#red beach cobble

[flowermist7432]

I had a dream I was sitting in the livingroom where Hero 108 had a live action movie (like one of those older live action ones obviously). and I remember distinctly that Apetruly was a mix between CGI + practical affects- and that Lin Chung was there fighting him due to being controlled by the Twin Masters.

Another distinct thing I remember was saying "He plays a good Lin Chung but I think he looks a lil' too young. Got a bit of a baby face going on y'know? maybe if they got someone a lil older."

[glittergroovy]

Brooklyn Neighborhoods 2/2

Brooklyn Neighborhoods: 1/2

template: blinkies.cafe

[humanpurposes]

August

Part 1: Possibilities and Peace Offerings

Your family has been invited to spend August at Dragonstone, where things get a little tense after an unfortunate first encounter with Aemond Targaryen, one he's determined to put right.

Aemond Targaryen x Reader // Modern AU

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist // Read on AO3

Warnings: 18+, nothing too bad here, eventual smut, slight enemies to lovers, mutual pining

Words: 7k

A/n: Summer romance is here!! hope you likeeee. This is going to be three parts in total.

The impending summer exists beyond time, beyond the rest of the world. Exams are over and you’ve already received a mark for your dissertation. The dorm room you called home for three years is packed up and returned to its prison-like appearance, just as it was when you were an eager and excitable fresher. Suddenly the world is an endless sea of possibilities and you’re standing on the water’s edge with nothing to lose.

You spend a few weeks with your friends, drinking in pub gardens and driving down to the rammed beaches along the coast near King’s Landing, but this summer of possibility takes an unexpected turn when your father receives an invitation to spend the month of August at Dragonstone, as a guest of Viserys Targaryen. Viserys and your father have been business partners for just under a decade, but to be welcomed into his inner circle, to the ancestral home of the Targaryen family, is another honour altogether. 

Your parents are beside themselves with excitement. You’re a little more sceptical but you won’t let them know it. So once your uni friends have gone back to their hometowns, you pack an array of swimsuits and summer dresses into a suitcase, and bundle into the backseat of your father’s car. 

The aircon is on full blast. You sip on the last of your water as an 80s playlist blares through your headphones to block out the conversation of investments, clients, lawsuits and legal fees from the front seats.

Dragonstone is three things; an island, a town, and a castle. You drive out of the city, red and grey buildings blurring into greenery and vast spaces of blue, the sky and the sea. A ferry takes you from the mainland to the island’s port. The song you were listening to fades away as you slip your headphones off your ears. The town is utterly charming, from the rows of fishing boats in the harbour to the cobbled streets and obscure little buildings, bookshops, bakeries and butchers. The sun shines brightly, heat pulses through the window even with the blast of cool air.

A few more miles and you reach a gatehouse, ancient stone walls smothered with ivy, guarded by two stone creatures with their jaws wide open— dragons with spikes and sharp teeth. The driveway is lined with thick trees and foliage. Suddenly you turn a corner and there it is, towers and turrets reaching up into the summer sky, hundreds of windows, more carvings of dragons looming proudly over where Blackwater Bay becomes the Narrow Sea. 

The man who greets you by the doors is not a Targaryen. He has dark hair, dark eyes, a crisp white shirt and a radio on his belt. Your father seems to know him already. He greets him as “Cole,” and introduces him to you and your mother.

Cole offers his hand to you. “Criston,” he insists, “I’m the head of Mr Targaryen’s security.”

Two identical butlers take your bags from the car while Criston shows you into the entrance hall. He comments on the antiques and the 14th century timbers, leading you through to the room he calls “the waiting chamber”. It has high ceilings, wood panelled walls, an enormous fireplace and aged but comfortable looking leather sofas at the edges of the room. You note the portraits on the walls, the more recent photographs on the mantle, but before you can get a proper look, someone announces their own arrival into the room.

Viserys Targaryen has his arms open, dressed far more casually than you’ve seen him at various galas and events, he even has a pair of aviators keeping his silver hair out of his face. He greets your father with a smile and a firm handshake, his eyes sharp but somewhat hollow. 

“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” he says, moving onto your mother and then to you. “We’re having drinks on the patio, enjoying the sun. Why don’t you join us?” He chuckles and you don’t really understand why. You’re not sure how any of this works.

Viserys leads you through the house, stopping by the great hall and the library, pointing out details like Criston did. His home is devoted to family and every furnishing carries some sentimental value. The curtains and the sofas in the library are Arryn blue for his first wife, the shelves are laden with books that belonged to his grandfather. There are items here which have belonged to the Targaryens for generations and their house’s sigil is carved into the walls and wooden beams. 

At last you come to a hall with tall windows, glass chandeliers and marble floors. Viserys calls this “the west gallery”, a more modern addition to the castle, built in the 17th century. He opens a double glass door and you can already see the sprawling green gardens, the unnatural blue of a swimming pool somewhere in the distance. Before all that is the raised patio, an array of chairs and the people sitting in them.

You step into the heat of the garden, into cigarette smoke and the sounds of laughter, loud and seemingly rehearsed. Your father knows most of these people, other associates of Targ Corp, Corlys Velaryon and his wife Rhaenys Tagraryen, Jason Lannister and his wife Joanna, Lyonel Strong and his son Larys. Even Otto Hightower is lounging back in his chair, sunglasses over his eyes, a pale pink cocktail in a crystal glass. 

Your parents smile graciously, your mother clutching her handbag over her shoulder, your father wiping the sweat from his brow, trying to air out the damp patches in his shirt. They’ll want to make a good impression. Each person staying at Dragonstone this summer is another opportunity for your father.

You glance down at your denim shorts and your sandals— an outfit for comfort, not for networking.

Viserys directs the three of you to a cushioned wooden bench and you squeeze in beside your mother. Another butler appears and offers you all a drink. Your parents both ask for a gin and tonic. You’re thinking that you’d like to dunk yourself in the pool, so you ask for a large glass of water. 

“With ice and lemon, miss?”

“Yeah, please, if you have it?”

Your mother nudges you with her elbow and whispers in your ear. “This is Dragonstone, if you want it they probably have it.”

“If I asked for the Prince of Pentos’ phone number, do you think they’d bring it out on a silver tray?” You return with a grin.

The minutes drag by. Lyonel Strong asks your father about his law practice. Corlys Velaryon and Jason Lannister enter a heated discussion about yachts. Otto Hightower mentions the name “Daemon” and the other voices go quiet. You take large gulps of your water, occasionally sharing silent looks with your mother.

The heat is sweltering. You feel your head pulsing, your skin becoming damp and you worry you may end up as a puddle on the patio if you don’t find a reason to escape soon.

The glass doors open and two women enter the garden, one with auburn hair, dressed in a floral dress and high heels. The other, younger, blonde hair cut into a fashionably short fringe, barefoot, dressed in denim shorts and baggy t-shirt, goes straight to Otto. She doesn’t look at anyone else. She stands behind Otto and leans down to wrap her arms around his neck. This must be Alicent Hightower and her daughter.

Alicent makes her rounds elegantly. She’s familiar with all the people present, except for the three of you, the outsiders, piled onto a single piece of garden furniture. Her eyes are wide and brown, her lips full and fallen slightly even when she smiles. She asks about the journey from King’s Landing, if you’ve had a chance to explore the town.

She asks you a lot of questions too, what you do, where you studied, what your plans are for the Autumn. And once she’s found out what she wants from you, she starts telling you everything about her children, unprompted.

“Helaena’s starting a PhD in a few weeks, staying in King’s Landing– King’s college, of course, not KLU, seven heavens. We didn’t want her to be too far away from home,” she says, looking back at her daughter and her father. “Etymology. Well, she’s always had a thing for insects, I could never understand it, but it’s easier to let her follow her interests, she’s that sort of girl.

“Now Aegon is like that too, he likes a lot of things, would be nice if he could be interested in something that makes him money. Oh well, he’s into the arts, fancies himself a photographer, directed a few plays at university– Oldtown. He wrote a screenplay, you must remind me to show you, it’s really quite clever. It’s about injustice or something like that.

“Daeron is at Oldtown too, at Citadel Boys. He’s the only child I sent to board, I just felt he might be happy with a bit of space from all of us. He wants to go to Oldtown like his brothers. His father wants him to do economics, but he’s very good at history.

“Aemond did history, but then he trained in accountancy. He’s worked all over, Oldtown, Storm’s End, Harrenhal, but he’s looking to stay in King’s Landing now–”

“Mum, you’ll bore her to tears,” Helaena says and it’s only now you notice that she’s moved to stand in front of you. 

Alicent frowns.

You stifle a smile and raise your brows hopefully.

“Do you know where you’re sleeping yet?” Helaena asks, looking at her mother.

“I’ve put her in the moat room,” Alicent says. She turns back to you, “I’m sorry, darling, you’re probably tired, aren’t you? Helaena can show you your room.”

You kiss your mother's cheek and agree to reconvene for dinner in the evening.

“Sorry about mum, she just jumps at the chance to talk about her kids,” Helaena says as you walk back through the west gallery.

“It’s sort of cute,” you say, staring up at the gold detailing on the ceiling. “Very informative.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” she says with a wicked smile.

When Helaena laughs she scrunches up her eyes and her nose. She sways her arms by her sides as she walks and trails her fingertips on the walls. Unlike Criston or Viserys, she doesn’t have little anecdotes about any of the vases or paintings on display. She’s a juxtaposition of her family’s ancestral home, airy and lighthearted, earthy and inexplicably real.

“Your parents are probably in the west wing,” she explains as you come to a winding stairwell. “That’s where everyone else will be too. The moat room is on the other side of the house.”

You nod along, stealing glances out the windows, at the gardens, and from higher up, you can see the sea.

“Don’t be too disheartened though,” Helaena says, “that means you’re with us.”

She shows you your room first. It sits at the very corner of the castle with windows to the north and the east. The moat in question isn’t a moat, it’s more of a well kept ditch. By the rest of the house you were half expecting the room to be medieval, but to your surprise it’s bright, carpeted, sans priceless antiques and heirlooms. A queen-sized bed waits for you piled with pillows. 

“I’m down the hall, and the boys are in the next corridor,” Helaena explains. “If you smell something suspicious, it’s Aegon.”

She helps you unpack your suitcase, admiring your swimsuits and looking through the small collection of books you’ve brought to pass the time.

She shows you her room which is further down the corridor. It’s much larger than yours, far more personal. She has worn patterned rugs over the wooden floors, dark blue wallpaper and accents of gold everywhere, the mirror over her vanity, the handles on the drawers and the wardrobe. You’re most intrigued by the framed taxidermies on the walls, butterflies with the most beautiful wings you’ve ever seen, moths, beetles, even a scorpion.

You’re a little relieved when you see a cat curled up on her bed, with a thick white coat, brown ears. 

“Dreamfyre,” Helaena says, scooping the cat up in her arms. “She’s named after the Valryian god of prophecy and wisdom.”

You hold your hand out for Dreamfyre to sniff. She considers you for a moment, and runs her head against your fingers. “So can she tell me my future?” you ask.

Helaena stares at you. “Don’t be ridiculous, she’s a cat. Why, hoping for something in particular?”

“I like to see where life takes me,” you say.

After exchanging phone numbers and scrolling through each other’s Spotify playlists, Helaena tells you that she thinks the two of you are going to be friends.

Dinner is surprisingly more pleasant, where you all eat around a table on the patio. Being outside is far more bearable once the sun starts to set and a breeze sweeps in from the sea. You’re served white fish, potato salad coated in herbs which Alicent says she grows herself, summer vegetables, grilled courgettes, red and yellow peppers, sweet and tangy tomatoes, washed down with white wine.

You sit beside Helaena, opposite two of her brothers, Aegon and Daeron. Daeron is far taller than his older brother but his face is clearly younger. His pale blond hair is slightly overgrown, his nose a little pink and his skin freckled from being in the sun. “Aemond managed to beat me at tennis today,” he says.

Aegon rolls his eyes, far more concerned with scratching the ears of a golden labrador perched on the floor beside him.

You look to Helaena for an explanation.

“Daeron’s looking to go pro. Aemond can’t stand that he’s not the best at something.”

There’s an empty space at the head of the table, between Aegon and Helaena. You’ve yet to see any other evidence that the elusive middle brother exists.

“There’s a tennis court here?” You ask.

“Towards the water garden, you should be able to see it from the moat room.” Helaena says. “You should have a look.”

Dessert is pistachio ice-cream, then everyone starts to disperse. Aegon grabs a bottle of wine and he and Daeron traipse over to a firepit at the edge of the patio, followed by the labrador. Your parents follow Viserys and the others into the house. Corlys and Rhaenys linger at the table, staring up at the sky and taking long drags from their cigarettes.

You trail Helaena to a neatly kept kitchen. Some of the staff pass through, into a far larger back room with metal surfaces, where the real cooking is done. Criston sits at the kitchen island on a stool, eating a pasta salad from a glass bowl. Helaena pats his head as she passes him. He doesn’t seem surprised by it, perhaps it’s a common occurrence.

“Feel free to grab anything you want, by the way. There’s all sorts of snacks and stuff, and if you want more of something give Criston a shout,” Helaena says, picking out bags of chocolate buttons and sour sweets from a cupboard.

“That’s kind,” you say, twisting your fingers over each other in front of you. “I’m quite tired, I think I might just have a shower and go to bed.”

“Darling, it’s summer, you can do whatever you want,” Helaena says. “See you at breakfast, yeah?” She pulls you into a quick hug and disappears out into the garden.

Not wanting to linger when Criston’s phone starts to ring, you decide to brave it and find your way back to your bedroom. Aegon and Daeron seem like fun, maybe too much fun for tonight, you just need to sleep off the fatigue from the sun.

This place is far too big for you to feel settled just yet. It amazes you how everyone can navigate the castle so easily, it’s like a maze. Eventually you find your way back to the entrance hall. You think you might know the way to the east wing from here, but when you see the sky beyond the windows, lilac and orange, dotted with grey clouds and the first few stars of the evening, you want to make the most of the dying light. Maybe you could head towards the water garden and find the tennis court.

Your sandals crunch against the gravel which stretches out into paths leading in three directions. The central one leads to the driveway and the gatehouse. To the left is the gardens past the edge of the moat, and to the right is an outlook and a downhill path which disappears from sight, which you assume leads down to the sea. You can hear the waves in the distance.

The sunlight is fading fast. You cross your arms over yourself, shivering and regretting the lack of a cardigan. You tell yourself you might warm up with a bit of a walk.

You take a few paces down the path towards the gardens– a dog’s bark has your heart leaping out of your chest. It’s deep and loud, coming from behind you. Your head darts around. An enormous dog has emerged from the downhill path and is bounding towards you, covering ground quickly.

You keep your feet planted on the ground, out of fear

The dog, a great dane, stops before you— it truly is huge, its head would come up to your torso if you were close enough, and you don’t really want to find out– barking viciously. Its teeth flash, flecks of saliva dripping from its mouth.

“Back off! Come, Vhagar!”

You look back along the path. A man in a black t-shirt and black shorts is walking quickly towards you and the dog. He grabs it by its collar and yanks it back, fastening it on a leash.

His eyes dart up— eye, you realise. The right side is a bright blue, the left is clouded, framed by a scar slicing down from his brow to his cheek.

“Who are you?” He asks like an accusation.

You hesitate, your heart still racing in panic.

You say your first name, then your family name, at that the man tuts and raises himself to full height, keeping the great dane on a short leash. “Right. What are you doing out here?”

“Just… looking around.”

“Just looking around someone else’s house?”

Gods now you’re really starting to panic. He’s glaring at you as if it’s your fault his dog just made a break for you.

He huffs irritably through his nose. “Look, Vhagar’s not always friendly and especially not around strangers. Be careful, yeah?” 

Vhagar now seems content enough sitting by her owner’s side, wagging her tail and panting with her tongue out. Her grey coat is covered in sand, especially her paws and her nose.

“If your dog’s not always friendly why wasn’t she on a leash?” 

His face hardens. Frowning suits his sharp features and the intensity of his eye. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this is my fucking house.”

That explains the blond hair, and you suppose now he has the same lanky look as Daeron and the same gauntness in his face as Aegon.

“Right, your dog could have just mauled me but thanks for the friendly reminder.” You turn towards the house and mutter loud enough for him to overhear, “prick.”

You can’t shake the frustration. Nothing takes the edge off, not the hot stream of water from the shower, the routine of your skincare or the feeling of sinking into an impossibly soft mattress. Dragonstone is perfect… and all you want to do is scream, just a little.

Breakfast is served in the morning room, next to the kitchen, according to the text you got from Helaena. You put a swimsuit on, a patterned one piece and pull on some shorts. Before you head downstairs you grab a pair of sunglasses, a bottle of suncream and a book, determined that your morning will be peaceful and idyllic.

People flitter into the morning room as they please. Helaena is still in her pyjamas, tucking into a bowl of yoghurt and fruit. Daeron comes in and starts eating toast off Alicent’s plate, having already run a casual 5k about the grounds.

The man from last night is hovering by a side table, placing sausages and bacon onto a small plate. He glances sideways at you as you enter. 

You keep your teeth pressed together as you reach for a plate and go for the platter of pastries, reaching for an almond croissant.

His elbow must be a few inches from yours. “Morning,” he mutters.

You were half expecting him to act like you don’t exist. “Morning,” you mumble back.

“Have you two already met?” Helaena asks loudly from the table.

“Briefly,” he says.

“And you didn’t actually tell me your name,” you say, adding some strawberries to your plate for good measure.

“The boy has no manners,” Daeron says in a mocking voice, earning him an exasperated chide from his mother. Helaena giggles to herself.

He faces you fully. “Aemond,” he says.

“Good for you,” you say, and go to take a seat beside Helaena.

“Tea or coffee?” she asks you, reaching towards the two silver pots in the middle of the table.

“Coffee, please.”

Helaena makes a shocked expression. “Blasphemy. I’m a tea girl.” 

As Helaena pours some coffee into a china cup, Aemond takes the free seat opposite you. Your heart races a little, infuriated at the sight of him, somewhat guilty that your time at Dragonstone has already soured and his entire family is there to see it.

You add just a dash of milk to your coffee. In the corner of your eye you see him watching you, fork hovering in front of his face. You muster the confidence to look up and he averts his eye.

After you’ve finished your breakfast you head out to the patio, down the stone steps and to the pool, settling on one of the lounge chairs. Helaena has gone back up to her room to change and bring you both down a towel.

You lather suncream on your limbs, face and neck, and open your book. This is a nice kind of heat, one that you’re more prepared for. You can almost feel it permeating your skin, breathing new life into your blood. 

You get a few moments of bliss until a silhouette appears beside you.

You raise your eyes from the page, over the edges of your sunglasses, staring ahead at the surface of the pool. You can smell a man’s aftershave, and you can tell he’s too tall to be Aegon.

Ice clinks against glass. He leans down to place something on the small table beside you. “Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

You don’t want to turn your head, that might be misinterpreted as you actually caring.

But then Aemond’s voice takes on a lighter tone and he says, “Are you reading Crime and Punishment?” 

You scrunch your brows in bewilderment as you look up at him.

His eye moves between your face and the book in your lap

“Yeah,” you say, shifting your legs and drawing your knees closer to your torso, “I’m finding it a bit boring to be honest.”

His lips are parted ever so slightly and you can see the tips of his teeth. “It’s one of my favourite books.”

“I think that might explain a lot,” you say.

The corner of his mouth flickers like he might smile. He holds it back. 

“What’s this?” You ask, looking down at the glass of iced coffee he’s placed on the table. 

“A peace offering,” Aemond says. “I really am sorry about yesterday evening. I just… panicked. Vhagar isn’t always good around people she doesn’t trust. She bit my nephew once actually.”

“Oh, not good.”

“It was years ago, and to be fair to her—” he doesn’t finish that sentence. He presses his lips together. “I just thought I should apologise to you.”

Even when apologising he sounds smug.

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” you say.

He hums, it’s cryptic and it throws you off a little. He looks at you like he has a secret, like he’s managed to spot something that you haven’t. 

You feel aware of yourself and now you can’t breathe without doing it consciously. You feel beads of sweat forming at the back of your neck, the warmth of your own skin with your thighs pressed together, the pulse in your chest, the restless feeling in your stomach. You’re worried you might do something stupid, but how could you? You’re only sitting in a swimsuit and sunglasses, while Aemond is doing nothing to hide the fact that he’s looking at you– studying you with a hint of excitement in his eye.

And after about a minute of this he says, “enjoy your morning,” turning and strolling towards the patio. 

You clench your jaw, determined that you won’t look back at him, but you listen to his footsteps as they move away. 

With each line you read, you can only think of Aemond pouring over every word and making this book his bible. You imagine his hands holding the cover, his fingertip dragging over the page, his lips parted in concentration. It feels intrusive, it feels too involved. You couldn’t possibly put this book down now.

Aemond is an understated presence amongst his own family. He often lurks in the library or in a corner of the sitting room with a book. He wanders the gardens with his headphones on. He takes Vhagar down to the beach every evening and some nights you steal glances of them from a window at the front of the house. He gets these headaches, something to do with the scar over his eye, and when he does he likes to retreat to his room. When he is around for dinner he sits at the head of the table, opposite his father but miles away from him. He’s not a big talker but when he does have something to add to the conversation he commandeers it. Everyone stops to listen when he speaks.

You like watching him, the way he fiddles with anything within his reach, how he strokes his fingertips over his hands, the edge of his jaw. You look for his microexpressions, the twitches of his brow and the quirk of his lips when he finds something amusing, and how at the mentions of sensitive subjects or certain names, his eye widens. 

He smirks when he sees you looking, you don’t mind that he knows that you are.

You don’t want to seek him out, but you don’t try to avoid him either. He’s always somewhere in your periphery, his hand brushing against yours at the dinner table, the smell of his Marlboros wafting from the patio when you’re sitting by the pool which makes you wonder if he’s watching you. In the evenings after dinner, you and the Targaryen siblings hang around the firepit late into the night. Helaena and Daeron talk about constellations and roast marshmallows, Aegon plucks on a guitar, and you and Aemond fall into a game of pretending like you’re not looking at each other. 

Some nights you sit across from him, your view distorted by the heat and the flames. Other nights he dares to sit beside you, close enough that his leg will rest against yours. He keeps his voice soft until you’re leaning in closer to catch every word he says, this insufferable man who bings you a coffee every morning and asks you about the books you read.

One night Aemond is sat beside you. Helaena sings along to Aegon’s guitar, Daeron drums his fingers against his legs, gazing in wonder at his siblings because moments like this are a rarity for him.

“Do you forgive me yet?” Aemond asks, his arm draped along the back of the bench you sit on. Maybe he can read your mind because you’ve been silently begging for him to come closer… closer…

Your senses are hazy, the smoke of the fire, the scent of cigarettes and aftershave lingering on Aemond’s shirt, the glasses of wine you had with dinner, the clear, cold night air piercing the backs of your arms. He notices you shivering and slips his arm around your shoulders, slowly, so you have a chance to tell him to stop. His heat is white hot. Your chest feels hollow and weightless.

Everything about him is hypnotising, the curve of his mouth, his self-assuredness, the look in his eye that’s gentle and intense all at once.

Your body feels heavy; you should probably go to bed soon. “Do you care if I forgive you?”

He frowns, less disappointed, more intrigued and lifts his hand to brush your hair from your neck, fingertips grazing over your skin. Your body stiffens in his wake, like electricity coursing through your shoulders, down your spine.

“I’d hate to have it hanging over my head,” he mutters.

You turn your head and now your faces are inches apart. His nose twitches as he breathes, you notice.

His palm comes to rest on your bare thigh, below the hem of your shorts. In the corner of your eye you see heads of silver hair glancing across the firepit. Aegon chuckles. You’re content to let the distractions fade away. “Keep bringing me coffees and I’ll consider it.”

The next day you’re laying on your bed, enjoying the cool of the early evening against your damp skin and hair after a shower. How you can be so exhausted after a day of reading by the pool makes you despair a little. It’s the heat, it messes with your brain.

The music through your headphones is interrupted by a notification.

Helaena Targaryen: Aemond said he’s off to walk the dogs if you want to join him.

You frown at the screen. Did he want Helaena to ask you? You specifically?

Surprisingly, you were getting on rather well with Aemond today, not enough for him to text you himself, or ask for your number for that matter. At the very least, things have been less hostile since your first encounter. You saw him at breakfast and he asked you how you were getting on with Crime and Punishment, if you had finally realised that it’s the best piece of literature put to the world (his words). You said you were not convinced, only because it was fun to argue about it with him. While you were sitting by the pool he came down in a pair of black trunks and no shirt, swam twenty laps in twenty minutes, then dried off in the lounge chair next to yours. Later, while Helaena was sitting with you, he appeared from the kitchen with two bowls of strawberries with the stems cut off. And then at lunch he sat between Aegon and Daeron, and hardly looked at you.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, painfully conscious that Helaena will be able to see that you’re typing.

Helaena Targaryen: I think it’s part of him ‘making amends’ with you.

Helaena Targaryen: He probably still feels bad about it.

Helaena Targaryen: Loser.

You smile to yourself and type out your reply: Yeah, why not. Where does he want me?

While Helaena starts to type you quickly pull on some shorts and a clean t-shirt. Your phone dings while you’re in front of the mirror, dabbing concealer under your eyes.

Helaena Targaryen: Front door. Five mins. Have fun :) 

It will probably take you five minutes to find your way down to the entrance hall anyway. You finish your face off with some blush on the apples of your cheeks and a thin amount of mascara on your lashes. There’s not much you can do about your wet hair, but other than that you’re mostly satisfied with yourself, so you pull on a pair of trainers, slip your phone into your back pocket and hurry through the corridors of Dragonstone.

He’s waiting for you in the entrance hall by the door, Vhagar, the great dane on one leash, Sunfyre, the golden labrador on another. He gives you a half smile as you approach them.

“Who am I walking?” you say.

“My girl stays with me,” he says, offering you Sunfyre’s leash, which you take, ruffling his ears.

“Vhagar is your girl then, is she?” you ask as Aemond leads you out the door and down the front steps, past the spot where she scared you half to death. The dogs are eager to storm ahead but Aemond keeps Vhagar on a tight lead, so you do the same.

“I suppose. We’ve had great danes forever, my father’s very fond of them. We got Vhagar when I was sixteen and well, we just like each other a lot I guess.” 

“What about Sunfyre?”

“He’s Aegon’s really, but mostly he stays at the Keep with mum and dad. Aegon doesn’t really stay in the same place long enough.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“Yeah well, he does what he wants. This way,” Aemond says, nodding towards the downhill path to the beach. You’ve been down here with Helaena already, a winding gravel path lined with bushes and brambles down the cliff face. Vhagar plods along leisurely, Sunfyre can’t get down fast enough. When you stumble, Aemond steadies you, a large hand wrapped around your forearm. “He can run off now anyway,” he mutters, undoing the leash, and Sunfyre darts along the path in a golden flash.

Low in the sky, you see the sun dancing along the surface of the sea, waves rolling orange and blue into white foam as they meet the shore.

“What about you?”

Aemond looks at you with a brief look of bewilderment.

“Are you not doing what you want?”

He tries to conceal a frown, pouting his lips slightly. “Maybe I did for a bit, wound up working for Targ Corp, so I don’t see what difference any of it made.”

Once you reach the sand and Sunfyre is sniffing at some rocks along the base of the cliff, Aemond looks at you. “Are you alright if I take her off the leash?”

Vhagar looks pleadingly up at her owner, her tail thrumming against the ground.

“Yeah, of course,” you say.

“I just didn't know if you’d be comfortable after…”

“Oh,” you say, “thanks for considering it, but yes, it’s more than fine.”

Aemond grins as he undoes the clasp connecting the lead to Vhagar’s collar.

“What?” you ask.

“Does that mean you forgive me now?”

You fold your arms, your cheeks straining as you try to withhold the extent of your smile. “You do make a good coffee, I’ll give you that.”

Sunfyre and Vhagar entertain themselves, chasing each other, running to the edge of the water where the waves rush over the sand and retreat again. You and Aemond walk along the shore where the sand is damp and stable. Aemond says the tide will be coming in within the hour.

“So why work for Targ Corp if you don’t want to?” you ask him. 

Aemond contemplates this for a moment, making a low humming noise in his throat. “If I really didn’t want to, I wouldn't.”

“But if Aegon gets to do what he wants, why don’t you?”

He looks down at his shoes, white sneakers, and digs his hands into the pocket of his joggers. “I remember thinking when I finished my bachelor’s, there were lots of things I was good at.”

You make a teasing face.

“No, I just mean there’s lots of things I could have done. I thought about being a curator, or something, you know? I did my dissertation on that actually, how museums and exhibitions can distort the past as well as preserve it–” he interrupts himself with a short tut. “Sorry, I don’t need to bore you.”

Your eyes trail along the curve of his jaw and his chin in the fading light. The wind is gentle, whispering over the bare skin of your cheeks, your arms, your legs. The smell of sea salt lingers in your nose and on your tongue. “I’m not bored,” you say.

With a shy sort of smile he tells you more, how he used to spend hours in the museums in Oldtown, looking at exhibits on Dorne, Essos and Valyria, the papers he read, the cultural memory and the dissonance. “History and heritage, when you think about them, are inherently vague concepts,” he says, “because they’re all based on claims and narratives that are difficult to determine and if they are clear cut, they’re biased. So how do we find the truth? How do we know that what we’re claiming is the right story is actually accurate?” You find yourself watching the parts of him you usually do. He speaks with his hands, indicating and gesturing and moving them randomly when he’s trying to think of a word or explain himself. Occasionally he runs his fingers through his hair or rubs his chin. And his single eye is wide, looking up as he pieces together a thought, looking back to you so he knows you’re still listening. 

“But after all that, you went and trained to be an accountant?” you ask.

“You should have seen the look on my father’s face when I told him I wanted to do a masters in museum studies. So yeah, accounting it was.”

It makes you sad, but you don’t want to tell him that. The entire time you’ve been here you’ve never seen Aemond so animated, talking about something he seems to love.

“What about you? What are your big life plans?” he says.

“Anything but accounting.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I bet.”

“I’ll do a masters eventually, but I want to work for a little bit. I’ll start applying for jobs when I’m home.”

“In King’s Landing?”

“Yeah.” You look back up at the dark stone of the cliff, the layers and straight lines, the tops of the castle’s turrets just visible from the shore. “Yeah, yeah I think there’s so much pressure to find something to do. I mean, I was trying to focus on my dissertation and my exams, and I kept having these weird moments where I’d think, what’s the point? I don’t have a job ready to go. I don’t have a place on a masters course. I don’t have any plans to travel or volunteer at an orphanage in Meereen. It was like there was a timer going off in my brain and if I didn’t make something of my life before my exams were over, well it was all going to be a waste.” Now you’re the one moving your hands mindlessly, and you don’t know why but saying it all out loud makes you nervous. “Sometimes I feel like I’m running out of time.”

You look back at Aemond and realise you’ve stopped walking. Somewhere along the beach the dogs bark and splash in the shallowest part of the water. Aemond is watching you. He still has his hands in his pockets, his lips curled into a vague smile. “You have plenty of time, don’t worry,” he says. 

It suddenly strikes you what Alicent had mentioned, about him moving back to King’s Landing.

Without stepping away from him you take a mental note of him, your eyes glancing up and down. You want to remember his silhouette, his posture and how he stands, the way he angles his chin, the way he likes to hold his hands behind his back, the joggers and the shape of his torso though his t-shirt. You think you could recognise him at a brief glance, a single body in a crowded city. You think you’d find him.

Aemond meets your eye and raises his brow. 

You smile slightly to fein innocent interest. “We’ll be neighbours, we might see each other wandering around the city.”

But you realise you’ve made a mistake. His amusement starts to fade from his face, his shoulders stiffening. He turns and puts his middle finger and thumb in his mouth to whistle the dogs. They both freeze and bound back towards you. “Tide will be coming in soon,” he says to you.

He has Vhagar and Sunfyre on their leads again. By the time you come back to the path on the cliff the sky is a dull shade of dark blue. The castle looms in darkness and the light comes from within, golden through all of its windows.

“I’m sorry if I was a bit of a downer,” you say.

“You’re fine,” Aemond says. Your steps sound in perfect time along the gravel, up to the front steps. Vhagar and Sunfyre huff and pant, pulling on their leads and eager for a rest.

You reach the door and Aemond opens it. Down the hall one of the butlers is waiting to take the dogs.

“It’s just, I thought we were getting on.”

“We are,” Aemond mutters. “Do you think we are?”

It’s hard to tell with Aemond. He’s polite when he needs to be, easily irritated around his siblings. He’s so calm and composed, but you can see it in his eye when he’s thinking– you just don’t know what. But then there are moments like this, when you think you’ve scratched the surface, when his gaze lingers on you and his eye is soft but intent. When he brings you a coffee in the morning, when he tells you about his favourite book and the things he wishes he’d done with his life.

You’re standing in the entrance hall. Dragonstone is alive, filled with people and distant sounds. Beyond the ancient walls the wind picks up and the tide is coming in. If you took one step closer to Aemond, your navel would be pressed against his.

“I want us to get on,” you say.

“Me too.”

“And I thought we were getting somewhere.”

“Maybe we are,” he says. “I liked this, you’re a good listener.”

“I don’t get that a lot.”

“Do you not?”

“Well I suppose it helps if the person speaking has something interesting to say.”

“Oh,” he says with a little nod, “I thought you were going to say you just liked me that much.”

“That helps too.”

No taglist, follow @ficsbygee and turn on post notifs for updates <3

[itsgiovanna]

playing for love (chapter 18)

pairing: fem!character x mason mount

summary: injured and lost, mason mount begins his recovery with the help of adeline alderidge, a tough yet brilliant physiotherapist. but, some wounds don't heal easily, and the closer they get, the more mason realizes she might need saving just as much as he does.

notes: hiiii, this one is emotional and long… hope you like it!

word count: 8.6k

warnings: angst, mentions of sickness.

next: chapter 19

tag list: @avalentina @coffeevacation @destinyg237 @obi-wansgirl @vmrsdias

Adeline stirred as soft morning light filtered through the curtains. The room was hushed, the air still heavy with the scent of the sea and yesterday’s sunscreen. Mason's still sleeping, his back rising and falling steadily, one arm draped across her waist like he didn’t want to let her go.

The floor was cool beneath her feet as she tiptoed toward the room. Inside the bathroom, she turned on the light dimly, closing the door behind her. She paused at the sink, bracing her hands on the marble edge. Her reflection stared back — tired eyes, tangled hair, a storm just beneath the surface.

She splashed water on her face, breathing in slowly. Then, she peeled off the oversized t-shirt she’d borrowed from Mason the night before and slipped into a soft knit sweater from her suitcase, one she hadn’t worn since arriving. She tugged on a pair of shorts, running her fingers through her hair before pulling it into a loose braid.

She didn't bother with makeup. This wasn’t about looking put together, it was about feeling something other than the pain in her chest.

The hallway was empty and quiet, the occasional rustle of cleaning carts echoing softly from other floors. She stepped outside, the early Amalfi Coast sun kissing her face, gently. The sky was painted in delicate pastel hues, and the salty breeze wrapped around her like a sigh.

She walked down the narrow cobbled streets where balconies bloomed with pink and red geraniums. Past sleepy storefronts opening for the day, their owners setting out chairs and chalkboard menus. The scent of baked bread and citrus trees carried through the air, mingling with the sound of distant waves.

But, the beauty around her only made the tightness in her chest worse.

Adeline’s thoughts screamed louder with every step. Her past — the one she’d buried under long hours of work, under Lily’s laughter, under Mason’s kisses — had found her again. In Italy, of all places. She didn’t even know how to begin explaining it to him. She’d seen Theo last night. And, not just that. Claire's with him. And, now her past, the tangled mess of it, wasn’t just haunting her — it was following her.

Mason didn’t know. Not about Lily's biological dad. Not about her parents. Not about the cold, high-ceilinged house in London she once called home. Not about the deal she’d refused — the money, the silence, the life they’d tried to force her into.

Not about how she’d been discarded — by her father, by Theo — at the moment she needed them most.

And now, Mason was sleeping beside her, almost, every night, touching her like she was his home and she was lying by omission.

She turned a corner, not paying much attention and found herself in front of a small bakery between an art shop and a stone wall overflowing with ivy. It wasn’t on the hotel’s map, clearly more local, than touristy. The smell of fresh pastries hit her like a warm hug.

Adeline pushed the door open, a bell above chiming softly.

Inside, the light was golden. Wooden tables with faded cushions, a glass counter filled with cornettos, sfogliatelle, cannoli. The elderly woman behind the counter gave her a kind smile and Adeline forced one back.

“Un cappuccino… e uno sfogliatella, per favore.” she murmured with a shy lilt to her Italian.

The woman nodded and disappeared behind the espresso machine.

Adeline sat by the window, gazing at the beach beyond the glass. Locals walked their dogs. Someone unloaded baskets of lemons from a van. And, her heart ached with the weight of all the things she couldn’t say. To Mason. To anyone.

The bell chimed again. But, she didn’t turn.

Then, she heard the footsteps. Recognized the hesitation in them.

“Adeline?”

That voice.

Her jaw clenched. She closed her eyes for a moment, steeling herself, before slowly turning around.

Theo stood just inside the door. Polished. Tall. That same clean-shaven look, though there was a tiredness in his eyes she didn’t recognize.

“I didn’t expect to see you here.” he said softly.

“That seems to be a pattern.” she replied dryly.

“Mind if I sit?”

“I do.”

He sat anyway.

She stared at him. His presence was too known and far too foreign, all at once. “What do you want?”

“I was hoping we’d talk. You didn’t… give me much of a chance last time.”

“Four years ago? Or last night?” Her laugh was short, bitter.

“Both.” He looked down.

The coffee and pastry arrived. Adeline didn’t touch them. Her appetite had long vanished.

Theo folded his hands on the table. “I know I was an ass.”

“More than that, actually.” she said quietly. “You disappeared.”

“You were going through hell.” he said, his voice gentler now. “And, I didn’t know how to handle it. Your parents… your dad scared the hell out of me. I felt like I’d ruined your life.”

“You did, though.” she snapped. “But, I still showed up. I still carried the weight. You didn’t.”

“I know. I live with that.” He nodded.

“Why are you really here, Theo?” She looked out the window, jaw tight.

There's a pause. Then, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope — soft, slightly wrinkled from being carried around.

“She asked me to give you this.”

“Who?” Adeline frowned.

“Your mom, Adeline.”

“No.” The name hit her like a slap.

“She’s been trying to reach you. She said she’s called.”

“I blocked them.”

“Yes. She figured.” He slid the envelope across the table. “We… bumped into each other. A few months ago, by chance. In London. She was alone. She told me everything and... apologized.”

Adeline didn’t touch the letter.

“She said if I ever saw you again, to give it to you. That she understands why you left. She doesn’t blame you.”

Adeline blinked hard, her throat burning.

Theo leaned back. “Claire told me who you were with now. Mason Mount. Guess it wasn’t hard to connect the dots when we got here. I didn’t plan this, Adeline. I swear. But, when I saw you… I knew I had to give you that letter. At least that.”

Adeline finally picked it up. The envelope was hand-addressed. Her mother’s writing. Slanted. Elegant.

She looked back up at him.

“I don’t know what you’re expecting me to do with this.”

“Nothing.” he said. “Just… read it. When you’re ready.” Theo’s fingers drummed lightly on the side of his cup. “H—How's she?” he asked, unsure if it was the right thing to say.

Adeline let out a soft breath, then, after a long moment, met his eyes. “She's happy.” she said quietly. “And, she has your eyes.”

His head jerked up slightly, the words hit harder than he expected.

“What’s her name?” he murmured, stunned.

Adeline hesitated. Her fingers curled around the edge of the letter, but, her voice stayed calm, composed. “Lily.”

Theo repeated it under his breath. “Lily…” Something fragile flickered across his expression, a pang of guilt, maybe even grief. “That’s beautiful.”

She nodded, gaze distant. “She’s everything.”

Theo swallowed. “I’m not asking to be part of her life. I lost the right to that a long time ago. But… I needed to know. Even, if it’s just her name.”

Adeline didn’t answer. She couldn’t. A tightness spread through her chest, one she didn’t dare name.

Then he said, softly. “You know… the way he looks at you — Mason — it’s different.”

She stiffened, her eyes flicking up to him.

“I didn’t even recognize it at first.” he continued. “Not until Claire started spiraling over it. And, then it clicked. That’s why she’s so bitter. It’s not just that he's with someone else — it’s you. Because... he never looked at her like that.”

Adeline felt like something shifted inside her. A tremor. A crack in the walls she’d built, carefully.

She looked back down at the letter in her hands, her voice barely above a whisper. “This isn’t your mess to fix, Theo.”

“I know.” he said simply, standing again. “But, I think you should stop pretending it’s not your mess, either.”

And, with that, he left her there — at a little table by the sea, in a quiet bakery soaked in morning light — heart pounding, unsure what scared her more: the letter in her hand or the man waiting for her in bed, who might just be the first person she was terrified to lose.

(...)

He didn’t remember falling asleep.

The last thing he recalled was lying next to her, wrapped around her body like he could keep her from drifting any further, out of reach. Her back had been pressed to his chest, her breathing slow but uneven — like she's pretending to be calm. And, even though she didn’t say a word, he knew she was awake.

He’d kissed her shoulder. Whispered “I’m here.” Hoping maybe she’d tell him what had been eating her up since dinner. But, she didn’t.

Now, in the early morning stillness, Mason stirred under the sheets. His arm instinctively reached for her, finding only the faint imprint of her body and the cool stretch of untouched mattress. He opened his eyes, slowly. Light pooled through the gauzy curtains in slivers, warming the room in patches of gold.

He rubbed his hands down his face and exhaled, stretching slightly, before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The air still carried her scent — warm, floral, caring — and it made the empty space sting a little more.

He pushed off the bed and padded to the bathroom, nothing looked like she had left for long. But, there isn't a note, text or “I'll be right back, Mase.” He brushed his teeth, threw on a t-shirt and joggers, checking his phone again. Still, nothing.

His stomach felt uneasy — not angry or jealous — just… concerned. This wasn’t like her. Even, when she needed air, she at least gave him a glance, a squeeze of the hand. Something.

His phone buzzed — a message from Declan.

Declan: Come downstairs. We’re all having breakfast. Sophia ordered you coffee already.

Mason grabbed his phone and headed down to the restaurant, his eyes scanning the lobby in case she was just coming back in. But, still, no sign of her.

The hotel’s breakfast terrace overlooked the sea, where everyone was already gathered at a long table under a pergola. Sophia waved when she saw him.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty.” Ben grinned.

Kai lifted his espresso. “Come save me from these two.”

Mason half-smiled, but, his eyes immediately searched for Adeline. Nothing.

“Where’s Adeline?” he asked, voice casual — too casual.

Stella frowned slightly. “She’s not with you?”

“She was when I fell asleep.”

Declan leaned forward. “Maybe she went out for a walk? It’s a beautiful morning.”

“Or, went to the beach.” Sophia added gently.

“Maybe.” Mason replied, distracted. “She didn’t leave a message or anything, though.”

Declan watched him carefully. “She’s probably just thinking. You said she was a little off last night, yeah?”

He nodded.

“I wouldn’t worry too much. You know she doesn’t always say when she needs a minute. But, she always comes back.” Stella completed.

Mason didn’t sit.

“I’m gonna walk around for a bit before breakfast.” he said. “I’ll check the beach, the shops. Maybe... she’s nearby.”

“Want me to come?” Declan offered.

“It’s alright.”

He stepped away from the table, hands deep in his pockets. He took the same path they had taken yesterday — down the winding cobbled streets toward the beach, past the boutique shops she had admired, the gelato stand they shared a laugh at, the cliffside where she had leaned into him, whispering that she hadn’t felt this safe in years.

He checked the beach. Empty towels. Sunbathers beginning to gather. He doubled back toward the cafés. The hotel staff hadn’t seen her. No one had.

He was turning the corner near a row of artisan shops when the known smell of espresso hit him. He looked up — a tiny bakery he hadn’t noticed before, tucked between a stone wall and an art shop. Sunlight spilled through the windows, warming the wooden panels and the glass display of pastries.

Then… he saw her. Seated at a table by the window, talking to someone. It wasn’t anyone from the trip, he's tall, clean-cut and confident.

Mason stood frozen for a second, the picture of them together knocking the breath from his lungs. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, couldn’t read their body language clearly through the fogged glass — but, he knew Adeline and this wasn’t casual. She wasn’t laughing. She wasn’t smiling. But, she also wasn’t rushing out.

He stepped back, unsure of what to do.

A few moments passed before the man stood and left the place. He didn’t notice Mason as he walked past — lost in his own thoughts, a stressed look on his face.

Then, the door opened again.

Adeline stepped out into the sun, the sea breeze catching her hair.

Mason didn’t move. He stood planted on the cobblestone path just outside the café.

“You needed space, right?” he said, voice low. “I gave it.”

Adeline’s lips parted. Her eyes flicked to the side, then back to his.

“Mason, I—”

“No note. No message.” His hands stayed in his pockets. “Not even a heads-up. And I find you here — with some guy — and I’m supposed to what? Just assume everything’s fine?”

Her voice trembled, barely above a whisper. “It’s not what you think.”

“Then what is it?” he asked again, and this time it wasn’t angry — it was exhausted. “Because, you’ve been shutting me out since last night and I’m trying, Adeline. I really am.”

She looked down. The letter in her bag felt like a brick pressing against her ribs.

“I just… needed some air. I didn’t want to drag you into my mess.”

Mason stared at her. “You don’t get to decide that for me. You don’t get to pull me close one minute and disappear the next.”

“I know...” she whispered. “I just… I don’t know how to tell you.”

He exhaled slowly, eyes closing for a beat. The ache in his chest was known — but, heavier this time. He wasn’t jealous. He was hurt. And, more than that… he was scared.

Scared she didn’t trust him enough. Scared she didn’t want to.

“Okay.” he said, voice softer. “Then, maybe… when you do know, you’ll let me in.”

He stepped to the side, allowing her to pass.

But, she didn’t.

She stood there, watching him, rooted in place — guilt clawing up her throat, confusion, fear, and something else. Something deeper.

Because in that moment, she realized what scared her most wasn’t Theo. Wasn’t her past. Wasn’t the letter in her bag.

It was losing him.

(...)

Mason walked back to the hotel with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, head low, jaw clenched. The morning air was warm, but, he barely felt it. The sound of the ocean, the distant sounds of scooters and boats — all of it blurred behind the static in his head.

He couldn’t shake the image of Adeline sitting at that table, eyes wide and caught, as if she hadn’t expected to be seen.

She could’ve said something. Anything.

By the time he climbed the stone steps back to the hotel, his frustration had fully bloomed into something sharp and restless in his chest. He wasn’t the jealous type — he really wasn’t — and, it wasn’t even about who the guy was. It was the fact that she’d left. Alone. Without a word. When they’d just started being something.

He pushed open the restaurant's door. Laughter hit him like a contrast bomb.

The table was buzzing — Declan tossing grapes into Ben’s mouth across the table, Kai teasing Sophia about her fifth cappuccino and Stella, mid-laugh, head tilted back.

Mason tried to pull himself together, tried to make his face relax. He slid into his chair, reaching for a glass of water like nothing had happened.

Although, he wasn’t doing a great job hiding it.

Declan looked up first, catching the stiff set to Mason’s shoulders. “You good, mate?”

Mason just nodded, curt. “Yes.”

Stella paused with her spoon mid-air, brow furrowing. “Did you find her?”

He didn’t look at her. “I did.”

Something in his tone made Declan’s gaze linger. He said nothing else.

A few minutes passed, the table drifting back into casual chatter, though there was a new kind of awareness in the air — like everyone was sensing something had shifted.

And, then, Adeline arrived.

She was quieter than usual. Slower. Her hair was loosely tied back, sunglasses shielding her expression, but, nothing could hide the tight line of her jaw. She hesitated for a beat at the edge of the restaurant, scanning the group, then slid into the empty seat beside Stella.

No kiss to Mason’s cheek. No quiet hand on his leg. Not even a glance.

Stella’s eyes darted between the two of them. She knew her friend well — well enough to see that something had cracked open.

Declan leaned toward Mason and lowered his voice just enough. “Want to talk about it?”

Mason didn’t answer. His jaw ticked. He stabbed at a piece of mango on his plate.

Ben, still oblivious, tossed another grape at Kai, missing completely and earning a loud laugh from Sophia. “We should hit the beach after this. Last one in the water, buys the first round tonight.”

Kai groaned. “Not again, mate. I nearly drowned yesterday.”

Laughter bubbled again, rising across the table.

But, there was a vacuum between Mason and Adeline.

Stella turned to Adeline, gently. “Want to share a pastry?”

“I’m not really hungry.” Adeline smiled faintly.

Mason looked down, pushing food around his plate.

He could still feel her eyes from earlier — when she stepped out of the bakery and saw him standing there. Like she’d been caught in the middle of something she hadn’t wanted him to see.

And, it wasn’t the guy. It was what she wasn’t telling him.

Because, if they were really building something real, like he thought they were, then why did it feel like she was still holding half of herself back?

The silence between them said more than either of them was ready to admit. And, even surrounded by friends, sunlight and laughter, Mason had never felt more distant from her.

(...)

Ben had been relentless, all afternoon, throwing out plans for the night. Apparently, the Amalfi nightlife couldn't be missed — and, neither was a night out with him and Kai, who's got a shortlist of cocktail names and neon-lit bars. The group had eventually caved, and somehow, Mason and Adeline had ended up back in their room, getting ready in silence.

The air was thick — not with anger, but, with everything that hadn’t been said since that morning.

Mason sat on the edge of the bed, tugging on his sneakers, his elbows on his knees, watching her from the corner of his eye. Adeline stood by the window, backlit by soft dusk light, slipping into a black dress that clung to her curves and revealed just enough to make his chest tighten. Her heels clicked softly against the floor as she walked to the mirror. She looked breathtaking. And, too far away.

He used to cross a room to touch her. Used to press his lips to her bare shoulder, just because he could. But, now — now, he didn’t know if he had the right.

He didn’t want to fight. Didn’t want to push. Also, he couldn’t pretend like nothing had happened. He swallowed hard, dragging a hand through his hair and grabbing his jacket. He’d been quiet since they got back to the room. She had too. Every moment between them felt like balancing on a wire.

Then, she turned toward him slightly, her fingers fidgeting with the chain around her neck.

“Mason?” she asked, softly. “Can you… help me with this?”

He froze. Just for a second.

She stood with her back to him, hair swept to one side. Vulnerable. Known.

He stood and crossed the room slowly. She lifted her hair, exposing the back of her neck — smooth, soft, a place he used to kiss without thinking.

His fingers found the clasp, and despite the distance they’d been carrying, the touch sent a wave of heat through him. The necklace — the one he gave her — rested just at the curve of her collarbone. He adjusted the chain gently, taking longer than he probably needed to. Her skin was warm beneath his fingertips.

He wanted to kiss her.

He wanted to turn her around and ask her why it felt like she was slipping away. He wanted to pull her close and remind her that he was still right here. That he hadn’t stopped choosing her — not even for a second.

But, he didn’t.

“There.” he said quietly, the word catching in his throat.

Her hair fell back down. She turned slightly, her eyes catching his in the mirror.

“Thank you.” she whispered.

Mason nodded. His eyes lingered on her just a second too long before he pulled away, reaching for his phone and trying to shake the weight in his chest.

They're ready. At least, on the outside.

“Let’s go.” he said, softer this time.

And, they did.

But, that necklace between her collarbones?

That was the only thing tonight keeping them tethered.

(...)

The club pulsed with life. Music thumped from somewhere deep in the walls, a bassline vibrating through the marble floor beneath his shoes. Lights spiraled across the ceiling in rich jewel tones — purple, blue, red — cutting through the hazy warmth of the crowded space. Bodies moved everywhere, laughter floating above the music like sparks.

Mason stood near the bar with Ben, Declan, Kai, and Sophia, half-listening to a story about someone trying to order champagne with a broken accent. He was smiling, or at least, trying to.

Though, his eyes kept drifting.

Adeline was on the other side of the room, seated in a booth with Stella. They're close together, drinks in hand, heads tilted in that way that meant they were deep in conversation. Adeline looked beautiful — even more so under the flashing lights — but, something in her expression was guarded. Tired. Like she was trying to enjoy herself but, couldn’t quite get there.

He hadn’t touched her all evening. Not once. He couldn’t bring himself to.

Sophia nudged his side. “You’re doing that thing again, Mase.” she said with a small smile.

“What thing?” Mason asked, dragging his gaze back.

“Watching her like she'll disappear.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked down, glass in hand.

Across the room, Stella placed her hand over Adeline’s and said something that made her shake her head, then nodded, eyes glimmering. Mason could only guess what she was saying. Maybe she was telling her what happened earlier. Perhaps, trying to explain herself — or justify what felt, to him, like a disappearing act.

Stella, for her part, looked calm. Supportive. But, also firm — the way Stella always was when she wanted you to face the truth.

Adeline downed the last of her drink and slid the empty glass aside. Then, another was placed in front of her. Mason’s brow furrowed slightly. The drinks were flowing faster now. Too fast.

Ben was already asking if they should move to the dance floor and Kai was trying to convince Sophia to request something that wasn’t reggaeton.

Still, Mason’s attention was fixed across the room. He didn’t want to hover — didn’t want to suffocate her — but, each time she laughed, it sounded slightly louder, slightly looser. And, there was a waver to her movements. She was tipsy. No, drunk.

He watched as she got up, a little too suddenly, catching herself on the back of the booth with a breathy laugh. Stella reached for her arm, steadying her.

That’s, when Mason moved.

He crossed the floor quickly, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. As he reached them, Adeline blinked up at him like she was surprised he was real.

“Hey!” she said, her smile warm, but, not quite grounded. “You're here.”

“You okay?” he asked, brows drawn together, his hand hovering near her back but not touching her.

“Yeah.” she nodded, too eagerly. “Just… air. I need some.”

Mason glanced at Stella, who gave him a nod — a silent request to take care of her.

He gently placed a hand on Adeline’s lower back, guiding her through the sea of people, down a side hall and out into the night.

The air hit them in a rush — cool, sharp, smelling faintly of the sea and citrus trees from somewhere nearby. The club’s music thudded behind them like a heartbeat as Mason led her to a bench just off the street, under the glow of a vintage lantern.

Adeline sank into the seat, her head tipping back, a lazy smile stretching across her lips.

“Much better.” she murmured. “God, I hate that I can’t handle three cocktails anymore.”

“You didn’t eat much at dinner.” Mason said softly, crouching beside her. “And, you’ve had a long day.”

She looked at him then — really looked. Her pupils were blown, her eyeliner slightly smudged, hair wind-tossed and still perfect in that effortless way she always managed.

And, in that moment, everything softened.

“You’re always here, Mase.” she whispered. “Even when I fuck things up.”

His heart clenched. “You didn’t—”

“I did.” She cut him off, eyes flicking to the side. “I know I did.”

He sat beside her now, close, but, still careful.

“I’m not mad.” he said quietly. “Just… confused. Hurt.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Her voice cracked, and she reached for the necklace at her throat — the one he’d fastened earlier. “I wasn’t thinking. I was scared.”

“Scared of what?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers played with the pendant, her gaze fixed on it like it held the words she couldn’t say.

“I’ve never had this.” she said eventually. “Someone who sees all the worst of me and still… stays.”

Mason’s breath caught. Her words weren’t sober — but, they were real.

“Ady…” He turned to her.

She looked up at him, eyes shining. “I almost told you something just now.”

“What was it?” he asked, heart pounding.

But, she shook her head, eyes fluttering shut. “No. You deserve better than a drunken confession.”

He let out a slow breath and reached for her hand — not pulling, not pressing — just holding it, grounding them both.

“I’ll wait.” he said. “For you to mean it. For you to say it when... it’s clear. I’ll wait.”

She leaned against his shoulder then, the weight of her soft and warm. And, as the city buzzed around them — scooters passing, music thumping, strangers laughing in the distance — Mason felt it.

The shift.

It isn't something he planned.

Just, love.

The bench still held the echo of her almost-confession when Stella appeared at the top of the stairs, hugging her arms as the cool night air curled around her. Her expression softened, as she looked at them — Mason still beside Adeline, who leaned against his shoulder, with flushed cheeks and heavy eyelids.

“I hate to interrupt.” Stella said gently. “But, maybe it’s time you take her back, Mase.”

He nodded, not even hesitating. “Yeah. I’ll get her out of here.”

Stella gave Adeline a quick, sisterly squeeze on the arm before heading back down toward the club’s entrance.

Mason helped Adeline to her feet, steadying her when she leaned too far to one side.

“I’m fine.” she murmured. “I swear, I’m fine.”

“You’re sideways.” he replied, voice light, but his hand never left her waist.

The cab ride was quiet. The kind of silence that wasn’t awkward — just weighted. Adeline leaned her head against the window, watching the passing lights like they might anchor her thoughts. Mason watched her from the corner of his eye. The way her hair fell across her face, the faint smudge of eyeliner beneath her eyes, the way she muttered, something unintelligible about "how blue the world looks at night."

She's beautiful. In, every, version of her.

And, still, the ache lingered — the ache of not knowing. He wanted to reach inside her head, untangle her fears, pull them gently, one by one, until nothing remained, but, trust.

When they arrived at the hotel, Mason paid the driver quickly and helped her out, guiding her into the quiet lobby with one arm draped lightly around her. She was silent now, eyelids fluttering. Her heels clicked, unevenly, against the marble floor as they made their way to the elevator.

She leaned against the wall inside, eyes nearly closed.

“Are you sleeping, while, standing up?” he teased.

“No.” she whispered, slow and dramatic. “Just... listening to the tiles.”

He huffed a laugh, softly — because, something in him was unraveling just watching her like this. She was tipsy and ridiculous, but, she was also cracking open again, just enough for him to see the pieces.

The elevator dinged.

They stepped into the hallway and Mason fished for the room key in his pocket, when Adeline, suddenly, tugged his arm.

“Wait.” she said, smirking. “You can’t take me to our room.”

“Why not?” He blinked.

“Because…” She leaned in, swaying slightly. “I won’t be able to control myself.”

“Oh, really?” He raised a brow.

“Mhm.” she nodded with solemn conviction. “You’re very… kissable. And, I’m drunk. And, I’m thinking things. Filthy things. Like bend-me-over-the-balcony things.”

Mason let out a sharp laugh, the kind that cracked his tension in two. He couldn’t help it. Her mouth was unfiltered and absolutely killing him.

“Okay, okay.” he said, trying to catch his breath. “To Stella’s it is.”

She nodded triumphantly, then immediately squinted. “Wait. I don’t have the key.”

He opened her purse and fished it out, Stella’s spare tucked right where she said it would be.

“Little did she know…” Mason muttered, unlocking the door and gently guiding Adeline inside.

The second they stepped into Stella’s room, Adeline made a beeline for the bathroom.

“Oh, fuck.” Mason muttered, following her.

He found her hunched over the toilet, one heel off, groaning softly.

“I’m fine, Mase.” she said, between hiccups. “I'm still sexy.”

“Very.” he said, grabbing a hand towel and kneeling beside her.

She let out a low giggle that turned into a groan. “Ugh, I hate tequila.”

“It hates everyone, though.” he replied, brushing her hair back, carefully as she leaned over the toilet again.

After a few minutes — and, several paper towels later — he helped her wash her face, gently dabbing her skin like he was handling something fragile. Which, maybe, he was.

“Let’s get you to bed.”

She hummed, letting him walk her to the edge of the mattress. She flopped down, only half on the pillow, arm over her eyes.

“You’re really good at this.” she mumbled.

“Babysitting?” he teased, crouching beside her. “It’s a hidden talent.”

“No…” she blinked slowly at him. “This. You. Being... gentle.”

Mason paused. Something tugged deep in his chest.

“I like you like this.” she added, drowsy and honest. “It makes me feel… safe.”

He reached forward, brushing a thumb over her cheekbone. “You are safe, Ady.”

Adeline's eyes fluttered shut, but, she reached out, catching his fingers for a second.

“Don’t leave, yet.” she whispered. “Just… stay until I sleep.”

Then, he did. Sitting there on the floor, watching her settle into sleep, her breathing even and soft, his own thoughts swirling.

Right before her breaths evened out fully, she mumbled one last thing.

“I almost told you…”

His hand tightened around hers. “I know.” he whispered.

And then, softly, he kissed her forehead.

“Goodnight, Ady.”

(...)

Morning slammed into Adeline like a cymbal crash.

The sunlight was brutal. It poured through the open curtains like it had a personal vendetta, slicing across her face and dragging her out of unconsciousness. She groaned, flipping onto her side and pulling the thin blanket over her head, which — wasn’t her blanket.

Blinking against the blinding light, she slowly got up, brain thudding hard against her skull. Her tongue felt like it had been carpeted. The room smelled faintly of shampoo, perfume, and… regret.

Stella was curled up next to her, breathing softly, her brown hair tangled on the pillow. That alone was odd. But, what really made Adeline nearly scream was the sight of a half-naked Ben Chilwell, dead asleep on the floor, using a hotel towel as a blanket, one sock hanging halfway off his foot. His head rested on a pillow stolen from the couch and he clutched an empty bottle of water like it's his emotional support.

“What in the actual…” she whispered, frozen in place.

Ben let out a snore that sounded like a deflating balloon.

Adeline stared at him for a beat, considering her life choices. Then, she gingerly swung her legs over the bed, very carefully stepping over one of his arms like it was a landmine, trying not to wake, either of them.

She stumbled into the bathroom.

The reflection staring back at her in the mirror was not someone fit for society. Hair in disarray. Makeup smudged into what looked like a raccoon that lost a fight, her lips slightly chapped, her eyes... wounded. The only thing that looked slightly intact was the necklace Mason gave her — the only part of last night that didn’t feel like a blur.

Her stomach twisted. Mason. She didn’t remember how she ended up in Stella’s room, but, she remembered the distance.

And, now… she looked like a walking hangover.

She ran the water in the oversized marble tub, twisting in a bit of lavender-scented oil she found on the ledge. Stella, bless her expensive soul, had an arsenal of high-end products lined up on the shelf: Kérastase, Aesop, and something in a gold bottle that looked like it cost more than her rent.

Adeline sank into the bath with a sigh of pure mortal suffering, scrubbing away the sticky eyeliner and shame. She used Stella’s shampoo, which smelled like eucalyptus and melted beneath the heat of the water. For twenty whole minutes, she pretended she was someone else. Someone who isn't emotionally broken.

When, she finally emerged, wrapped in one of the hotel’s fluffy robes and her hair towel-dried, she felt... slightly, human.

But, peace was a short-lived thing.

Because, as she stepped back into the room... Ben was no longer on the floor.

He was on top of Stella on the bed, shirtless, giggling, her hands tangled in his hair and, maybe, seconds away from kissing, when Adeline shrieked like a cat, clutching her towel tighter.

“Oh my God!”

Both of them jumped.

Ben nearly fell off the bed in panic, Stella squeaked and Adeline didn’t wait — she spun on her heel and darted back into the bathroom, slamming the door.

“Stella! You could've locked the door!” she yelled from inside.

“We weren’t doing anything!” Stella called back, flustered. “I swear—he just woke up and...”

“I’m too hungover for this!” Adeline groaned, rubbing her temples. “I don’t need to see a sex scene from Love Island, especially not when Mason and I are on speaking terms of zero!”

Outside, there was a beat of silence, followed by a muffled. “Well, this is awkward.” in Ben’s voice.

She sighed and looked in the mirror again.

“Kill me.” she whispered to her reflection.

(...)

Then, minutes later, two gentle knocks on the door.

“Ben’s gone back to his room.” Stella said from the other side. “I swear.”

Adeline, still locked in the bathroom, let out a heavy sigh. “I'm processing the trauma.”

“Trauma’s a strong word.” Stella replied, laughing. “But, fair.”

Another moment of silence passed before Adeline unlocked the door and opened it slowly.

Stella was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a glass of water and two pills. “Peace offering?”

Adeline crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “You make me wake up with a headache, find Ben napping on the floor like it’s summer camp, then, you two almost making out right in front of me... you owe me a full brunch.”

“With pancakes.” Stella added, handing over the pills. “And, fresh juice. Promise.”

Adeline rolled her eyes, then smiled.

She sat down next to Stella on the bed, both of them quietly chuckling.

“Okay, but… is it serious?” Adeline asked, leaning slightly toward her. “You and Ben? Don’t leave me with that mental image alone.”

Stella bit her lip thoughtfully. “I don’t know. We kissed. A lot. All night. At the club.”

Adeline’s eyes widened. “And, no one didn’t even notice?”

Stella smirked but then sighed, leaning her head back against the headboard. “We stayed together. Pretty much the entire night. Hidden in some corner of the club, hoping no one saw us. It wasn’t just drunk energy either. He was… sweet. Really sweet.”

Adeline squinted, still trying to wake up fully. “And, I was… here the whole time?”

“You don’t remember any of it?” Stella asked gently.

Adeline shook her head, her fingers curling around the edge of the blanket. “Barely. Flashes of the club. My shoes hurting. That’s it.”

Stella sighed, brushing her hair back as she sat up more against the headboard. “Well, I wasn’t here when you came in. I don’t know how Mason got into the room with you — my key must’ve been in your bag — but, when Ben and I stumbled in, there he was.”

Adeline looked up, brows drawn together.

“He was on the floor, right next to the bed.” Stella said softly. “And, you were already passed out. I remember freezing for a second when I saw him. He looked like he’d been there a while… just sitting there, holding your hand.”

Adeline blinked, throat tightening.

“I barely registered it at the time — I was too drunk to process anything properly.” Stella went on, her tone more subdued now. “But, I do remember that. Mason looked up at us, gave this little nod and then left the room, without saying a word.”

Adeline’s voice came out quiet, almost shaken. “He stayed.”

“He did, babes.” Stella confirmed. “And, not just physically. You should’ve seen his face, Ady. That boy was hanging on by a thread.”

Adeline stared at the ceiling, then closed her eyes, overwhelmed by how much she didn’t remember — and, how much Mason had apparently been there, quietly showing up for her when she hadn’t earned it.

Stella leaned against her. “He cares. Even, if you’re both fumbling right now.”

“I don’t deserve him.” Adeline whispered.

“You do, Adeline.” Stella replied gently. “But, you’ve gotta stop making him guess.”

(...)

Adeline pushed open the door to their room, a heavy kind of quiet greeting her. The lights were off, but, sunlight poured in through a sliver of the drawn curtains, illuminating the soft mess they’d left behind. A pair of Mason’s trainers half-tucked under the bed, a hoodie slung over the back of the armchair, the faint trace of his cologne, still suspended in the air like memory.

He wasn’t here. She hadn’t expected him to be.

She stepped inside, clutching the straps of her beach bag a little tighter as her eyes flicked to her side of the bed — still untouched from the night before. Then, a lump in her throat. The ache hadn’t left her chest since waking up in Stella’s room and now, it felt like it had settled deeper.

Shaking the feeling off, she moved toward the wardrobe, pulling her bikini from the drawer along with a soft knit cover-up. She started to pack things into her bag in slow, absent movements — sunglasses, sunscreen, her phone, her water bottle.

A twinge in her lower back made her pause.

Then, the swell of sudden emotion — sharp, irrational, uninvited.

"Could it…?" Her mind whispered something she hadn’t thought in years. “No.” She blinked the thought away, almost scoffing at herself.

It's just hormones, too much sun, not enough food, emotional whiplash from the past twenty-four hours — all tangled up in one exhausting, cocktail.

She caught sight of Mason’s hoodie again, draped across the bed. On instinct, she picked it up, burying her nose in the soft cotton where the collar met the shoulder. That scent hit her hard — warm, comforting, his.

Her eyes stung again. Of course, they did. She squeezed them shut and exhaled through her nose, sharp and quiet.

With a shake of her head, she dropped the hoodie back where it was, grabbed her bag and walked toward the door.

No more tears or spiraling.

She just needed sun, a cold drink, and maybe — maybe — a glimpse of Mason's smile across the pool.

(...)

The poolside was alive with the kind of lazy energy that clings to the morning after a long night. The sky above the Amalfi Coast was postcard-perfect — soft blue, streaked with ivory clouds, the sun casting golden reflections off the water. Lounge chairs circled the large hotel pool, most of them already claimed by tanned strangers sipping drinks or dozing with books on their laps.

Their group had gathered at one far end, half in the shade of wide white umbrellas. Stella was sprawled on a lounger in sunglasses the size of her face, sipping a coconut water. Kai and Sophia sat near the edge with their feet in the pool, quietly chatting and trying not to move too much. Ben had a baseball cap pulled over his eyes and his head tilted back like he’d completely checked out of existence.

Adeline slid into the scene quietly, wearing her swimsuit under a sheer wrap, hair damp from the shower, sunglasses hiding the weight in her eyes. She didn’t ask where Mason was. She noticed he wasn’t there — his absence like a missing heartbeat in the rhythm of the group — but, she kept it to herself. After how she disappeared yesterday morning and everything that followed, she figured she owed him space.

Declan, already sitting on a striped towel with a smoothie in hand, noticed her first. “Morning, sunshine.”

“I've never been this hangover.” She smiled faintly.

“Join the club.” He patted the towel beside him.

She sat beside him, grateful for the kindness in his voice. Declan was the kind of person who didn’t say too much, but, always knew the right thing.

After a moment, he glanced sideways at her. “You look like you’re carrying the weight of two people.”

“That obvious?” Adeline blinked.

He shrugged. “I’ve known Mason too long. The more he cares, the more distant he gets. It’s like… he doesn’t know how to do both at once — care and stay present. Then, he chooses distance to protect himself.”

Her heart pulled. “That’s… strangely comforting.”

Declan gave her a crooked smile. “Doesn’t make him easier to deal with, but, yeah. You’re not imagining it. And, he’s not indifferent.”

“Thank you, Dec.” she said softly. “For being a good friend. To both of us.”

Before Declan could reply, a small wave of heat rushed over Adeline’s chest and stomach, curling low. It wasn’t quite nausea, but, it unsettled her — warm, strange.

Her hand instinctively moved to her lower belly.

“Hey.” Stella called, tilting her head. “You okay?”

Adeline blinked, forcing a quick smile. “Yes. Just need water.”

Ben groaned from his chair. “We all need water. And food. Someone take me somewhere with In N' Out.”

Sophia laughed. “No one’s leaving the hotel today. I say we claim a table at the restaurant and call it brunch.”

There was a unanimous murmur of agreement. Adeline gathered her things and stood, joining Stella as they made their way toward the restaurant entrance inside the hotel. The marble floors were cool underfoot and the air conditioning hit her skin in little goosebumps.

Mason still hadn’t shown.

“Maybe he’s in the gym or something.” Stella offered casually, sensing Adeline’s silence.

Adeline nodded, but, didn’t reply.

Once they reached the hotel’s breezy restaurant — with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the ocean — they slid into a long table that had been put together for them. The chatter picked up, menus flipping open, conversations bouncing from food cravings to blurry memories of the night before.

Declan leaned toward Adeline and lowered his voice. “Mason needed a walk.”

“A walk?” She glanced at him.

He shrugged. “Didn’t say much. Just said he needed air. He’s coming back, though. Don’t worry.”

Adeline bit her lip and looked toward the window, hoping the sea breeze would steady the strange flutter beneath her ribs — that invisible thread, still tugging gently toward wherever Mason was.

(...)

Mason hadn’t slept.

He had gone for a walk early that morning, long before the sun finished stretching over the Amalfi skyline, trying to piece together the knots, twisting in his chest since last night. The ache it left behind hadn’t faded. If anything, the space between them made it worse.

And, all he could think about was how she hadn’t told him the truth. About, whatever the hell, she was carrying, heavily, behind her eyes. It hurt, but, not in the way he expected. It didn’t make him angry. It made him ache. Ache because she didn’t trust him enough to let him in.

That’s why he walked. Because, being near her felt like drowning in a tide he didn’t understand, and being away from her? That felt like starving.

By the time he returned to their room, his limbs were heavy with exhaustion and the kind of hurt he didn’t know what to do with. Maybe, he’d shower. Bury his head in the steam. Stop replaying last night like a broken record.

He walked in, the stillness of the room almost too much after the noise in his head. Her side of the bed was made, untouched. His hoodie still rested folded at the foot, the one she always stole, when she thought he wasn’t looking.

He reached toward the nightstand, meaning to grab his watch — or maybe, just do something with his hands — and his fingers brushed the cover of a worn paperback. One of Adeline’s. Her place-marker, slightly tucked, caught his attention, but, it was the folded paper inside that gave him pause.

It wasn’t curiosity. It was instinct. Protection. Because, something about it felt… delicate.

He hesitated. Then, slowly, Mason unfolded the letter.

Her name — Adeline — was written at the top. Intimate. The ink smudged slightly, as if written with trembling hands.

He read the first line aloud in a whisper.

"My dearest Adeline…" His breath caught.

“I know the pain you’ve carried, the loneliness you felt when your father kicked you out.”

The words took on weight, sinking, heavily, through his chest.

“It broke me to watch you suffer. I was afraid, weak and unable to protect you when you needed me most.”

His grip on the paper tightened, not out of anger — but, disbelief. Shock.

“Please know, my love for you never disappeared.”

Mason blinked, jaw tightening. He read the sentence again.

Her father… kicked her out? Her mother watched it happen?

The door opened, behind him.

He startled, nearly dropping the paper. Adeline stood in the doorway, her damp hair tangled around her shoulders, sunglasses pushed up to her forehead. She stopped dead when she saw what he was holding.

“What are you doing?” Her voice was barely controlled, eyes darting to the letter in his hand. “Mason—”

“I didn’t mean to.” he said quickly, stepping back like the paper burned. “I wasn’t—Adeline, I swear—”

“You went through my stuff?” Her voice echoed, as she crossed the room, her chest rising and falling faster than before. “Is that what we’re doing now?”

“No. I wasn’t looking for anything, I just—” He held up the letter like it explained everything, but, his voice cracked under the weight of her stare. “It was in your book. I only read a few lines.”

Adeline’s mouth opened, but, nothing came out.

Then, abruptly, her face went pale. Her hand shot up to cover her mouth.

“Adeline?”

She didn’t answer.

She rushed past him, pushing the bathroom door open too fast it nearly slammed shut behind her.

Mason stood frozen for a beat, then dropped the letter on the bed and bolted after her.

“Ady—”

She was bent over the toilet, one hand braced on the porcelain, the other gripping the edge like it was the only thing tethering her to the floor. Her shoulders heaved once, twice.

Mason was behind her in an instant, pulling her hair back instinctively. He held it gently, murmuring soft things he didn’t even think about — just sounds to fill the silence, to make her feel less alone in whatever storm she was drowning in.

“I’ve got you.”

She was pale. Tired. Her skin, once flushed with embarrassment or warmth or laughter, now looked drained, like every ounce of color had been pulled from beneath her skin.

And, then — she swayed. Barely.

Just enough for Mason to realize something was wrong. Her lashes fluttered once. Her breath hitched.

And, then, she collapsed.

“Adeline!”

He caught her before her head hit the tiles, arms scooping her up against his chest in a frantic, shaking motion. Her limbs were limp, her head falling gently against his shoulder, and for one terrifying second — he couldn’t hear her breathing.

“No—no, Addie, stay with me, please—”

His voice cracked as he laid her down on the bathroom rug, patting her cheek, brushing the hair out of her face, searching for anything —anything — that would wake her.

One hand fumbled for his phone. He didn’t even think. He just hit Stella’s name, praying she’d answer.

“Mason?” her voice came through instantly.

“She fainted. Stella, I—I don’t know what’s wrong, she just—collapsed.”

“What?! Where are you?”

“In the bathroom. Our room.”

“I’m calling the hotel front desk. They have paramedics on call. I’ll meet them there—don’t let her out of your sight!”

She hung up, before he could reply.

Mason stayed kneeling, Adeline cradled in his arms, her skin cold against his chest. His heart thundered in his ears, loud and cruel, and for the first time in a long time, he felt powerless. Utterly and painfully useless.

Within minutes — though it felt like hours — he heard footsteps. A knock. Voices. Then the room was filled with motion: two paramedics in crisp navy uniforms, wheeling in a stretcher. Stella burst in behind them, barefoot and breathless.

“She wasn’t feeling well since this morning.” she told them, eyes scanning Adeline’s unconscious form. “She didn’t eat anything at lunch. She was just… off.”

The others followed — Ben, Declan, Kai, Sophia — all of them stunned, in silence. Someone asked a question. Someone else tried to help. But, Mason barely heard any of it.

He stood frozen near the door, watching as they lifted Adeline’s small frame gently onto the stretcher. His fists clenched at his sides, jaw locked as if that alone could hold him together.

“She’s going to the hospital.” one of the paramedics told them. “Nearest one is fifteen minutes away.”

“I’m going.” Mason said before anyone else could.

He didn’t wait for agreement. Didn’t care.

He was already walking behind the stretcher, his steps locked in synchrony with the paramedics, his eyes glued to the one person who mattered most — and, who had never looked that fragile.

(...)

[monsoon-of-art]

Felt extremely soft lately, managed to channel it (I think) into another fish snippet. In which Dr Thomas Light tries not to become too attached to the eight little things he's currently watching over. He fails.

Thomas had always wanted children, at least a little subconsciously. A little bundle of joy, a darling little baby to hold close. To watch them grow, to act as a guiding hand as they come into their own. He’d take them around town, he’d show them art and music and culture. He’d show them his blueprints and his plans, and maybe, if they were interested, they could even help around the lab. He’d keep them safe, bandage them up when they scraped their little knees, kiss them on the forehead…

It just wasn’t in the cards, it seemed. Too busy with work, too busy with life, never feeling like the time was right. 

And so it remained as a soft, warm thought in his chest whenever he passed by a baby in a stroller, or seeing a child propped up on a parent’s shoulders, both of them smiling, looking so happy…

Maybe…maybe one day.

As his 4 AM alarm began to incessantly beep, Thomas couldn’t stop the tired little sigh from escaping him. He missed sleep. He missed sleep a lot.

But his little…guests needed him.

Putting on his slippers and a robe, he shuffled into his lab, although one might be hard-pressed to assume this was the laboratory of esteemed Doctor Thomas Light, what with the large fish tank in the middle table.

And inside the tank were eight, wiggly little things, peeping and peeping and peeping the moment Thomas came into the room.

“Hello, little ones.” he said with a tired smile, leaning down to look at them. He counted all eight - thank God, the octopus didn’t escape again - and they seemed to be active and ‘normal’, as normal as…this could be.

Thomas had found them on the beach over the course of a few weeks, having been washed ashore. No doubt from the terrible winter storms they’ve been having. At a brief glance, they resembled aquatic creatures of all shapes and sizes. But the colors were…wrong. Little rays should not be bright yellow, or little porcupinefish shouldn’t be orange.

Then there were the little hands, their little faces, their little eyes (still shut tight) that could cry real, almost human tears…

They weren’t fish. Thomas…wasn’t sure what they were. He knew very little about them.

But he knew that they needed him.

…and that they needed to eat every few hours.

He walked to the fridge in his kitchen area, pulling out an assortment of bottles and powders. Learning what the little creatures would eat was a challenge in itself; they were clearly too young for solid foods, so after some trial and error, a mix of heavy cream, milk, and fish oil seemed to satisfy them.

Thomas filled a small container with warm water, placing in the bottles of his dairy concoctions to warm.

“Whooo’s hungry?” he asked, walking over to the tank and starting to lift the lid. The eight little fish peeped louder, and even though their eyes were still closed, they clambered at the glass wall closest to him.

The tank was a rushed job. A quick container for these little things cobbled together from a pet store and the baby section of the local superstore. Filter, heater, a little sand at the bottom. They had little interest in plants or rocks - and part of him feared they’d try and eat it - so instead he laid in soft towels and some of his less nice blankets for them to cuddle up against.

Rolling up his sleeves, he reached into the tank. He could feel their little paws clambering on him, some even nibbling on him experimentally. Finally, he carefully wrapped his fingers around one and pulled it out of the tank for the first feeding.

“Ah, 008.”

The newest rescue, a little ray of some kind. It had a dark backside, but a bright yellow underside save for its red chest, and a little yellow ‘mask’ on the face. It mewled in his hand, protesting its empty tummy as loudly as it could.

All of the creatures had numbers for identifiers. He didn’t want to name them, then he’d get attached…and really, he was just. Just…looking after them. This wasn’t long-term. Surely there was a rescue center of some kind…surely.

“So dramatic.” Thomas cooed, holding 008 to his chest. Instantly, it started to settle, little paws starting to knead against his clothes, its starved cries shifting to whining croons. “So dramatic.” he repeated, rubbing its back.

He was just glad 008 didn’t zap him again. Befitting of its appearance, 008 also had the mild electrical abilities just like an electric ray. Evidently it was either used to his presence or too hungry to do so.

With the bottles at a nice, warm temperature, he grabbed one and offered it to the little creature in his arms. It took a moment to latch, but once it did, it immediately - and greedily - started to drink. Peeping cries silenced and replaced with quiet, content little noises. 

Thomas took note of how it began to slowly wag its tail and how its ears wiggled as it drank. Signs of contentment? Happiness? Perhaps he should write that down. If these were a new species, documentation could be helpful.

It was foolish of him to assign human emotions onto an animal, of course.

In no time at all, 008 had drank nearly the entire eight ounce bottle. With just a few drops left, it pushed the bottle away with a small huff. It was honestly astounding how much these little things could eat in one sitting.

Using a soft tissue, Thomas carefully cleaned around its mouth and face. It barely put up a fight, small paws sleepily waving in the general direction, but mostly nuzzling into his arm. “Don’t get too comfortable-” he muttered, setting the tissue down and placing the creature over his shoulder to try and burp it.

(He had no evidence this was a necessary step in the process, but dozens of parenting books that he had skimmed over the years floated to the surface of his mind as he did so. It felt right.)

Thomas gave 008 a final look-over and a final clean with another tissue, then carefully returned it to the tank. Sleepy and full, 008 let out a big yawn and curled up to sleep off its meal.

Finally. One had been fed. Seven left.

Each of them had their own little quirks and issues.

001 - small, purple jellyfish - was the most impatient of the bunch, with small tentacles that could cause a bit of pain if Thomas wasn’t careful. 002 - blue-grey octopus - was slippery and sometimes squirted ink on him. 003 - small, orange lionfish - was very sharp and could definitely hurt if he wasn’t careful. 004 - very large, almost prehistoric looking fish - was twice the size of the others with twice the appetite. 005 - small white seal - was very clingy and was difficult for him to put back in the tank. 006 - orange and yellow porcupine fish - was also a little sharp, but not nearly as much as 003. 007 - a little orange and grey fish - was honestly…the easiest of the bunch, if slightly warmer.

After a little longer than two hours, all eight of them were fed, cleaned, and quietly sleeping in their tank. All cuddled up with one another in a big pile, some of them kneading against the towels and each other.

Thomas had about four or five hours before they’d need to be fed again. The work was…exhausting. But the work had to be done, they depended on him for everything right now, completely helpless…

Almost like an infant.

Thomas blinked at the thought. He hadn’t really made that comparison before.

(At least, not consciously.)

He tried to shake the idea from his head. Lots of young animals were helpless at birth…right? He was a doctor of robotics, not tiny baby animals. In no time at all they’d be independent animals, fully capable of supporting themselves, and he’d release them back into the ocean like a good person doing their best to help.

Just a blip in his life. Maybe he’d create an aquatic robot to check data inspired by these creatures. Study their movement for robotic movement underwater. Maybe if he produced something like that, he could make the government happy enough to leave him alone and end their contract.

Speaking of, he really should get to work. He only had a few hours before the little ones woke up.

Instead of opening up his work, he instead found himself browsing shopping websites. If he was going to care for them, he should probably get them their own blankets, not just towels, might as well add some special burp cloths and some gentle cleaning towels. And he should probably buy some more bottles, and maybe experiment with kitten formula and milk powders. And maybe they might benefit from a pacifier to suckle on, so he better buy some. And if he was going to document their behavior he should get a good quality camera for pictures and a photo album to store them in-

[insomniamamma]

Needles & Pins: Tattoo Artist! Ezra x F!reader w/Cee

A/n: written for @secretelephanttattoo's Secret Springs challenge! Thank you, Mayor El, for planting this seed. I am currently mulling over a tattoo much like the one described here.

Warnings: Angst. Talk about failed marriage. Reader is an empty nester. Reader has grown children. Mentions of self harm scars. Blood. I have tattoos but it's been decades and I've done a bit of research to figure out the current state of it. Any inaccuracies are on me. And yes, Pedro's red devil Met Gala look was my inspiration for tattoo artist! Ez.

A bit of flirting. It is Ezra after all. But mostly gentle fluff.

 A chain of bells on the door jingles as you push your way through, briefly glare-blind from the sudden dimness, green afterimages from the sizzling sidewalks, air-conditioned cold hits hard, and you stand, blinking and foolish as the girl behind the counter sizes you up, wild mullet of bleach-blonde hair, face set and disproving, black lacquered nails and ears spangled with golden studs and bars.  “I’m sorry— I’m a bit early, I can come back—“ And she smiles, big and open and wide--  “Oh, heck! You’re the tardigrade lady! Ez did a bunch of sketches. Lemme go grab him-“ and she rattles her way through the beaded curtain behind the register and disappears “Ezra! Your three o’clock is here—“    A co-worker had recommended Needles & Pins when you’d admired her ink, a half-sleeve magpie with a skeleton key in its beak and constellations drawn behind it like an old map. It’s in Secret Springs. That’s kind of a haul. Yeah, but Ezra’s one of the best in the business. You’ve got plenty of PTO piled up. You’re just gonna lose it if you don’t use it. You could get out of here for a bit. Yeah, maybe. And Moira gives you a pitying look. You both know the chances of you using any of that PTO are slim. This last year and change has been a rollercoaster ride, your youngest graduating summa cum laude and fucking off halfway across the country, some job at an aerospace start up that you can’t even begin to understand, but she seems happy, and the vice-gripped, duct taped, cobbled together thing that your marriage had become finally shat out. I love you, he’d said, but not the way you need me to. And on that humid night, watching heat-lightning flicker through the clouds, you say nothing, just nod, because he’s not wrong, the two of you have been holding on for a long time, for the kids, for appearances, and it’s like unclenching a fist. Kept it civil, he let you keep the house rather than selling it and splitting the difference, moved back home with his brothers and his dad, still talk about once a week, mostly about Lilly and the boys. Married so young that you never learned to be alone. So you throw yourself into your job, because if there’s one thing you know how to do it’s press your shoulder to the wheel and shove.You and Moira laugh together, but when you get home you start researching Needles and Pins and Secret Springs, tiny state park with campsites and trails, bracketed with BNB’s and small shops, strange gerrymandered artifact, small strip of beach that hasn’t been subsumed by hotel chains and timeshares. You can’t remember the last time you’ve been on vacation, the last time you’ve done anything for you and no one else, and you’ve e-mailed Needles and Pins almost without thinking. Why not? Why the fuck not?

  Appointments only. No walk ins. High end. Serious inquiries only.   And part of you balked, new to this possibility, had your ears pierced at Claire’s when you were twelve or so, and you’d felt stupid when you sent the e-mail off with some images attached. Sorry to bother you.   What a lovely idea. Water bears and fireweed together speak of resilience. The awakening of something new after a time of trial. There are species of pine that require the heat of wildfire to dry out their cones enough to spread their seeds. I would gladly meet with you to discuss this further.   And that’s how you ended up here, in this air-conditioned cave, narrow space full of framed flash art and old maps and framed photos of Ezra and the girl behind the counter, C? Sea? You didn’t quite register her name, flustered by the cool dark in contrast to the blazing heat outside.   “No need to yell, Birdie, I’m comin-“ Ezra rattles through the curtain. Broad is the first thing you notice, loud is the second. He is a confusion of color, heavily inked arms and a Hawaiian shirt bedecked with flamingos in sunglasses, spangled ears and a gold ring through his lip, bright shock of blonde hair amid his unruly curls. Smiling bright and wide,   “Hi there,” he says, purred southern drawl, and offers his hand, “I’m Ezra.”  “I figured,” you say and take his hand, warm fingers around yours and then he folds his other hand over yours, and you see that his right hand is an elaborate prosthetic, his whole arm up to his shoulder,  gold on black, a fearsome dragon framed in blooming orchids. You barely have time to register this and Ezra is ushering you through the curtain.  “I am guessing by your demeanor that this is your first tattoo,” and you smile, but can’t quite meet his eyes, his hand finds yours again and squeezes gently. “I’ve got several sketches based on our initial discussion, but i want you to know up front, if the art is not to your liking or if you change your mind about this entire venture I’ll not judge you for it.  “But the deposit—“  “A formality. Tends to keep people who aren’t sure of themselves away. I will never ink someone who isn’t fully committed, if you decide this isn’t for you i will refund you. No harm no foul. No pressure, clear?”  “Yeah. We’re clear.” Ezra smiles, dimples sinking into his scruffy cheeks, eyes crinkling into crescents.  “Excellent,” he says, “Let me show you what me and Cee came up with.”

 

 “That one.” A tardigrade drawn in the traditional style, brilliantly colored in blues and greens with bold outlines, with two crossed fireweed fronds in watercolor.  “This is an approximation-“ says Ezra, “I will replicate the colors as best I can—“  “That one.” You say, “I like the hard and soft together.”  “I do as well,” says Ezra, “I must admit that I was hoping you’d choose this design. Strength and softness are not mutually exclusive. I should warn you though.  Watercolor tattoos tend to fade a bit faster than the more traditional styles-“  “Sunscreen and plenty of it” you say, and he smiles.  “That’s right, and A&D ointment as you heal. There’s plenty of fancy tattoo healing ointments to be found but A&D has always got me through. Why fix what’s not  broken? We’ll send you home with some instructions.” He takes the sketch you’ve picked out, “Hey, Cee! Can you finagle the scanner-“ Cee pops her head and arm through the beaded curtain. She grins, devilish and sharp like a crescent moon. “Old man, still can’t figure it out, huh?” Takes the sketch from his hand.  “Oi! You are but a humble apprentice,” says Ezra, but he smiles, “An initiate! A novice even!” Cee smiles back. This seems like an exchange that happens at least three times a week, and you feel yourself smiling along with them.  “Get her prepped. I’ll do the hard part.”  “That girl,” he mutters, “You take a seat right there—“ He gestures towards a set up that looks uncomfortably like a dentist’s chair, “Cee has my station set up, I just need to glove up and we’ll talk placement.”  “Left inner arm,” You frown. You’d said so over e-mail. Can’t help but watch the flex and bend of him as he pulls a shoulder length veterinary glove over his prosthetic, and then gloves his left hand, “It’s a bitch to take apart and sanitize. I can if needs be, but best to avoid all of that. I cannot exactly autoclave this thing. And I find the calving glove less unwieldy than Saran Wrap-“  “Wait a sec, Saran Wrap? Like on a plate of leftovers?”  Ezra dimples at you.   “Exactly like that. First time Cee witnessed it, she laughed so hard i thought she might drop dead right there on the spot. Next morning there was a case-pack of calving gloves on our front stoop like some sort of-“  “It’s Amazon, Ez, not witchcraft,” says Cee, popping back through the curtain with a sheaf of papers, shoots you a knowing can you believe this guy look, “You’d be lost without me. Just admit it.” Ezra takes the papers from her.   “Go on now, don’t you have fanfic to read? What’s that Star Wars thing? Reylo?” Cee’s face scrunches in a cartoonish display of disgust.  “Man, I never should’ve told you about AO3.” And with that she’s gone.  “Your daughter’s really something.”  “She ain’t mine,” says Ezra, leafing through the stack of prints Cee handed him, draws a pair of reading glasses from his front pocket and perches them on his nose, “I don’t have that honor. Her parents kicked her from the nest and she found her way here.” He holds two of the prints in front of his face. “Show me your arm.” And you offer him your left arm, hand turned palm up. He cradles your arm, runs his gloved fingers over the thin skin there, noting the network of silvered scars, like contrails in a hazy sky, because how can he not? Old enough to be flattened and flush with the rest of your skin, no one’s noticed in years, but you know he must and you tense, waiting for him to say something, but he doesn’t, just selects a printed sheet at holds it up to you arm.  “This the orientation you want?”  “Yeah, I want him standing on my hand. Um, Ezra, the scars-“  “won’t be a problem, darlin, they’re old and soft-“  “I’m not gonna screw up your handiwork,” you say, and he folds your hand in both of his, gentle pressure that grounds you and when you look up at him, his eyes are soft.  “I know you won’t,” he says, “You wouldn’t be here otherwise.  We can rewrite this part of your story. I trust you.” 

 Ezra preps your skin, alcohol wipes and mild soap and he shaves your inner arm with a disposable razor, rubs some gooey stuff on you that makes you think of putting on aloe after a burn. Gotta let this dry a beat, he says, we want the stencil to come out nice and clean, rests his hand over yours while the transfer solution dries, got to let it get tacky, he says.  Not quite holding your hand but not letting go either.  “I should warn you, the bit over your inner wrist will likely be the most painful,” swipes his hand over your skin, testing the resistance against his glove, “Skin’s thin there. Not a whole lot of meat between the skin and all the veins and little fiddly bits.”  “Fiddly bits,” you echo, and feel yourself smile, “You mean the bones?”  “And tendons,” says Ezra, clips out the stencil.  “That looks like carbon paper,” you say, and Ezra grins, “It’s functionally the same, but Cee insists that the thermographic printer makes cleaner stencils than the old methods, so here we are.” He lays the sheet of paper over your arm, rubs at it with a balled up paper towel, “We want the transfer solution to soak into the paper. It’ll leave the stencil behind on your skin. There’s some tricks involving deodorant, but i find this method works the best-“ you can’t help but notice how pretty he is, face pinched in concentration, pout of his lips, those dark eyes focused on the strip of skin between your wrist and elbow like this bit of you is the only thing in the universe. “—hey! you still with me?”  “Yeah, sorry. What did you say?”  “You got a hotel room for tonight? It’s not by business, but i know you’re not local and getting tattooed blows a surprising amount of adrenaline-“  “I’ve got a  room booked,” you say, “Up over Peli’s.”  “Hope you brought earplugs,” says Ezra, “That place can get a bit rowdy on a Friday night.”   “I’m counting on it,” you say, “It’s been forever since I’ve gone to a bar.”  “Hmm,” he rubs at the transfer paper, “Do you feel your skin tightening a bit? We should be just about ready. I’m gonna click the gun on for a beat so you can hear it.”   “I’m not scared.”  “Didn’t say you were.” says Ezra, “I find this tends to go easier if people know what to expect. This buzz and my endless yap are going to be filling your ears for the next few hours-“  “It’s not bad. The tattoo machine, I mean.” And Ezra grins, slow curve that just hints at a dimple.   “My Ma always said my tongue is hung in the middle and wags at both ends. If, at any point in this venture, you need me to shut the fuck up do not be shy in saying so,” his face falls, eyes flick away a little, “There’s one more thing before we peel this stencil and get on to our business. I will need to stretch your skin, to make sure the lines are nice and clean, and for that i must rely on this foolish thing.” Ezra catches you around your wrist with his prosthetic hand and squeezes slightly.   “I do not have the sensitivity nor dexterity that i once had,” he says, “I have some haptic feedback, but it’s not the most reliable. If I grip or pinch too hard, you sing out and I will manually adjust the pressure.”  So focused on your left inner wrist and the tracery of your skin that he startles, flinches when you reach for him and grip his upper arm, brief squeeze and then gone.  “I trust you.” His eyes widen for a second, and flick away from yours.   ‘I suppose you do. Else you wouldn’t be here. Let’s get a good look at these lines before we get to fencin’.” Ezra peels the transfer paper up and you feel the pull of it, dark purple lines printed on your inner arm. And that makes it feel real.

You’re going to walk out of here with something like a story in your skin forever.   “The fireweed—“  “I know. The stencil lines are just there to keep me from going too loosey-goosey,” says Ezra, “That being said, how would you feel about some slight splatters? So the stems do not rise so harshly from the water bear’s back, perhaps a bit darker than the color of the fireweed. Something to really make this little fella pop.”  “Dark. Like a dark purple fading up into the pinks.”  “Yeah? What do you think?”  “I like it,” you say, and you feel yourself grin wide, and Ezra’s smile mirrors your own, “This is gonna be so fucking cool.”  “It will,” he says, those dark eyes bracketed in delighted crinkles, “I’ve got you, darlin. We’re gonna make some magic.”

 It doesn’t hurt as much as you thought it would, and you tell Ezra so, and he smiles, bent over your arm.  “Everyone’s pain threshold is a bit different,” he says, “You are squirming very little for your first ink.”’   “I was in labor with my oldest for twenty three hours. This doesn’t even register.”  “The linework is usually worse in terms of sharp pain,” he says, “The color and shading tend to be more persistently annoying. Like a shirt collar rubbing on a sunburn.” He has a light on a swing arm like a dentist uses, framing him in a bright halo as he hunches over your arm, catches his curls in bright filaments, the scruff of his cheeks, slope of his neck, breadth of his shoulders. Sharper pain as he touches the crease between wrist and hand, bracelets of fortune, you think they’re called, draw your breath in a sharp hiss, little hooked curves of the tardigrade’s claws.  “Breathe, sugar, you’re doing just fine. Worst part’s nearly done.” His eyes flick up to catch yours, warm soft and magnified by his glasses. “And I really must know. what’s your favorite dinosaur?”  “Deinonychus,” you answer unthinking, “Dromeosaurs are pretty cool in general, but Deinonychus is my favorite.” And you smile. Knowing exactly what he’s doing and thankful for it. “The raptors in Jurassic Park were actually Deinonychuses. Modeled on them at least. Actual velociraptors are turkey-sized.” Ezra smiles up at you, perfect plump lower lip bisected by a gold ring, damn he’s pretty, and nothing hurts at all.  “Huh,” he says, “And here I was thinkin you were a T-rex girl. S’pose that’s what i get for making assumptions.”  “Well you know what they say about assuming—“  “Indeed I do. My mother was very fond of whipping out that particular turn of phrase.” He stretches your skin so he can get the tardigrade’s odd little mouthparts just so.  “What’s your favorite?”  “Favorite what?” The curved, segmented back takes shape.  “Dinosaur. You can’t just ask someone that question and not answer it yourself.” Ezra stills for a beat, and then the needle starts up again, line sloping down to meet up with a hook-plated foot.  “Ankylosaurus.” he says.  “Really?”  “Sure. Mother Nature took a cow, a snapping turtle and a panzer tank and stuck em in a blender and then tied a cinderblock to the end of it’s tail. What’s not to love? Hmmm,” he swabs at the beaded blood and oozing ink, “Hard part’s done. How about a little breather?” Ezra stands and stretches like a lazy cat, rolls his neck side to side, heads for the refrigerator, tucked in the corner and plastered in stickers, punk bands or microbreweries, you can’t really tell.   “Stretch your legs,” he says, “This next phase will take some time.” You swing your legs over the side of the chair, stand up and then plop back down.  “You okay, darlin?”   “Stood up too fast.”   “Apple or orange?”  “Huh? Orange,” You feel your face going hot, “I followed your instructions—“ Ezra hands you a cold, sweating bottle of orange juice.  “I know you did,” he says, “When you get tattooed, you are signing up for an injury. One that happens over the course of several hours, but an injury all the same.  Everyone reacts a little different. Your sugar just dropped is all. You drink that juice and you’ll be right as rain in no time at all.”  “I thought I’d be okay-“  “And you are,” says Ezra, “I’ve had three hundred pound bikers slither out of the chair at the first sight of blood. It happens sometimes. I’ve gotten woozy a time or two myself.”

He shoves up his shirtsleeve and shows you a dog in a space helmet,   “That’s Laika,” you say.  “Patron Saint of one way trips,” says Ezra, “You can see a bit of wobble in the curve of her helmet. It was far from my first ink and it still hurt like a sonofabitch. You didn’t do a thing wrong, okay?” He rests his hand on your shoulder briefly, warm weight of it grounds you, and he hunkers down so his eyes meet yours, no judgement there, just concern, and without thinking, you mirror him, rest a hand on his vibrantly inked bicep, Laika brave and doomed amid a swirl of watercolored nebulae, his skin warm beneath your palm and you feel the breath rush out of you, didn’t know how hard you were clenching your jaw, didn’t know you tight your chest was.  “Thank you.” And for a beat those lovely, dark eyes hold yours, before they slide away, cheek curved up in a half-smile.  “You are most welcome. Shall we proceed?”

 The color inking goes much as he described, more annoying than painful, like a constant pressing of fingernails against your skin, different gun with more needles packed together, ink laid in, blood wiped away, back and forth over the same bits of skin, needles dipped and rinsed, tiny plastic cups of color that make you think of a child’s paint set, and the two of you settle into easy conversation, a flow back and forth like a gentle tide, mostly Ezra explaining all the hidden delights of Secret Springs, you simply must get breakfast at Cisco’s, it don’t look like much but they’ve got the best biscuits and gravy i’ve ever tasted, and Cee swears by their Hangover Helper, it’s like a layer dip of grease. Hash browns and corned beef hash and scrambled eggs with sausage gravy and cheese sprinkled over it. I keep tellin Frankie he should rename it the Heart Attack Platter, but he won’t hear it— Ezra’s voice and the buzz of the tattoo gun and the rhythm of him pressing into your skin and wiping away the blood and excess ink set you drifting, content to listen to him ramble, like the patter of falling rain.  “So what got you here?” asks Ezra.  “Moira. I saw her ink and asked—“  “No, darlin, what got you here?” And you find it hard to speak, to put into words, did everything right, married and had kids and a house and a good job and a husband who loved you until he didn’t, did everything right and still ended up with an empty house and no one to come home to except the cat. Lilly and Liam and Joey off on their own and settled and they all call you on Sunday like clockwork, as if you are an obligation and not someone who held them when they were small, talked them through the fears of monsters in the closet, talked them through the humiliation of first love, you know they love you, they tell you every time, at the end of every visit, hug you so tight and tell you they love you. Love you too, but you still come home to a dark house and an empty bed, you honestly can’t remember the last time you’ve been touched or kissed or held. Been so long since you did things for you without thinking of him and the kids that it feels wrong, shameful.  “I wanted to do something just for me, I guess.” You frown.  “I’m guessing you are not in the habit,” he says, “Of doing things just for the joy of it.” You laugh, a bright and brittle sound that pulls itself from your throat, even as your eyes burn, his eyes flick up from the brilliant pinks and oranges and purples, and you turn your head away.  “I’ve prodded a raw nerve, I’m sorry. Cee rightly says I have no filter-“  “It’s okay. It’s just…you do everything right and you still end up all alone, you know? Lil and the boys are all doing fine. They call me every Sunday, and I know I should be happy, and I am happy. Happy for them-“  “But not for yourself,” says Ezra. And you think of how the intimacy slowly bled out of your marriage, held on so tight for so long, thought you could muscle through it like you do everything else in your life, but love wasn’t enough, determination wasn’t enough, gritted teeth and stubbornness weren’t enough.   “No. Not for myself.” You frown. You haven’t put it in words before, too busy keeping it together, trying to gut through it like you do everything, keep your head down and push through, “You think your life is one thing and then it just isn’t anymore— this probably seems silly to you.”  “Not at all. I often think of cicadas,” he says, and returns his attention to the fireweed blossoms.  “Cicadas?”  “Yes. They live the majority of their lives under the ground, feasting on roots content with living in the dark and then something calls them up above. They split themselves open, crawl out of their old skins and take flight.”  “You’re saying I’m in the process of crawling out of my own skin,” you say.  “I’m saying that your future doesn’t have to look like your past,” says Ezra.

 “The past is another country,” you say, and you can’t remember where you’ve heard the phrase.  “Just so,” says Ezra, “Just so. We’re redrawing the map right here. And it is a joy to redraw it with you.”  “Are you—are you flirting with me?” Ezra scrunches his face in mock disdain, “I would never ever flirt with a client. That would be deeply unethical and Cee would undoubtedly yell at me. However, once I finish inking this last frond and we slather you in ointment and wrap you up you will no longer be my client-“  “And then?” He smiles at you, all dark eyes and dimples.  “Well then we are just two folks enjoying the moonlight and wetting our toes in the surf. If you’d walk with me a spell. If you can further tolerate my rambling,”  “I think I’d like to get my feet wet.”

[boymanmaletheshequel]

The Pacific Blood Star

L-R, U-D: a wild specimen clung on a rock at low tide, Victoria, BC. A small individual in the process of limb regeneration, Deception pass, WA. A beached specimen displaying color contrast against substrate, Clallam bay, WA. Pictures by me.

A bright red beauty often spotted along sheltered beaches of the American west coast, the blood star, belonging to the complex Henricia, is not one species, but rather a complex of closely related stars found in the Pacific Ocean ranging from Baja California up to northern Alaska.

These slender, bright vivid carmine seastars can range in color from a deep red to a light orange. They feast on a variety of demosponges and bacteria, which it sweeps into its mouth via ciliated tracts. Like all stars, it also has the unique ability to eject its stomach, which it may use to feed on small sponge and bryozoans by melting them with its acid!

These stars can be found up and down much of the west coast of North America, though different subspecies inhabit different regions.

They can usually be found under cobbles, attached to rocky reefs, or in tide-pools from the intertidal zone up to 400 meters deep! Waow! What an interesting creature!

[inkformyblood]

race you for it (SoapGaz COD Mermay)

Selkie Soap x Mer Gaz, modern era

There is a specific support on the pier where Johnny leaves his things. It had been a matter of trial and error and far too many early mornings spent with one hand cupped over his cock and his sealskin slung over his shoulder as he made his way up the cobbled street for him to count, but he had a good enough hiding place for his clothes now. The beach is small, only visible as an assortment of stones and litter at low tide, barely big enough to let the nearby properties be classified as ‘beachfront’ on all the rental sites. 

This late at night, the only witnesses to Johnny stripping beneath the pier is a pair of seagulls focused on squabbling over a discarded newspaper cone from the chippy and the fisherman above him too absorbed in the easy bob of his lure to pay Johnny any mind. 

He’s dressed as minimally as he can bear with the weather just beginning to turn, the horizon still bleeding dark and murky when Johnny had managed to peel himself away from the usual round of goodbyes as he had made his way out of the pub. A thin pair of cotton trousers join the pile on the sand, the fabric darkening in an instant as the spray kicks against the thin divide of the beach. His shirt is already there, the red washed out and bleach-stained along the lower edge from an unfortunate dye job a few years back. It hadn’t even lasted the night, the colour washing out in his evening swim to an uneven green that had lasted far longer than it should have. Johnny crouches, balling his clothes around each other, his sealskin caught between his teeth to let it drape over his shoulders. He’s already beginning to change, his cheek twitching with the itch of fresh hair growth as he stands, shoving the bundle into the hole in the support. His underwear is next, crammed in alongside, and Johnny is free. 

Diving into the ocean, the world is freshly grey, everything cut in stark relief like he’s carved them into a wood block, stones beneath, the distant flutter of a lure ahead of him and the huddled shapes of boats moored on his other side. He’s clumsy for an instant, the water not quite deep enough for him to swim fully, his coat loose around the edges, but a swell thunders in and Johnny banks towards the open ocean, making his way through the gap in the harbour wall. 

He doesn’t need to go far. 

“Hey.” 

Johnny twists with a lazy flick of his tail, grinning wide as best he can. He’s checked the expression before in the bathroom of his flat, stretched out in his bathtub with a mirror balanced on the side, and it’s toothy but close enough to his human shape. He’d knocked that mirror off when he’d scrambled out, shattered his next seven years of luck all over the floor and then had to clean it up for his trouble. 

Gaz laughs, swimming closer to knock his shoulder against Johnny’s. It wouldn’t push him anywhere, Gaz might be longer from the top of his curls to the tip of his tail but Johnny’s dense, heavier with muscle even underwater, but Johnny rolls with the motion deliberately, pressing himself beneath Gaz’s belly to come up on the other side of him. There’s an urge to snap at Gaz’s neck, the shine of his scales triggering something starving at the base of Johnny’s gums, the bunch of muscles in his jaw, but he swallows it back as best as he could. There’ll be something to eat later, something that shone and flickered through the water but not as pretty as Gaz or as fast. 

“Busy day?” Gaz asks, adjusting to Johnny’s new position easily, barely blinking as they change direction. His gills flare wide, a flash of pale flesh beneath the dark line of his neck, made for biting with blunter teeth that Johnny’s currently wearing. 

Johnny huffs out a string of bubbles, his whiskers flaring as they slow. He shakes his head, trying to convey the midweek dragging boredom of his shift, an early one, sure, that bracketed the lunch rush and the stirrings of the evening rush, but it had still been long and tedious. There’d been a copious absence of Gaz to keep his attention so Johnny had watched for his mannerisms in the customers, trying to track the wide stretch of his smile onto a smaller frame, the shine of his scales onto an overburdened wrist. Hadn’t been the same as experiencing the man himself, but it had passed the time well enough. 

Gaz huffs out a laugh, swimming closer once more so he drags his fingers through Johnny’s fur, brushing over his whiskers. “Poor boy. Would losing in a race make you feel better?”

Shaking his head, Johnny leans forward to bump his nose against Gaz’s, the few scales indenting against his skin. 

“I’ll give you a treat if you win.” Delivered with a wink in case all the blood in Johnny’s body had travelled south too quickly and he hadn’t picked up on the established end goal of their race. There’s a small underwater cave further down the coast, a shelf above the water where the air tastes stale but manageable, enough for Gaz to linger above water and for Johnny to turn back into someone with hands and blunt teeth for biting like he wants to. 

He wouldn’t win. Not yet. Johnny has never managed to beat Gaz in a race but he would eventually and his bragging would be glorious.

[zetsuboushachi]

“MASTER”

So to explain this character/OC/Final Boss this is based on a recent dream I had, one that was pretty wild in nature.

To begin, it was basically me watching gameplay footage of a new Kirby game, mainly at its finale. One of its phases was a large planetoid astroid, which appeared cobbled together and hiding something within, and during such phase the Love Love Stick from Dreamland 3 was used along with the Lor Starcutter. Soon it cuts to another scene where I assume this is the beginning part of the last phase, for some reason before the final chase down there was this melancholy walk where I saw memories of Magolor’s past, such as him wearing a adventurer’s hat and starting his expedition and research in the Ancients. Hell there was a moment where I saw Magolor and Marx hanging out as if they’re best buddies. When I saw this whole scene I legit thought to my self: “Wait is Magolor gonna die?”

It then cuts to final part, the final chase to the boss and it was dramatic in nature. Basically you literally go through every single stage/world, crossing by familiar settings and levels to reach the final boss itself (basically going from the final stage all the way back to the very first stage). One memorable scene was during the beach/water stage, where the final boss went so fast that the water was opened apart to form a path for it before crashing down, sinking the islands for a moment till resurfacing.

The final set piece where this battle takes place was oddly serene, it was just a grass field with the evening sky, the stars shining above as the horizons beautifully fall under a nightly purple fade. But standing on the center was a pitch Black Circle, it was like looking into vantablack shape that has no definite curve nor dimension. The dark circle was covered in red sketched out eyes, as if drawn hastily or stylized, staring directly at the viewer regardless of angle or position as it swirls endlessly in an angular position. The strangest part is that its not even related to Dark Matter or even Zero, hell it wasn’t even a soul boss to begin with. This thing was more mechanical than anything, whilst most Ball shaped final bosses at least hover and sway with movement, this thing was still and moves in a straight forward and calculated manner when needed (It was like a machine who only moves when it needs to, if not it just hovers unmoving). It only pulsates like a beating heart and an uncomfortable presence behind it, as if I was looking into nothingness.

When the boss health popped in, I only recall myself saying: “Master-“, as either I didn’t recall what I said afterwards or my dream cut out on that moment. The boss theme itself was a mix between Crowned and Astral Birth, leaning more on the somber side of things.

Thus I call this being of nothingness, Master

I never saw the conclusion nor the boss battle of this fight, but funnily enough the gameplay footage in this dream was a guy going at it with a no-hit no ability run.

(The Magolor design to the right is simply my interpretation of him being possessed by Master)

[cuprohastes]

The Black Market

Space is big. I mean... really big. Like even bigger than a really big rock.

And boring.

But sometimes you get an encounter...

Boring is the worst part.

You can go into space and there's all sorts of cool stuff like the microgravity, the amazing view... and after a while it's just dark and the computer goes 'Boop' every quarter time unit, and this amazing experience collapses into the same space as e.g., being in a nursing home until someone tells you that you've arrived, and you can go look at cool stuff again.

Hence Interstellar Cruise Liners.

Space travel is still not cheap - even a run up and down a space elevator needs paying for, so you want to take as much cargo and paying passengers as possible.

With automated shipyards, you can just pour money and resources into building a truly huge passenger module, stack it on top of some cargo modules and clamp on as many drive units and crew modules as you need.

Load everyone in, let them ooh and ahhh at the view for a day then spin up a gateway and fire the whole thing into superluminal space and drop it out around any world you have a beacon for.

The really great thing is even if you lose the beacon in transit, you are a beacon. Just drop out and wait. Anything goes wrong, the home office can send a rescue ship after you.

In the meantime, there's the ship's amenities: The lush mossy jungle deck, the galactic beach, the games rooms, the dining groves, the on-board university - Even the theatre for live and recorded entertainment.

Still passengers like to have an experience, and so the Sunward Sail out of Ggxcha with seven hundred passengers dropped out of Superluminal space, the bow wave of exotic particles heating the backstop up to a glowing red.

The Sunward Sail dropped into a lazy orbit around an ancient planet, orbited by a big station trailing glittering wreckage - Obviously something dramatic had gone down here.

The lights were on though - So not a derelict station - and the docking was smooth, so the first set of tourists stepped onto the station, onto the Market deck.

So much to see! So much to do!

Madam Shi-shi's bakery run by a happy Tsin selling classic Tsin pastries, and exotic purple rolls with various filling and other goods.

The Top n' Charmed Quarks Bar with the scarred Atrix obviously a veteran of some war or calamity, serving exotic and colourful drinks:

"Dare you try the Human Menu?" she suggests, pulling it out. "Watch out, the Temple of Shir-li is banned in twelve systems..."

They even have a chance wheel!

Then there's Honest Gar's Genuine Human Antiquities, the wares spilling out from the shop in a riot of colours and patinas, where one can buy a genuine antique reproduction Victorian Empire TV, or a genuine Human Made Brown's Kitchen Imp that can tell you how to make a thousand and five human style recipes with a little sheet glass projection hologram of a human in glasses and red horns. So quaint!

And if you get to the end of the market, or one of the traders tips you off, you can find...

The Black Market

There's someone there, a weathered old... unless they were young... spacer, in a patched and scuffed EVA undersuit with 43 on the chest, who'll spin you unbelievable tales for a couple of creds dropped into the old cracked space helmet he keeps on the table next to him and if you ask, he'll let you in -

The back rooms are dark, rowdy, and full of the coolest stuff. There are lots of humans here, and there's an Atrix little guy, with a set of goggles, riding low on the belly of this Atrix Mech.

If you're lucky you can see one of the humans with some grudge square off agianst the little guy. He's surrounded by switches and levers, with a little pair of waldos.

The mech lurches to life, an angry display on its faceplace, growling in a rattling synthetic voice:

Combat mode! Engaged! Polaron Claws. Charging.

It's claws glowing white hot as it swings into motion, and the Human pulls a little cobbled together blaster out and takes a pot shot. The Mech lurches and sparks, warning lights flashing ominously...

Reactor. Overheat. Reactor. Overheat. Emergency. Venting.

The stricken mecha whirls, the little guy screaming in rage and flipping clunky archaic controls... And then when everything seems to be about to go wrong, the mech begins to spray clouds of vapour from it's vents and the alerts wind down, while the scurrilous human takes the opportunity to flee.

It's very dramatic.

And after that you can buy a souvenir arm patch of Cat Fantastic's Mecha with glow in the dark Polaron claws, before it's time to head back - Don't forget to pick up a packed lunch from Madame Shi-Shi's!

--

"Ugh." said Dave, "I don't mind the tourist run but it ruins my appetite" she muttered.

"You shouldn't snack on your own stock." says Big Ma, touching up Gondy's makeup.

Phalanges, helmet off, chin up and enjoying the cool air blower form the converted life support rig that they'd modded into the mecha grunts noncommittally.

"How are we doing boss?" Raxy asks, potting up souvenir Tsin fungus with Atrix moss and human basil.

O'Patel flashes an OK hand sign. "We are... hitting the funding goals. One more shift - This time it's for the bonus pay." he says with satisfaction and Big Ma looks around, checking everyone's ready as someone helps Cat Fantastic back into his cockpit basket and Gondy makes sure there's enough grenadine left.

"OK people... Showtime!"

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Maera's carriage ride from the Red Keep to the Sept was a solitary journey with only her nerves and racing thoughts for company. As it moved through the bustling streets of King's Landing, Maera gazed out the window at the city's surroundings. She first set her gaze upon the procession of guards that marched alongside her carriage, led by Ser Arryk on his brown horse, who were ensuring her safe passage.

Peasants lined the streets, waving as she passed by, and the sound of their cheers and well-wishes filled the air. The hooves of the horses clattered against the cobbles, creating a rhythmic backdrop to the journey. Inside her carriage, Maera's excitement was palpable, but so was her nervousness. She couldn't help but fidget, struggling with her skirts in an attempt to find a comfortable position. She took deep breaths to steady herself, her nerves fluttering as the ceremony drew nearer.

Maera couldn't help but picture Aemond, imagining him standing near the High Septon, awaiting her arrival. In her mind, she saw his tall, lean figure, his regal presence, and his piercing violet eye that held so much power and mystery.

Amidst her musings, she couldn't help but wonder if Aemond was feeling any nerves before the ceremony. But she quickly dismissed the idea, convincing herself that the formidable One-Eyed Prince would not be affected by any such emotions. Instead, she was certain he was eagerly anticipating their upcoming intimacy, relishing the prospect of toying with her in a way she would undoubtedly enjoy. The thought brought a smile to her lips, momentarily easing her apprehension.

A reverberating bellow through the air interrupted her thoughts, as well as a sudden shadow eclipsed the sunlight, prompting Maera to glance out the window, her striking green eyes set on the skies. There, she caught sight of the majestic dragon Ēbrion, his dark blue and black scales glinting in the sunlight, and its incredible wingspan casting a grand silhouette against the sky. He soared above the carriage before beating his wings ferociously, peaking over the Sept in the distance before continuing onto the shoreline, where his lair awaited him.

The memory of that first breathtaking encounter with the dragon came to her mind, along with the connection she had felt with the dragon after she had shared her blood with him. Ever since that day on the beach, Maera had dreamt of Ēbrion and looked for him often outside her chamber window. His presence in the sky was awe-inspiring, and she couldn't help but wonder about the significance of his appearance on her wedding day. She couldn't help but wonder if the dragon somehow knew where she was headed and wanted to offer her a reassuring sign.

Throughout her life, Maera had cared for various animals at Rain House, from horses and hounds to the cats that roamed the grounds. But what she felt for Ēbrion was different. It was a connection that went beyond mere care; it was a powerful, peculiar feeling. Between the gasps and admirations of the peasants below, who clapped and cheered at the sight of the magnificent beast, Maera couldn't help but feel a surge of awe herself, realizing the power and grandeur that these creatures, much like House Targaryen, commanded in the hearts of the people.

After a while, the carriage came to a halt, the sound of the horse shoes on the paved road ceasing. The carriage door was opened by Ser Arryk, revealing their arrival at the Sept. In Maera’s mind, the journey appeared to be too long and too short at the same time. Her loyal protector courteously extended his arm towards her, offering his support to get out of the carriage, to which she took with a grateful smile.

Maera continued to grasp the Kingsguard’s arm as they ascended the many steps leading to the grand entrance of the Sept, her magnificent wedding dress flowing elegantly behind her.

"You look stunning, my Lady," Ser Arryk remarked, wearing a steadfast and protective expression, his hazel eyes watchful and reassuring. Maera, appreciative of his presence, couldn't help but convey her gratitude through a warm smile, accompanied by a nod of her head, but but make a self-deprecating comment.

"I feel a little like a prized mare being sold to a stable hand,” she chuckled, gesturing to the elaborate dress she was wearing.

“Nonsense,” replied the knight in a dismissive manner. “You truly embody the nickname bestowed upon you, the Jewel of Rainwood." His words caused Maera to blush, feeling a warmth in her cheeks and a thankful smile gracing her face.

Reaching to top of the many stone steps, Maera locked eyes with her father Lord Jasper, standing before the intimidating doors of the holy building. was adorned in a striking ensemble, with a turquoise tunic embellished with intricate golden embroidery, a testament to the House's colors. He wore deep black trousers that complemented the outfit splendidly, along with a turquoise cape that flowed gracefully and was fastened by a chain of gleaming gold.The Master of Laws’ distinguished appearance was further accentuated by his dark, well-kept hair and his keen, discerning green eyes, which exuded an air of authority and wisdom.

“You’re late,” the Lord commented, a slight smirk on his face, which Maera returned.

She responded quickly with a playful retort. "It's the one day in my life I can be fashionably late, Father." Lord Jasper chuckled, the tension in the air dissipating as they readied for the momentous ceremony.

Before entering the Sept, Maera was encircled by a group of Septas and Septons, their voices rising in melodic prayers and blessings to the Seven. They gathered around her, each invoking the Gods for guidance and protection for the bride on the momentous day. Lord Jasper took a step closer and with a tender yet ceremonial gesture, he attached his own turquoise cloak to her wedding dress.

With an air of solemnity and pride, he then extended his arm, offering it to Maera to link theirs together, signifying the solemn bond between father and daughter as they prepared to step into the sacred space of the Sept.

To fill the silence as they waited for the doors to open, Maera decided to commend Lord Jasper in a teasing manner. “I believe you should be congratulated once again, my Lord Father, for securing such a remarkable match for one of your children. Especially your most troublesome daughter.” Lord Jasper couldn't help but let out a silent chuckle, appreciating the jest.

Maera looked ahead at the doors, nerves beginning to bubble once more as she could hear the Septon inside leading the congregation in a prayer. She decided to be serious for a moment, taking a deep breath as she addressed her father.

“I know we have not always seen eye to eye. And you find the manner in which I live my life to be somewhat… questionable for a noble Lady. But after today, I will belong to House Targaryen,” She turned her head to gaze at her father, her eyes tracing the lines and contours of his aging face. “So, if you have any more wisdom to impart on me before my union, I suggest you speak it now, Father.”

To her surprise, instead of delivering a dutiful order or a half-patronizing speech about her responsibilities, Lord Jasper's eyes softened as he gazed at his daughter. His words carried a deep sense of affection and nostalgia. "You look just like your mother," he said tenderly, catching her off guard with a heartfelt sentiment.

A loud creaking noise seemed to startle both father and daughter as grand doors of the Sept swung open, revealing the hallowed interior of the seven-sided building. As the doors parted, Maera's gaze fell upon a scene of solemn beauty and grandeur.

The sacred space was filled with the nobility of King's Landing and courtiers from far and wide who had gathered to witness the union of Maera and Prince Aemond. The air was thick with a sense of anticipation and reverence. Sunlight streamed through the intricately detailed stained glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colors onto the marble floors. The high vaulted ceiling seemed to touch the seven heavens, its arches adorned with the symbols of the Faith of the Seven.

Guests were neatly stood in rows on either side of the building, forming an aisle, their eyes focused on the bride as she entered the Sept. The soft murmur of conversations and the rustle of fine garments echoed within the hall.

On the few steps leading up to the platform where the High Septon stood were the prominent members of the royal family and the court. King Aegon, though visibly hungover, wore Targaryen attire with the Conqueror's crown resting on his disheveled hair. His presence, though somewhat disheveled, was still that of the ruling monarch. Beside him stood his dutiful sister-wife Queen Helaena, regal in a dress of olive green that covered her little bump, her silver hair braided atop her head, gazed with an air of dignified anticipation.

Their grandfather and Hand of the King, Lord Otto Hightower, stood with his customary poise and authority. The symbol of the beacon of Oldtown was embroidered on the chest of his green and gold garments and a golden chain across his shoulders indicated his high status. Finally was the Hand’s daughter and the King and Queen’s mother, Alicent, her deep green attire adorned with a dragon scale pattern. She presented herself with modesty and faithful dedication to the Seven, her auburn hair half up and half down as she stood with grace and poise.

At the centre of the chancel stood High Septon Eustace, resplendent in his richly embroidered robes. He radiated an aura of solemnity and holiness as he prepared to officiate the wedding ceremony, a central figure in the sacred rite.

Finally, Maera’s bright green eyes fell upon Prince Aemond, her breath catching in her throat. The Prince's presence was striking, and he stood to the left of the Septon, a commanding yet captivating air about him.

Aemond's attire was nothing short of regal. His robe, made of smooth satin, was as dark as the night, a deep black that emphasized the dragon's signature color. The grandeur of the robe was enhanced by the golden dragons embroidered on each breast and adorning the collar. A thick black leather belt cinched his waist, accentuating his lean and muscular frame, and he wore black trousers that complemented his boots, which shone knee-high in glossy black.

One of the most captivating aspects of his appearance was his hair. Though it retained most of its signature look, the top was carefully braided along his scalp before flowing freely down his back, adding to the elegance of the ensemble. The Prince’s demeanor was as cool and composed as usual, but as Maera observed, there was a subtle softness in his slightly widened eye, a reflection of the unique bond they shared. His strong, slender frame radiated confidence and authority, making him a powerful presence within the Sept, one that Maera found impossible to tear her eyes away from.

Lord Jasper led her down more steps before walking through the parted aisle of courtiers. Maera’s feelings were a mix of excitement, anticipation, and a touch of nervousness. The weight of the moment was not lost on her, as she made her way towards her intended. The gazes of the courtiers in the Sept were upon her, and as she proceeded, she received a sea of respectful nods, smiles, and quiet murmurs of admiration. Amongst the crowd, Maera spotted her stepmother, brothers and her sister. They waved eagerly at her, causing her heart to swell with relief and love for them.

Having escorted Maera to the front of the Sept, Lord Jasper granted his daughter a soft smile before leaving her side to join the rest of the gathered crowd. Maera turned to face Aemond, her emotions a whirlwind of nervousness and excitement. Her heart raced, and her green eyes locked onto his one violet eye. There was a subtle, reassuring smile on Aemond's lips as he looked at her, and the sight of him helped calm her nerves. He offered his hand and she took it eagerly, clutching on to it to steady herself before ascending more steps to face the High Septon, who awaited them between the statues of the Father and the Mother.

The High Septon’s voice resonated throughout the grand Sept as he addressed Aemond, instructing him, "You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection."

Maera obediently turned her back to him and felt the heavy weight of the cloak being placed over her shoulders. The black velvet with golden dragon embroidery was a symbol of their union, and it sent shivers down her spine. As Aemond's fingertips lingered on her shoulders, and his warm breath brushed against her neck, Maera felt a rush of anticipation. The physical contact, however brief, sent a thrill through her, intensifying her excitement for the ceremony and the night that would follow.

With the bride cloaked, the Septon proceeded to address the entire assembly. He began by acknowledging the presence of House Targaryen, extending his reverence to the King, Queen, Queen Mother and Lord Hand. Then he shifted his focus to the courtiers, declaring, "My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever."

The Septon, his voice resonating with solemnity, began leading the couple and the congregation in prayers, invoking the blessings of the Gods upon their union. Maera couldn't help but entertain a thought about the irony of a celibate Septon asking for fertility and fruitful marriage.

In the midst of the ceremony, Maera stole a quick glance at Aemond, finding him already looking at her. The slight blush that tinted her cheeks revealed the fluttering excitement and emotion within. She noticed a mischievous smirk gracing Aemond's face, and the shared moment between them felt like a glimpse into the beginning of their shared journey.

Septon Eustace, after the prayers, produced a golden silk ribbon, a symbol of unity and connection. With a graceful motion, he tied the fabric into a secure knot around the hands of Aemond and Maera. Their hands entwined, bound together by the delicate ribbon, signifying their union.

As the ribbon was unraveled by the Septon, the grand moment arrived when he directed them, "Look upon each other and say the words." The eyes of the betrothed couple met, and the profound weight of their vows and commitments settled in. The couple’s breathing became synced as they gazed upon each other before uttering the vows simultaneously to each other, that so many had said before them.

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger..."

"I am hers…”

"I am his…”

“and she is mine.”

“and he is mine.”

“From this day…”

“…until the end of my days."

With the vows exchanged, the moment arrived for the couple to seal their union with a kiss. Maera watched intently as Aemond leaned in, feeling a rush of butterflies flutter in her stomach. It was a pivotal moment in their relationship, unlike any other they had shared.

As their lips met, the kiss was soft and chaste, a marked contrast to the fiery and passionate encounters they had experienced before. Their lips moved together in a gentle and tender connection, causing Maera's emotions to swirl within her—a combination of excitement, vulnerability, and the beginning of a new chapter.

The kiss was over all too quickly, leaving Maera yearning for more. They joined hands, facing the congregation, and the assembled guests erupted into enthusiastic applause and cheering, celebrating the union of Prince Aemond and his wife, the new Princess of the Realm.

As soon as they could, Maera and Aemond exited the Sept, hand in hand, and moved with haste toward the awaiting carriage. Their footsteps were filled with purpose, and anticipation of the moments yet to come. Once inside the privacy of the carriage, with Aemond sitting opposite to Maera, the door closed behind them, and the horses began to pull them away from the Sept. Maera, feeling the tension and anticipation of the day finally receding, breathed a sigh of relief.

Aemond's observant eyes didn't miss it, and he couldn't help but ask, "Relieved, are we?"

She chuckled softly in response, the weight of the ceremony no longer bearing down on her. "Yes," she admitted, "I am glad it's over. Now the union is official."

A sly grin played on Aemond's lips, and he raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with sinister allure. "Well," he said, leaning forward slightly, "The marriage is not valid in the eyes of the Realm or the Gods until it's...consummated."

Maera's nervous gulp didn't escape his notice. She could see the amusement dancing in his eyes, and she sensed his playful intentions, perhaps even an attempt to assert his dominance over her. Never one to back down from a challenge, Maera met Aemond's smirk with one of her own. She crossed her legs under her skirts, a smug expression taking hold. It was a battle of wills, and she was determined not to let him have the upper hand.

"You seem rather fixated on the consummation, my Prince,” Maera provocatively remarked, green eyes settling on the One-Eyed Prince. She couldn't help but smirk, her eyes sparkling with mischief, as she teased further, "I am surprised that you actually refrained from trying to sneak into my chambers before the today ."

Aemond let out a low, thoughtful hum, his jaw clenching slightly as he met her challenge. With a wicked smirk, he leaned in closer, whispering in a husky tone, "Time will tell who will give in first tonight." He couldn't resist the opportunity to tease her, his voice seductive and a hint of provocation as he added, "I have no doubt that you will be the one begging to be bedded."

Maera arched an eyebrow, her lips curving into a defiant smile. "We shall see about that."

Upon their return to the Red Keep for the wedding celebrations, Aemond and Maera entered a transformed hall, now adorned for the wedding reception. The room was filled with splendor, a breathtaking sight. Decorations of shimmering gold and black adorned the walls and ceilings, matching the Targaryen and Wylde colors. Torches and candles were lit, casting a warm and inviting glow.

At the front of the room, a magnificent top table was prepared for the bride and groom. It was adorned with intricate dragon-themed centerpieces, golden goblets, and fresh flowers. The chairs at the top table were especially ornate, fit for a prince and his bride. The feast laid out on the tables was a grand display of culinary delights. There were roasted meats, fresh fish, fruits, and various other dishes to tantalize the guests' taste buds. The tables were covered in sumptuous linens, and the settings gleamed with golden tableware.

The newlyweds sat at the top table, flanked by their respective families. As the speeches were made, the room was filled with laughter and joy. Prominent figureheads of their Houses shared amusing anecdotes, offered heartfelt congratulations, and raised their glasses in a toast to the happy couple. The words of wisdom, love, and support from friends and family brought smiles to the faces of Aemond and Maera.

Throughout the speeches, Aemond's hand rested on Maera's in her lap, a silent but reassuring presence. As the speeches concluded, the bride and groom were prompted to take part in the first dance as husband and wife. With smiles and grace, they rose from their seats, their hands entwined as the walked to the dance floor.

The dance commenced with a graceful bow and curtsy as the music began to play. As they moved together on the floor, their dance seemed to emulate dragons soaring through the skies. They held hands, their fingers entwined as they twirled and stepped in perfect sync, their movements fluid and harmonious.

Throughout the dance, Maera’s face bore a mix of excitement and contentment as she looked into Aemond's eye, her expression soft and tender. Aemond, too, looked regal and composed, but there was a gentleness in his demeanor as he danced with his bride. His eye held an intensity, but his lips curved into a genuine smile as they moved in unity across the dance floor. The room was filled with the joy of the moment, and all eyes were on the newlyweds as they continued their choreography, their elegance and grace captivating the onlookers.

As the dance came to a graceful conclusion, Maera curtsied with a flourish, and Aemond executed a deep bow to her. Their performance was met with thunderous applause and cheers from the delighted audience. Amidst the jubilant atmosphere, Maera glanced around the room, her eyes catching the attention of numerous attendees who vied for her recognition with respectful nods and raised glasses.

She turned to Aemond and said, "I think it is only proper that we go and greet our guests, do you not?"

Aemond hummed in agreement, and Maera playfully cocked her head, her voice laced with suggestion. "We will reconvene later, my Prince."

Aemond responded with a flirtatious grin, his tone equally suggestive. "Until then, Princess."

Notes: Ahhhh next chapter smut yall 😎

Tags: @blue-serendipity @watercolorskyy @manipulatixe @marvelescvpe @shesjustanothergeek @grungegrrrl

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[lost-coin]

SKG Prompts :: Valentione's (OLD - 2023)

Done for when I was running monthly FC prompts.

Myrddin belongs to @blossomblade

Word count: 1,044

The sweet scent of chocolate hung thick in the air of the small café that sat on cobbled paths overlooking the Mist Beach. Valentione’s was a busy season, it seemed, even for people visiting or even native to the isles of Vylbrand. Jaydin had found herself busy with baking all kinds of sweets, pastries, and even making chocolates — be they silky smooth milk chocolates, bittersweet dark chocolates, or even the creamy and rich white chocolates.

Kukuru beans had been easy to procure, thankfully enough. Contacts at the Red Rooster Stead in Lower La Noscea had been more than happy to part with them — especially after some of the contracts that allowed the Starry Knights to travel and offer protection services to the botanists and farmers there. Thanks to their work with them, a lot of their payments came in the form of amazingly taken care of kukuru bean pods, oranges, wheat, eggs, and preserved meats.

“How is everything?” came a voice that caused Jaydin to look up at the woman peeking in at her from behind a curtain that separated the kitchen from the rest of the storefront. Jaydin could only take a moment to use the back of her arm to wipe the sweat from her brow. As it was, her hands had been dusted in sugar, flour, and a number of other things as she worked on the next batch of pastries.

“Um… I think things are looking good, Solongo,” Jaydin replied, glancing down at the baking tray that had the cookie dough placed upon it. Offering a sheepish smile, Jaydin continued with, “It really would help if Trelix, Denewulf, or Pirhoh were around. They really enjoy working in the kitchen.”

“Mm… it really is too bad two of the three are still taking care of some kobold patrols over in lower La Noscea,” Solongo admitted. “I’d help, but as I’ve said before — I never really learned to cook on the Steppe before I came to Eorzea.”

“It’s alright, Solongo. I just have to put a little more elbow grease into getting the Garden going smoothly,” Jaydin replied with a smile. She was not going to burden Solongo with anything other than dealing with people in the front that came by — at least she was good with people. Even if their sometimes rude ribbing of one another might have made some of the other Garden workers and Knights think otherwise.

“I suppose we can always hope Denewulf shows up soon,” Solongo commented.

“Ah… he’ll probably be back within the next bell or two. I did ask him to pick up some new herbs and spices from The Seventh Sage in Limsa since he had to report back to the Culinarians’ Guild at the Bismarck to show the guildmaster his progress. It’s a shame he had his evaluation within the season of Valentione’s… but I suppose it also makes sense. I can only imagine that he’ll have his hands full if the guildmaster and other culinarians at the Bismarck have their hands full with all the couples’ reservations they no doubt have…” Jaydin went off on a tangent that caused her to pause in mixing her ingredients. When she realized, she quickly went back to mixing the lemon creme cookie batter together.

“Then let’s hope that the Bismarck has everything under control…” Solongo sighed softly before the bell at the entrance rang and called her back to the front as someone new showed up.

Smiling to herself with a bit of shake of her head, Jaydin got the baking tray situated into the oven before working on the next batch from her mixing bowl. Yes, Valentione’s was certainly a holiday that would see more and more business the more well known the Garden would become — if good word spread around, anyroad…

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the night finally came and business at the Garden slowed to a crawl, Jaydin had found herself grateful that Denewulf had finally returned from Limsa Lominsa with the extra baking goods and spices for their menu. At least with him, taking care of baked goods was more than in the bag when it came to servicing the customers and what they wanted. Luckily, it was smooth sailing till the end of the day and everyone else had packed up to retire to their rooms or head to their own homes.

Jaydin, having stayed behind for cleanup, had other things in mind, however. Taking some items out and getting them prepped, she began preparing a more special meal. With a glance in the chronometre’s direction momentarily, she nodded and reassured herself that she had more than enough time.

A spare baguette had been set aside for garlic bread, and the materials to make a creamy Ishgardian-style chicken were collected from their respective spots. Heavy cream, sun-dried tomatoes, butter, olive oil, pepper, salt, garlic, fresh chives, parmesan cheese, and some baby spinach were all she needed for now. Allowing herself to stay focused on the task, Jaydin had gotten everything going for one of Myrddin’s favourite dishes in their time that they had been together.

Alongside the main course of the night, Jaydin prepared everything else for a chocolate lava cake — something that appeared to have elicited a child-like happiness of her love whenever he got to experience it. This was something that took a good bell or so, and Jaydin had worked up a bit of a sweat to her brow once everything had finally settled down and she got everything plated.

Huffing to herself, she covered the meals and quickly hurried to the bathroom in the back to wash her face and fix her hair. With what little time she had left knowing what time Myrddin would be back, she then went to their room to put on something a little nicer. Viewing herself in the mirror, she looked at the mist silk blouse and the skirt she had thrown together with the pumps that she had procured on her last visit to Gridania. Satisfied with her appearance, she departed and got the food items taken to a table in the café and then retrieved a bottle of red wine and some glasses to accompany the meal.

Hopefully Myrddin would have appreciated the Valentione’s gesture when he entered through the door.

[humanpurposes]

We're Born At Night

Chapter 1

Lady Rhaelle Targaryen of Runestone travels to King's Landing to plead for her sister's life, though the King she must bow to is a kinslayer three times over, and the very man who slaughtered her father

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Rhaelle Targaryen (OFC)

Warnings: 18+, eventual smut, politics, mentions of death and war

Words: 4.3k

A/n: a self-indulgent post-dance fic and I'm excited about it :)

She rocks with the carriage as it rolls over the cobbled streets of King’s Landing. Bricks and tiles in dull shades of red, yellow and browns move past the window, and the air is thick with dust and all sorts of unpleasant smells. 

Her heart sinks at the absence of greenery, like the forests and fields that surround Runestone, the sounds of rivers and streams, the bright bursts of colour in the wildflowers. The Red Keep overlooks Blackwater Bay, she remembers that. She loved rising early to watch the sunrise, to see the waves glow red and gold. She loved going down to the beach below the castle to feel the warm summer sun on her face and dip her toes into the cold water.

It is autumn now. Grey clouds dull the sunlight and there is a chill in the air.

Daena sits opposite her, tugging at her sleeves and the collar of her travelling cloak. They are in matching gowns of dark green velvet, newly made for their visit to court; a cheap play for the King’s favour, but she needs all the help she can get. 

Her younger sister’s constant fussing is irritating, but Rhaelle cannot blame her.

“You look beautiful, my lady,” says Morra, Rhaelle’s handmaiden who sits beside her, a sharp and observant young woman.

Daena’s harshly violet eyes glare up at her. She gives a small huff and drops her arms into her lap. “I look better in red,” she says.

“Careless talk like that will cost you your tongue the moment we’re through the castle gates,” Rhaelle warns.

Daena tuts and turns her head towards the window. “What an awful place,” she says.

Rhaelle pulls back the thin curtain with the tip of her finger. Miserable faces, crowds of bodies, market stalls, bands of mummers, and an endless array of buildings pass her by. She has prayed to the old gods and the new that their visit to the Red Keep will be short, but that is wishful thinking and she has never been much of an optimist.

Ten years ago she had been hunting with her late mother’s cousin, Ser Gerold, when a raven appeared over the hills, headed for Runestone. It had filled her with an inexplicable dread and she could not understand why until she returned to the castle to learn of the death of Laena Velaryon, her step-mother. Daemon had summoned his eldest three daughters to Driftmark to see her laid to rest and mourn alongside two sisters they had never met. In a matter of days, Ser Laenor was dead too, Daemon had married Princess Rhaenyra on Dragonstone, and had plans for three more marriages.

Their oldest sister, Alyssa, and Prince Jacaerys were married at the Red Keep little more than a month later, she being sixteen and he a boy of ten. Baela was betrothed to Prince Lucerys, and Rhaelle was betrothed to Prince Joffrey, only a babe at the time.

While Rhaelle and Daera had returned to Runestone, Alyssa had remained at Dragonstone with her husband and so her fate had been sealed.

They come to a gatehouse made of red stone, where the banners of House Targaryen loom proudly over the walls and flutter in the breeze. The sight sparks a memory Rhaelle had forgotten she had, and suddenly it feels like she never left this place at all. Her family’s sigil, the three-headed dragon, should be more familiar to her than it really is. She finds more comfort in the colours of white and bronze, black pebbles and the ancient runes of her mother’s house.

She looks down at her own sleeves, at the runes embroidered into the cuffs with golden thread. The right reads the words of House Royce: We remember. On the left though, is a saying far older, so old that no one can truly say where it came from, only that it has been passed down in proverbs amongst those who carry the blood of the first men. Now they are written in books and scripture, carved onto tombs, whispered in prayers said before a weirwood, spoken to her by her mother: Learn to die.

Did those words pass the lips of Rhea Royce when she fell from her horse and cracked her head open on a rock? Did they echo through her mind when she lay in her bed, either unconscious or incoherent for nine days?

Does Alyssa utter them to herself in the darkness of the Black Cells?

The carriage comes to a stop. Rhaelle takes a deep breath, checks that her hair is neatly pinned back, that her gown sits right and that her boots are spotless. There can be no room for weakness here, not where people will judge every move she makes, note every word she says and stare into her eyes as if to read her very thoughts.

The door is opened for her and she steps out into the courtyard clutching the hand of one of her household guards.

Lord Corlys is waiting to greet them by the steps to the castle, dressed in fine robes of sea green and silver. On his collar she spots a gleam of gold, the pin that marks him as the Hand of the King. 

When she had last seen Lord Corlys he was the Seasnake, a naval hero who carved out his own legacy and built his seat of Hightide to fill with the trophies of his victories. Now Hightide is nothing more than ruins buried in ash and Lord Corlys is an old man leaning on a cane, with long silver locks, a thick white beard and a tired look in his eyes, the look of a man who has seen his last war. 

He offers her a small bow of his head. “Lady Rhaelle, what an honour it is to welcome you to the Red Keep.”

Daena follows her and greets Lord Corlys with a perfect curtsey. He smiles and notes how much they have changed since he last saw them, but they were girls then, young and sweet, only grieving their first loss.

Morra takes their travelling cloaks before Lord Corlys leads them inside, followed by their household guard. The halls are quiet and solemn, the colours she remembers from childhood somehow duller and she wonders if it is because she is older.

Eyes fall to the sisters easily and whispers echo wherever they walk. She hears a faint whisper of “traitor” as they come to the great stairwell in the very heart of the castle. She looks around her and above, up into the cavernous space overhead where faces peer down from balconies and galleries, made hazy by smoke and heat from the braziers.

Traitor, the accusation clings in her stomach and throat, until Daena’s hand gently wraps around her wrist and urges her to walk on. But perhaps the whispers are right. She is the daughter of a traitor, the sister of a traitor, perhaps it is in her blood and she cannot escape it.

They are shown to their chambers in the west wing of the castle. A small reception room joins two privy chambers and two bedchambers beyond that. It is a pity, she would have liked a room where she could see Blackwater Bay or the Kingswood to the south.

Her bedroom is a little smaller than her own bedchamber at Runestone, decorated with tapestries, furnishings and details in green, gold, red and black. She looks from the window, over the towering walls of Maegor’s Holdfast of her lavishly decorated prison, a thought which she immediately reprimands herself for. She will not allow herself such pity, not while her sister is a prisoner.

Alyssa had stayed by her husband’s side through the war, donned a widow’s veil when he fell in battle and decided that she would stay on Dragonstone when Rhaenyra took King’s Landing.

The war went on. Alyssa's letters stopped abruptly. Word came that the commonfolk had revolted against Rhaenyra, and her own betrothed, the boy Joffrey, was slain in the fighting.

Then came the raven from King Aegon. Rhaenyra was dead and their remaining siblings had been taken captive: Little Aegon, Baela, Rhaena, and Alyssa. She can still the words scrawled onto the parchment: “She has been treated with no unnecessary cruelty.”

Aegon wouldn’t have dared lay a hand on Baela and Rhaena, not with Lord Corlys on his small council. Alyssa had no such protection, not with their father rotting alongside the corpse of the dragon at the bottom of the God’s Eye.

And now the man who slaughtered him wears the crown.

Lord Corlys has invited her to dine with him, in his chambers in the Tower of the Hand. Daylight fades swiftly into twilight as she crosses the courtyard that her bedchamber overlooks, past the lowered drawbridge of the Holdfast. With winter approaching, the days are growing shorter.

A servant of Lord Corlys’ leads her up a single flight of stairs, through a reception room and into a small dining hall. The table is set with fine silverware and glass cups, lit by flickering flames of candles and a blazing hearth. Lord Corlys sits at the head of the table and rises to meet her. She offers him her hand, and he presses his lips to her knuckles.

“Is your sister not joining us, my lady?” he asks.

She smiles politely. Daena fears for Alyssa’s life as much as she does, but she is not meant for the delicacy of a negotiation.

Her place is set to his right and as she sits he pours her out a glass of wine. “From the Summer Isles,” he says. “I could never understand why anyone would bother with the stuff that comes from the Arbour.”

“We are lovers of ale and cider in the Vale,” Rhaelle says, “but I trust your taste, my Lord.”

They raise their glasses to each other and take small sips as two servants bring in plates of beef, bread and butter, and roasted vegetables. They move like shadows between the candlelight, their footsteps light, their movements gentle and unobtrusive. They are gone as quickly as they came.

When the door is shut, Lord Corlys leans forward with his elbows on the table and his hands clasped together. He says quietly, “I intend to put your matter to the King in the morning.”

Rhaelle places her glass down on the table, her hand lingering on the base. Sadness suddenly strikes her heart. “You mean you have not spoken to him at all?”

“I have told him you seek to improve your position, and the position of your younger sister, of which he has been supportive.”

“But what about the matters we have discussed?” she asks.

His eyes are distant, settled on nothing in particular. He reaches to take a roll of bread from the table, but he does not eat it, he simply places it on his plate. “Lady Alyssa is an admirable woman, truly. She reminds me much of Baela–”

“Not admirable enough for you to appeal on her behalf,” Rhaelle says sharply. “I only wish to see her returned to her home, to Runestone.”

“In the eyes of the King, she is a traitor to the realm. She challenged the true line of succession.”

“As did you,” she says, “at the start of the war, you pledged your support for Rhaenyra.”

“Aye, I did, for the good of my family, and the cost was great.”

“Greater than siding with those who killed your wife?”

Corlys looks to her with a grave expression. “And Aemond killed your father, but you have come to his court, in the hopes of lobbying him, to plead for his mercy and his favour.”

But that’s different, isn’t it? Her father was a rare presence at Runestone, his name hanging over her head like an unspoken secret. He did not come to lay his first wife to rest, but he had tried to claim her inheritance and had no difficulty condemning their daughter to a marriage that would tie her to a war.

“I just want my sister to be safe,” she utters.

“I want that too,” Lord Corlys says and she can almost believe him.

“When can I speak to him? When will he release her?”

He takes a slow breath. “We must approach this matter with caution,” he says, “and it will be worth your while. Many say Aemond is a far more reasonable man than his brother was.”

“You served them both. What do you have to say on Aemond’s reason?”

A sad look falls over his face. He looks the way he did the day his daughter was buried. “Aemond is just, in his own way, but the Targaryens have always ruled with fire and blood, and he is no exception.”

When she returns to her bedchamber, she finds Daena curled up on a chaise by the dying hearth. 

“She wished to see you after your dinner with Lord Corlys,” Morra mutters as Rhaelle fetches a blanket from the bed and drapes it over her sister. “It has been a tedious few months, and I do not doubt she is tired after the journey from Runestone.”

As a child, Rhaelle often wondered if she and her sisters had been born cursed. They had inherited nothing of their father’s looks save for his violet eyes; three Targaryen girls with dark curls and the stern face of their mother. Daena has always had a softness that she and Alyssa never had, a fuller face, a smaller nose, slight but pouted lips and large eyes. She looks like a doll, even in sleep.

She smooths her hand over Daena’s head, lightly so she will not disturb her, like she used to do when she was a babe. Daena makes a small humming noise in her chest but does not rouse.

She wishes her sister could rise from her sleep well rested, to a world where she would never know fear or uncertainty. Such a possibility seems close; in her heart she chases it like a hare, a flash of movement through a forest. She need only draw an arrow and strike her target.

Rhaelle is awake before dawn. By the time Daena will have started to stir, Morra has her bathed, skin scrubbed with sugar and honey then scented with lavender oil, dressed, then adds the finishing touches to her hair. She takes the top half and braids it around Rhaelle’s head like a crown, the rest falling freely down her back. With no Queen, the ladies of the court are said to follow the fashions of Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Helaena. If she is to be a lady of Aemond’s court, a Targaryen, she must appear the part.

She breaks her fast in her privy chamber. Servants bring in jugs of cherry juice, bowls of sweet stewed oats, platters of blackberry tarts and slices of apple dusted with sugar and cinnamon. The sun rises over the courtyard and a pale shade of red shines through the window where the light reflects from the red stone of the Holdfast.

Daena bounces into the room like an excitable child and takes a blackberry tart before she has even taken a seat. She will need to work on her table manners before she dines before the King and his court, Rhaelle notes. Her hair has been brought into one thick braid that falls over her shoulder and her gown is black, like Rhaelle’s, but detailed with silver rather than gold. 

“What did Lord Corlys say to you last night?” she asks, following her pastry with a sip of cherry juice.

“He said that he means to put our cause to the King, and that we must employ patience.”

Daena scoffs, “patience?”

Rhaelle shares a pointed look with Morra, standing by the table. “We have no other choice,” she says, “and you will mind what you say, even in private, even when you think we are alone.”

“I thought the Master of Whispers had been put to death, or does Larys Strong still manage to spy on the Kingdom without a head?”

“And will you continue to slander the King if I find a smith to wrench out your tongue?”

Daena glares at her, then pouts her lips to stifle a giggle.

They finish their meal in relative peace and when they are done, Rhaelle is left with a pleasantly sharp sweetness on her tongue from the fruit. Morra adorns her with jewellery, all gold and set with rubies, a chain about her waist, earrings and a necklace. For the final touch she dabs tinted rosewater on her cheeks and lips.

“They say he’s terribly dull,” Daena says, patiently waiting her turn.

Rhaelle frowns at her through the mirror. “The King?”

“Tyland fucking Lannister– yes, the King.” 

Prince Joffrey had been far too young to be her escort to the wedding of Alyssa and Prince Jacaerys. Aegon was already betrothed to Helaena, and so on the day of the festivities Rhaelle had been presented with a sombre looking, silver-haired Prince. He frowned constantly, which she did not doubt had something to do with the cut through his left eye. The wound and his skin was red, held together with stitches. He often had his hands balled into fists, breathing deeply through his nose as though he was in pain. He tried to talk to her about his studies, and asked her about the histories of Runestone and House Royce. He led her through one dance after dinner before he retreated to his chambers. She had despaired with Alyssa the next day that she hadn’t been allowed to be escorted by any other young man of the court. That boy is a man now, and a kinslayer thrice over.

“Better a dull King than a drunk King, I suppose,” she says quietly.

“Who’s a slanderer now?” Daena says with a wicked smile. 

There are less clouds in the sky this morning. Sunlight bleeds through tall windows and floods the halls of the castle. It is more lively now, servants hurry about with baskets of food and fresh linens, men and women in all their finery walk through courtyards and galleries, though most are gathering at the throne room.

Rhaelle and Daena stay arm in arm, until they reach the entrance hall and the great oak doors that lead into the great hall.

“These carvings are new,” Rhaelle wonders aloud. The stone is cleaner here than it is in the rest of the castle, images of dragons carved into walls, pillars and archways. 

She hears the ominous hum of voices on the other side of the doors. She can picture them, the staring faces like a pack of wolves eager to sink their teeth and claws into the daughters of Daemon Targaryen.

And she can picture the Iron Throne, where her uncle once sat with the golden crown of the Consolidator atop his head.

Daena leans in close to Rhaelle’s ear, tightening her hold on her arm. “But he was a dragonrider, and a warrior, surely he cannot be so dull.”

She tries to imagine that boy from the wedding feast, his serious expression, his round little face, a single sad blue eye darting around the hall. Then she imagines a killer, a bloodthirsty monster with fangs for teeth and talons for hands. She cannot place them in the same body.

“They say he has a sapphire set in the empty socket, but that he wears an eyepatch so as not to frighten the ladies at court.”

She has heard of this story, like Ser Symeon star eyes. “How considerate of him,” Rhaelle adds, glancing over her shoulder but no one seems to have heard them. She clenches her jaw and takes slow, steady breaths in the hopes that it will calm her nerves, just enough to get through this ordeal.

“I wonder if he is handsome?” Daena adds.

He’ll be wearing the Conqueror’s Crown, Valyrian steel and set with square rubies, the same worn by his brother, by Maegor the Cruel. She has only seen it in history books.

“There were awful rumours about Aegon, but he has his own now, doesn’t he?”

He will surely have Blackfyre by his side too, unless he managed to claim Dark Sister from their father’s hands once he was slain. Would he take it as a trophy of war? The thought makes her stomach churn.

“The Harrenhal whore,” Daena hisses.

This tale she is also familiar with. Aemond had marched to Harrenhal and left King’s Landing undefended. When he arrived at that cursed castle and heard the news that he had lost the capital, he slaughtered all of House Strong for treachery, save for a bastard woman, some kind of servant who he took as a bedmate. “He made her Lady of Harrenhal,” she adds, much to the ire of the realm’s Lords.

"A generous patron then," Daena chuckles, and then she falters. She lowers her voice even further till it is scarcely a breath against Rhaelle’s ear. “Will he kill Alyssa too?”

A familiar feeling of fear strikes her in her chest, squeezing on her heart and lungs. She can make no promises, not before she hears the sound of wood creaking as the doors are swung open and the voice of Ser Willis Fell calls, “Lady Rhaelle Targaryen of Runestone, and her sister, Lady Daena Targaryen!”

She drops Daena’s hand on instinct and takes a step before her like a sworn shield. The hungry faces stare up at them but she looks ahead, to the Iron Throne, to the man who sits amongst the mass of swords.

He is too distant for her to make out the details of his face, but they become clearer as she walks through the hall. If there are any whispers of “traitor,” she does not hear them.

The crown sits proudly upon his head of silver hair, long enough to pass his shoulders and fall to his chest. He is dressed all in black with no other distinguishable colours other than the silver buckles on his jerkin, and wears an eyepatch over the left side of his face.

She stops at the base of the steps leading up to the throne, knowing Daena is lingering behind her. Now she sees more of him, the line of his scar, the sharp angles of his face, his jaw, his cheeks, his nose. Most of all her attention is drawn to his mouth, to the curve of his lips, the way they settle in an expression that could almost be amused, were it not for the look of fury and hunger in his remaining eye, which is violet, like her father’s, like hers.

Lord Corlys stands by his side, but she keeps her eyes on the King and curtseys as deeply as she can. She feels her legs trembling under her skirt, her hands shaking by her sides no matter how she wills them to stop. Aemond stares at her all the while, not sparing a glance for Daena who will be following her lead.

“My King,” she says, only to find her jaw is trembling too. She dare not take her eyes from Aemond, should he take it as a sign of weakness. 

She knows the words she must say, Lord Corlys had been very specific, but there’s a thick feeling in her throat, a reluctance that she never had before, now that Aemond’s one eye is boring into her very soul.

She allows herself a breath. “My King, my sister and I have come to renounce the pretender, Rhaenyra, and all those who supported her treason, including our late father–” her eyes fall to the ground before she can stop herself. 

“You have come to ask something of me, cousin?” Aemond says. His voice, hauntingly gentle, draws her eyes back up to him.

“We have come to beg your forgiveness, and pledge our undying love and fealty to you,” she bows her head once more, “the one true King.”

Relief lifts a weight from her body but fear creeps under her skin like a fever, burning and chilling all at once. Murmurs fill the air and she hears Daena let out an exhale of breath, further away than she had expected her to be.

She keeps her head down as she sees movement in front of her, as the murmurs die down and the sound of tauntingly slow footsteps approach her where she kneels.

“Rise, my Lady,” Aemond says. 

She does as she is instructed, straightens her body, her neck, and the last thing she lifts is her gaze.

There is something sinister in the intensity of his eye as it moves about her face, the care he takes in reaching for her hand and pressing an achingly light kiss to it that lingers on her skin, but then he does not let her go. He holds his hand firmly over hers as if to keep his kiss there. “You shall be an honoured guest in my court, Lady Rhaelle.”

She cannot tell if this is kindness or a butcher calming a lamb before the slaughter.

He goes to Daena and kisses her hand, but he does not hold her the way he did Rhaelle.

“Those of my blood who are loyal shall always have a place at my court,” he says to the hall and is met with a cautious applause. 

Rhaelle meets Daena’s eye as they turn to face the crowd. Her sister frowns innocently, wide eyes begging for an explanation. Why should they trust him? Why should they have to appeal to him when they played no part in the war, when they did not challenge his brother’s inheritance? Why should they beg for forgiveness from a kinslayer King?

Aemond looks over his subjects with his head held high and his hands behind his back. He carries no sword, just a knife tucked in on his right hip. He does not regard his people with the warmth of King Viserys, instead he watches them like he’s looking for fear, like he thrives in it.

And he is so utterly captivating.

Tags (comment to be added)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria @lacebvnny

Series taglist: @adragonprinceswhore @persephonerinyes @gemini-mama @aemondzyrys @snh96 @magnificentdelusionr

[bimaddieshan]

one word prompt:

feather

TW: mentions of strangulation/near death experience, domestic violence

--

The front door has never looked so imposing.

Ken stands outside of his apartment, eyes unfocused. It's only been three weeks, but it feels like it's been a lifetime. The days bleed together; his family tries to go about their normal routines while he stays frozen on Colt's couch, locked in endless stagnation.

His entire existence had been stagnant once. He hadn't minded it then. How was he supposed to know he was missing anything? But now he knows, and his brain screams at him to get up, go back to work and keep moving. Put one foot in front of the other, and don't look back.

Like usual.

Nothing is normal right now. It may never be again. Not that his existence is conventional - he'd been a doll for six decades, after all. A semblance of a normal, adult human life had just been cobbled together when Patrick Murphy came in like a tornado, ruining the life Ken built for himself, ruining Ken. He's left with nothing but memories, the fading bruises on his neck a stark reminder of what happened on the other side of the apartment door.

A hand slides into his. Ken jumps, and shame immediately curls in his belly. It's just Colt. Barbie's here, too. His two pillars of strength, flanking him, protecting him. How is he supposed to repay them? Maybe he can't.

"You don't have to do this," Barbie says gently. "Colt and I can take care of it."

"No." Ken winces. It's been weeks, but his throat is still raw, vocal cords still healing. He's trying not to talk much, and for once, it's been relatively easy. He doesn't have much to say. "I hid some stuff and I need to get them."

Ken takes a deep breath and unlocks the door, glad when Barbie doesn't argue further. With a shaking hand, Ken turns the knob. The door creaks open, and for the first time in three weeks, he flicks on the light.

Colt sucks in a sharp breath as they venture into the apartment. The place is a disaster. Ken doesn't remember much of it - every now and again, images of Patrick shouting and breaking things flash before his eyes, but he hasn't been able to piece together an accurate timeline. The altercation ended in the bedroom, but evidence of Patrick's rampage lies in the living room, pieces of Ken's life strewn about like nothing.

Glass crunches beneath Ken's shoes. Picture frames lay shattered on the floor, the photos torn to shreds. All of his work, of course, he notes as he continues down the hall. Patrick's photographs hang on the wall, too, and Ken was so proud to display them, to show off his partner's talent. He finds a picture of the Malibu Beach taken at sunset torn to shreds on the floor, pieces of red, gold, and orange unrecognizable to everyone but him. Pat's own photo of a local park at sunrise hangs proudly on the wall. Ken hums a short, bitter note.

Funny how none of Patrick's things were destroyed, isn't it?

Ken heads toward the bedroom, feet carrying him on autopilot. Colt remains rooted in place. This is the stuntman's first time seeing the damage, the worst of Ken's inner world that he refused to let anyone else see.

Everything is fine. Patrick's good. What bruise? Oh, that. I whacked myself in the eye with my camera. I'm an idiot.

The living room is nothing compared to the bedroom.

Boxes lay on their sides, Ken's belongings toppling out of them. His bed is a mess - the sheets are destroyed, the pillows hardly recognizable. Ken picks up a stray feather, twirling it in his fingers. He doesn't remember touching the bed. He doesn't remember Patrick knocking over the boxes. When Ken crouches down to take a closer look, he sees his favorite leather jacket, slash marks cutting through the sleeves. His small, pink vinyl player is in pieces, his favorite records snapped in half, Matchbox Twenty, Prince, and Taylor Swift staring at him in betrayal.

There's blood on the corner of his dresser. Ken's hand drifts absentmindedly to a healing cut on his forehead. Ken rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, hands trembling. What happened in here? How did Patrick's attack start in the living room and end here, his bedroom, the place he should be safest? Why is most of the attack tucked away, buried so deeply in his head that he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to access them?

Patrick's rampages are nothing new, yet the memories refuse to come. There's only one part he remembers clearly.

His breath hitches, and Ken resolutely keeps his eyes locked on the boxes. The bedroom's threshold is a stark reminder of the delicate balance between life and death. He doesn't remember how they got there, but it's the one thing Ken remembers.

Lying on the floor, half of his body in the bedroom, half out the door. Patrick straddling him, and hands, cold, cruel hands wrapped tightly around his neck. Ken's face is wet. His heart hammers in his chest, and he presses his palms tightly to his eyes, wishing it would just stop.

It's the only thing he remembers, and it keeps him awake at night. He hasn't slept more than four hours in weeks, the terror so thick that he can almost taste it. Why did Patrick stop? What made the other man stare at his hands in horror and flee as Ken lay on the floor, breathless and dying?

Patrick and his answers are elusive. The other man's been in hiding, though Ryan's seen the familiar blue car outside of Pat's apartment building, has seen the lights on. The coward refuses to come out, everyone else thinks, but Ken knows better.

Two years of horror taught him that the other man isn't finished. Not yet.

Patrick is simply biding his time until he deems it safe enough to come out.

[greeenchrysanthemums]

Dear Lord Danny of Dawn,

(Que the formal stuff at the beginning I should put but didn't know what to put.)

How are you doing?

Thank you for answering my letter, it too made my day. The pigeon in fact got here safely. I don't know how far Dawn is from Eiren but it must have be far.

I would like to ask what cities or towns (That are important or you just want to info dump on) are in your au?

Respectfully,

Lady Marabelle of Eiren

Dear Lady Marabell of Eiren,

I am glad to hear to hear that the pigeon made it safely. I am doing well, I hope you are as well. Your letters are always a delight to receive X)

As for your very fun question, I will first direct you to the map post that I made for this world some months ago so that you can refresh on the kingdoms I will be talking about.

Wintertide is a moderately sized kingdom made up of the capital, several small farming towns scattered around the outskirts of their forest, a few mining towns closer to the mountains, and one independent territory that they attach their name to (Crystaline Mountain Village; Gem's home). On the border of the large forest (called the Enchanted Forest, of course) and close to Floweret is a town by the name of Little Wood. It is where Martyn was born and raised, so his name in this au is actually "Martyn of Little Wood".

Some other Wintertide towns include: Dogshire, South Cobble Town, Red Wood, and Deep Frost (a mining town that is partially inside the base of the mountain).

Coral Crest is a very large kingdom that takes up a good portion of the map since they have claimed a majority of the beaches and cliffs bordering the ocean coast. It is made up of the Capital and numerous fishing towns, large and small, scattered along the claimed shorelines.

I have not thought of names for every single one of these towns/cities, as that would take too much time, but Shadow Cove, Bush Beach, Fairy Peninsula, and Codsland (actually a small island near the mainland) are a few examples of these fishing towns.

Floweret is still very small compared to the other kingdom, so it is only made of the capital city and two small towns; Tumbletine and River Valley, the later of which is bursting with wildflowers and other plants that are used to create and sell dyes. Tumbletine is Jimmy's hometown!

The Monopoly is just one big trading town and it has no connecting territories or cities. It is about the size of Wintertide's capital, though just a tad bit smaller.

With Love,

Lord Danny of Dawn

[bigtimesinsmallspaces]

Total Eclipse of the Trip

There are a lot of lessons to be learned when you book a train trip that spans 12 plus days, 6000 miles, and a lifetime of dreams. There are routes, maps, and timetables to study, and then it is cobbled together with towns, sights, and special interests along the way. Back in January PG had her double screen home office displaying Amtrak maps as we began piecing together, bit by bit, the dream trip, leaving time for connections and considering the optimum direction for each train, as well as daylight hours for the most scenic sections. Why go through the Sierras in the dark? And if you do have to make a connection, it’s best to do it where you don’t mind hanging a bit, just in case you miss that connection and are stuck there for hours (days). Much of this I learned from hours of study on the Amtrak Facebook pages (sad stories of families stranded in Idaho after rock slides and other such bring my dream down a notch why don’t ya stories). So I learned early that there were going to be glitches over the course of these 6000 miles and I was poised to pivot with aplomb—extra night here, a layover there, I had backup plans for every step of the way. However, I was NOT prepared to pivot before we even began.

That’s right. There we are getting on the train in Philly, headed to DC and from there on the overnight train to Chicago, where on Monday we would board the king of all trains, the whisperer of the wind, the Amtrak flagship—the amazing California Zephyr. Hearts pounding with excitement we step on that train and as the doors close I hear my phone ringing. With a quick dismissal upon seeing an 800 number I assure PG it is just the Red Cross in pursuit of my blood.

Well with that buildup you probably guessed that my blood is not really in that much demand. Indeed that was Mrs. Amtrak calling to put a cabash on our 3000 hours of planning and 6900 miles of traveling. The California Zephyr was CANCELLED for Monday due to high winds. High winds? A train can’t go through high winds? I can ride my BIKE on the beach in high winds. I am incensed. But Mrs. Amtrak insists that safety is her concern and apparently she considers 90 MPH winds to be beyond high, and in fact she thinks they are very very high, and she does not care about our 3000 hours of planning or disappointment. We can have a refund. A REFUND? There is no amount of money that will convince us to pack up and go home. Without delving into the minutia of details for how to rearrange 6000 miles, start to finish, suffice it to say Philly Girl went to work on her computer, and with the help of multiple Amtrak agents in person and on the phone, and in person agents on the phone with other agents, we flipped our trip upside down and backwards, first on to Montana, then back to Chicago on the Zephyr at the end of our trip (hopefully the winds have died down by next week).

So right now we are in 93% eclipse Chicago on this beautiful, sunny, warm spring day after a beautiful overnight ride. Did we sleep? Sort of. More on some of the logistics later. But it sure was a beautiful ride through beautiful Harper’s Ferry, WV, Pittsburgh, Sandusky (Hello Will and Missy), and into Chicago this morning.

Chicago Union Station is amazing. Built in 1925, it covers many city blocks and features beautiful design and art. We cashed in some Guest Reward points to gain access to the Metropolitan Lounge. This is a game changer on long trips offering an array of snacks, coffee, a marvelous shower (yes a shower, did you think there would be no showers?), and best of all, a place to stash our luggage while we explored Chicago and experienced the amazing eclipse as well as an amazing lunch. If you ever take the train to Chicago know that the station is a joy and is located in a beautiful area with lots to do and see in walking distance.

We’re getting ready to board the Empire Builder headed west now. While the trip we had planned got eclipsed, we’re taking it all as a sign to make the most of whatever surprises come next.