Hazard spoke up.

“Nah. I’m a gross mess. Don't need you guys seeing me like this.”

“Aw come on, You know we don't care what you look like.” Hazard huffed.

“You don't even have to show yourself. Just show us the baby.” Primal said as she came into frame as well.

“Mmmm that feels like too much work.” Mango joked.

“Fine, if you wont show us the baby, we’re gonna have to hunt you down ourselves! What hospital are you at?” Mango quickly ended the call. He didn't need them tracking his location and barging into his home.

“Seriously? You hung up on us?”

“Yep. Now I gotta go. Baby girl’s getting fussy.” Mango put his phone down and sighed. Hopefully the mercenaries wouldn't come looking for him. He doesn't know what he’d do if they did. Mai suddenly began fussing again, capturing her Carrier’s attention.

“It’s alright princess. Papa has you.” Mango said as he stood and went to make Mai a bottle.

**********

Today, Purple and their friends were visiting Mango and Mai. The group of teens were very excited to meet Mai. None of them had ever seen a baby before.

“You guys are gonna love her! She’s adorable and loves attention. You guys are gonna satisfy her need just fine.” Purple chuckled as they unlocked the door to the house.

“Dad! We’re here!” Purple called into the house. As the group entered, they saw Mango exit the kitchen, a large swath of fabric wrapped around his torso.

“You sure took your time.” The father joked as he pat the lump in fabric.

“Where’s the baby?!”

“We wanna see her!”

“What’s ner name?!”

“How old is she now?”

“Is that the baby?”

Before Mango could shush them, Mai began to cry from all the noise. The five covered their ears as the baby wailed.

“Ah, I forgot to say she doesn't like loud noises. So we’re gonna have to whisper.” Purple sheepishly chuckled.

“Noted.” The others said. Mango sighed and pat Mai’s back.

“Ssshhh, ssshhh, it’s ok princess.” Mango said as he comforted his baby. Mai gradually calmed down, but did not go back to sleep. Mango smiled as she looked up at him, her fist making its way to her mouth.

“Ah, don't eat your hand princess.” Mango chuckled as he gently nudged Mai with his finger. The teens then made their way back around mango, all trying to look at the baby.

“Is that her name? Princess?” Blue softly whispered.

“Nah. I just call her that. Her name is Mai.”

“Isn't that a bit on the nose?” Yellow asked. “Considering your whole… King arc.”

“So what if it is?” Mango chuckled as he undid the wrap, freeing Mai from her binding. As the baby’s limbs were freed, she cooed and stretched. The teens dawwed as Mai looked at all of them. She seemed curious to see them.

“Would you guys like to hold her?” Mango asked as he adjusted the baby in his arms.

“Yes please!” The teens excitedly shout. Mai fussed and began to cry as the teens quickly covered their mouths. Mango however was quick and placed Mai’s pacifier into her mouth while bouncing her. Mai’s fussy attitude quickly diminished, leaving the house in peace.

“You guys suck at being quiet.” Purple snorted.

“No kidding.” Second said as they glared at their friends.

“Oh shush. You're not very quiet yourself Second.” Green teased as he poked Second. Before Second could protest, Mango’s phone rang. Mango picked up the phone and stared at the number. Purple noticed as Mango’s face went from a calm smile to a deep frown.

“Dad? Is something wrong?” Purple asked as they stood by the taller stick.

“I need to take this call. Purple, take Mai. You can help pass her around to the others. Or you can just hold her. Just take her.” Mango said as he handed his daughter off to Purple. Purple didn't have time to protest as Mai was suddenly in their arms and Mango walked back into the kitchen. The group of teens all looked at each other before shrugging and turning their attention to the baby.

“So, this is probably gonna be a weird question, but why is she a hollow head?” Second asked as they looked at Mai.

“I asked dad the same question. But he just dodged it. Honestly, I think he slept with Chosen.” Purple joked.

“Would Chosen ever even agree to something like that?” Blue asked.

“Maybe we should go ask him.” Red suggested.

“I think Chosen would kill you guys first.” Second snickered. “Plus, if Chosen was seeing someone, I'm pretty sure he would have said something to me.”

“Yeah cause you definitely wanna know if Chosen’s going around banging random sticks.” Yellow scoffed.

“Can we stop talking about that?” Green sighed as he turned to Purple and gently poked Mai’s cheek. “Whatever her heritage, she’s still Purple’s little sister.”

Mai cood and gripped Green’s finger, catching the teen off guard.

“E-eh! H-Hey kid.” He stuttered as he froze. Purple smirked and leaned in closer to the taller stick.

“I think you should hold her~” They said as they began handing Mai over. Green tried to protest, but the baby was in his arms. Purple helped position Green’s arms to support Mai’s head.

“See? She likes you.” Purple said as they slowly took their hands away. Green was stiff with fear.

“What if I hurt her? I don't want Mango to kill me.” Green squeaked out. Purple chuckled and placed a hand on Green's shoulder.

“Calm down. You're not gonna hurt her. See? She’s perfectly fine in your hold.” Purple said as they watched their little sister stare up at green with wide eyes full of wonder. Green stared down at her all the same. He slowly relaxed as Mai cooed and nuzzled him, still tightly gripping his finger.

“Ya know, this isn't so bad.” Green chuckled.

“Not fair! I wanna hold her too!” Red huffed, leaning on Green and looking down at Mai.

“You can hold her later. I’m in love.” Green jokes.

“If you ever dare try to take her, dad actually would kill you then.” Purple chuckled. Their gaze suddenly went to the kitchen. Their father’s sudden change in mood worried them. Who was on the phone? And why was their dad so urgent about it?

“Purp, my arms are getting tired. Help.” Green begged. Purple turned to Green and chuckled.

“Ok ok give me a sec.” As Purple took Mai back into their arms, Mango reentered the room, looking exhausted, almost defeated.

“Oh dad! Are you ok? What’s wrong?” Purple asked as they walked up to the father. Mango sighed and rubbed his face.

“I have to go back to work tomorrow.” Purple furrowed their brow.

“But Mai’s barely a month old. She still needs you.”

“I know. But it can't be helped.” Mango sighed as he gently caressed his daughter’s hair. “I’ll just have to take her with me.”

“Is that even safe?” Yellow spoke up. “You're head of tech right? Is it really safe to have a newborn around all that?”

“It’s fine. They won't have me in the testing field. I’ll just be in my office and the observation deck. Mai will be fine.” Mango said as he carefully took his daughter from Purple.

“That doesn't sound very assuring. Won’t your boss get annoyed that you have a baby with you at work?” Second asked.

“Well, they’re gonna have to suck it up cause the last thing I want is to leave Mai with some rando.” Mango said as he held his princess.

“She can stay with me!” Purple quickly said. “Dad please, you need that job! I-I don't want you to get fired again!”

“Purple.” Mango said sternly as he placed a hand on the teen’s head. “I can't do that to you. You're still a kid yourself. You should be allowed to have fun with your friends and have your own freedom. So don't worry about it alright?”

Purple stared into their dad’s eyes. They were severely conflicted about it all. They knew that Mai still needed Mango. But they were worried that Mango’s workplace might fire him for having a baby with him. Purple took a breath before looking away.

“If you're sure… But on first warning, I will stay over to babysit Mai while you’re at work.” Purple says firmly.

“Alright alright. I get it.” Mango chuckled as he hugged Purple with his free arm. “Thank you Purp.”

“Y-yeah…”

Chapter 5.5-(Chapter 6)-Chapter 7

[teratocrat]

i think that chainsaws belong in fantasy i think that the genre should not be exclusive of them. i think it's perfectly of a piece with like elves and shit to be an ogre princess squatting in your damp dank cave full of bones and be leaning against this huuuge buster sword style snarl of rusty black iron shards and chains and like a reeking engine leaking fantasy diesel or something. maybe it runs on blood, even more fantasy. maybe its covered in extremely evil runes. maybe it talks to you in its whines and its shrieks

[fenicenera83]

Marius/Daniel Appreciation week Day 5

-Endless Love-

Chapter V

AU - 80's disco inferno

If time had been different with us… How would I be today beside you? And you? Would you be here beside me? If you had been you, but without the veil of immortality, and if I had been me, the intricate human with the wounded heart, what would have become of us?

That starless night, from the filthy alleys , with rain flayed streets, filled with puddles and smelly dumpsters, rusty fire escapes, and walls painted with garish round words, marked the entrance into my life of his cobalt blue eyes and his rich, harmonious laugh. Strange, how things change, but do they not always remain the same? Ah yes cheap philosophy, sorry if you expected something different! I am not so open to admit, how much the greats of the past, have left inviolable and tremendously true truths, about us and what we are. And yes reading them, used to make me bitter and feel like an inconclusive, now, they scare me… In my defense I have always been sarcastic, prickly and indelicate even. He blunted me. Oh no he didn't change me, no, but he made me better. And it is not the tales of unicorns or princesses of immortal loves or towers and princes. It is simply the story of two men, two men who understood, at the end of their wandering, the word love. My wandering heart and his lonely heart, and everything we never said to each other, not because we didn't want to but because we didn't need to.

And nothing was ever the same again. That night when I walked into that nightclub through a metal door in one of those alleys, letting myself be invested by the lights and the loud music, the bodies and their movements and their smells, I had no idea that he would be there and even less that I would meet him. Surely that was no place for him! Needless to say, his quiet figure sitting elegantly at a small iron table stood out alarmingly. And how his polite but cold smiles repelled any attempt at approach was even more endearing. Thrown into the middle of that throng, on the dance floor, I counted at least fifteen people trying to sit with him. Was he waiting for someone? Why was such a fine man in such a place? Certainly not for fun, it was clear from the bewilderment in his eyes that he was not used to that kind of place. The colors of the changing lights about them and the movements of the bodies abandoned to the music finally brought our eyes together. The truth was that I had not been able to take my eyes off him.

He finally noticed it. I might as well be the sixteenth, I said, and I went to him. Strangely, his eyes never left me, and before I knew it, I was sitting in front of him. "So little red riding hood, what are you doing in the woods?" I asked, noting the crimson red of his jacket. "Who says I’m the red riding hood? The best quality of the wolf is knowing how to disguise as a lamb." and his eyes glowed beautifully, I don’t know yet if because of the lights or my throat that had suddenly become dry. "I’m sorry to point out that you’re too flashy…" I said defiantly.

"I could say the same about you." he whispered. And I felt it, despite the mass, the music, the total mess, I felt it, as if nothing else existed. And that’s how my little, dead world got hit by that wonderful, warm figure that is Marius. That’s how the hours went by and we were immersed in each other, until I noticed the lights changing. "You know, you should at least give me a dance…" and I said it with shyness. "I’m not suited for this kind of movement…" he said, staring at a girl wriggling against a boy. I laught… "Please?" He stared at me laughing and then nodded his head. I took him by the hand and took him with me to the middle of the track. It was then that the lights changed and the atmosphere became intimate and tender. "I didn’t tell you that from a certain time onwards, they sound slow, for couples…" In all response he held me to himself, he held me as if I were the most precious, delicate and desired thing in the world. And from that moment on, he’s been holding me like this. And he keep holding me like this every day of our life.

[oddygaul]

Honkai Star Rail

Honkai Star Rail is Cookie Clicker with anime girls. 

I mean that with all the positive and negative implications that brings.

That is to say, I love it.

art by CHAROMO on pixiv

Honkai Star Rail features bespoke dialogue for every single trashcan you can interact with, which I consider a culturally significant feature.

---------

“As you continue staring at the trash cans, they seem to turn before your very eyes. The edges are no longer rusty and the dents are smoothed over. From under the lid comes a faint golden glow, sweet and alluring. For a moment, the trash cans turn into treasure chests. March 7th: ...And it's happening again. You take a deep breath and open the lid: it's empty... Wait! You reach deeper into the trash can. There's a piece of iron scrap on the bottom. Your hard work paid off! You finally found the treasure! You look back at your companions and see their complicated expressions. March 7th: ...You don't need to explain. I get it. That urge is too great for you to resist. Dan Heng: There's no turning back once you've walked down this path.”

(This is a metaphor for me playing this game)

---------

“An overwhelmingly fishy smell emanates from the trash can as you remove the lid. Instead of fish, you find only a fish-related flyer. Is this how synesthesia works?”

---------

“The inside of this trash can is good as new. You've never seen a trash can this clean before... In fact, you've never seen anything this clean before. This trash can is like the universe's very incarnation of purity... Maybe we're going too far. -> Stroke the trash can. You stretch your hand out and gently stroke the trash can. A soft, tender, smooth, unconstrained, and tactile sensation travels up your fingertips... You feel a great sense of satisfaction — like that of some fairy tale princess who's just woken up from a night's sleep on nine mattresses stacked on top of each other. All concern, exhaustion, and sense of duty fly away... There's no doubt about it, this is the world's most beautiful trash can. -> Investigate carefully. You take a good look at it. The inside of this trash can is dust-free and perfectly dark. It's the kind of pure darkness that surrounds IX in a nebula of dark matter. It focuses your attention, and your eyes become fixed on it... You see yourself. You see March 7th and Dan Heng. You see the fate of the Astral Express and the end of the future... You force yourself to stop staring and everything disappears. It feels like a fantasy dream. -> Close the lid. Only you know how much courage it takes to avert your gaze from the world's most beautiful trash can. March 7th: What's up? What's in there? What's with your expression? "Nothing," you decide to tell her.”

---------

“The trash can glared coldly at the other trash can gasping for air at its feet. "I told you, Melnyk," it said. "I told you that you will one day collapse beside me. When that time comes, I will laugh to your dying face. Such is the wind of change." A goo of darkness dripped out of the dying trash can's form and continued to snake its way forward. It looked up at the cold eyes of the other trash can. Fifteen years had passed since it had last seen that gaze, when the standing trash can was still tiny. "It's me..." the dying trash can bade, "I was the one... who raised you..." A wave of sharp pain enveloped it. At that moment, it realized that a certain trash bag had burst. The shooting pain coaxed a whimper out of the dying trash can while the other one snickered satisfactorily. It crouched down and whispered a name in the ear of the dying trash can. "You—" The trash can's eyes was wide open. "But— No, you can't be..." Its final words curdled inside its mouth like the teardrop hanging from the corner of its eye.“

---------

(This one isn’t a trash can, but a closet in your hotel room you can enter.)

“->Go inside the closet. Without a doubt, what's in front of you is a closet. It is — based on all the signals coming in from your sensory organs — a perfect closet. Design, capacity, tactility, build quality, and scent... No matter how you look at it, you can't possibly think of a better closet. Wait a minute, scent? How is scent a measurement of how good a closet is? Doesn't matter. It smells good. And it's not an odor of typical sandalwood or any other natural materials... Rather, it is a miraculously cleansing scent that is completely artificial, a marvel of chemical engineering. It is so alluring that all you want is to get into the closet and let your whole body soak in its scent. -> Whatever, I'm going in. Here I come, closet! Yes... you are about to go in! Left foot... Right foot... Turn around... Take a deep breath... Darn it, why a deep breath? You wanna sneeze, but manage to suppress it... Stand firm... And then... ...close the door in one smooth move. Bang! Congratulations! You've now been merged with the universe's most perfect closet as one single entity."

[theblackphoenixwritings]

-Endless Love-

Chapter V

AU - 80's disco inferno

If time had been different with us… How would I be today beside you? And you? Would you be here beside me? If you had been you, but without the veil of immortality, and if I had been me, the intricate human with the wounded heart, what would have become of us?

That starless night, from the filthy alleys , with rain flayed streets, filled with puddles and smelly dumpsters, rusty fire escapes, and walls painted with garish round words, marked the entrance into my life of his cobalt blue eyes and his rich, harmonious laugh. Strange, how things change, but do they not always remain the same? Ah yes cheap philosophy, sorry if you expected something different! I am not so open to admit, how much the greats of the past, have left inviolable and tremendously true truths, about us and what we are. And yes reading them, used to make me bitter and feel like an inconclusive, now, they scare me… In my defense I have always been sarcastic, prickly and indelicate even. He blunted me. Oh no he didn't change me, no, but he made me better. And it is not the tales of unicorns or princesses of immortal loves or towers and princes. It is simply the story of two men, two men who understood, at the end of their wandering, the word love. My wandering heart and his lonely heart, and everything we never said to each other, not because we didn't want to but because we didn't need to.

And nothing was ever the same again. That night when I walked into that nightclub through a metal door in one of those alleys, letting myself be invested by the lights and the loud music, the bodies and their movements and their smells, I had no idea that he would be there and even less that I would meet him. Surely that was no place for him! Needless to say, his quiet figure sitting elegantly at a small iron table stood out alarmingly. And how his polite but cold smiles repelled any attempt at approach was even more endearing. Thrown into the middle of that throng, on the dance floor, I counted at least fifteen people trying to sit with him. Was he waiting for someone? Why was such a fine man in such a place? Certainly not for fun, it was clear from the bewilderment in his eyes that he was not used to that kind of place. The colors of the changing lights about them and the movements of the bodies abandoned to the music finally brought our eyes together. The truth was that I had not been able to take my eyes off him.

He finally noticed it. I might as well be the sixteenth, I said, and I went to him. Strangely, his eyes never left me, and before I knew it, I was sitting in front of him. "So little red riding hood, what are you doing in the woods?" I asked, noting the crimson red of his jacket. "Who says I’m the red riding hood? The best quality of the wolf is knowing how to disguise as a lamb." and his eyes glowed beautifully, I don’t know yet if because of the lights or my throat that had suddenly become dry. "I’m sorry to point out that you’re too flashy…" I said defiantly.

"I could say the same about you." he whispered. And I felt it, despite the mass, the music, the total mess, I felt it, as if nothing else existed. And that’s how my little, dead world got hit by that wonderful, warm figure that is Marius. That’s how the hours went by and we were immersed in each other, until I noticed the lights changing. "You know, you should at least give me a dance…" and I said it with shyness. "I’m not suited for this kind of movement…" he said, staring at a girl wriggling against a boy. I laught… "Please?" He stared at me laughing and then nodded his head. I took him by the hand and took him with me to the middle of the track. It was then that the lights changed and the atmosphere became intimate and tender. "I didn’t tell you that from a certain time onwards, they sound slow, for couples…" In all response he held me to himself, he held me as if I were the most precious, delicate and desired thing in the world. And from that moment on, he’s been holding me like this. And he keep holding me like this every day of our life.