#she's technically in her prime now

[hislittleraincloud]

Ah ha, remember a few days ago I answered an anon and within said answer mentioned the fact that Ortega aged out of the face that everyone latched onto when she was on You/around that era and just before it. You know. When she was 15/16/17.

You think I was being facetious or hyperbolizing, but:

I see you, ya bunch of pervy hypocrites.

ETA: Bruh, I'm not jenna_ortege6, those aren't my pics/was not my post, I'm not the perv this time. Go search your weirdo psychopath show crap and leave me alone.

[quibbs126]

You know honestly, having Airachnid as Sentinel Prime’s loyal second in command is very interesting considering their TFA counterparts

[kaidanalenkosprmanager]

Sophie Shepard & Kaidan Alenko (ME1) 1/?

MIRA'S MORE CANON ME1 "After everything that happened with Zaeed, Caleston, and the Villa? I think need to tell you a few things about BAaT." "Well, after everything that happened with Zaeed, Caleston, and the Villa? I think I might owe you an explanation about how I really know Anderson." AKA: Zaeed Massani and the case of the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad message ping. :) Mass Effect: Legendary Edition (2021)

[thegreatyin]

how many arknights characters could conceivably fit into deadwifeknights (team where everyone has a dead wife)

[thedeadthree]

🥀💌🕯️💀 <33

*old person yells at cloud* THEORY TIME <3 but i was thinking of the skill trees screens we’ve seen so far and i am like…… super certain that ingellvar is the mourners surname and soo that calls for an update to irulannes pin interest board <33

(ill cry change it if it isn’t though but hehe anyway im stoked to at last have a surname for when i save her edits bc rn her folder says i.datv xixjjxhx *WHEEZE* 💀)

[redhotarsenic]

Oh yeah octavia hmmm

[the-physicality]

think about how much time during the season, which is when her kids are off of school, she's not there

This is what I’m saying. And 44 games (22 away) is A Lot.

[hoodedjelly]

my Jenny, Tuck, Brad, Shelden, and Vega older designs ^__^

i'm watching mlaatr, still not done, i think i got like 10 more eps (and if i'm being transparent i skipped around eps... i just wanted to see vega...). And i'm absolutely loving the show!!!! i love these characters a lot, didn't like Shelden at first i'm going to be honest, #1 Shelden hater for a bit there. but he chilled out in season two and i started to ship breldon with that too so now i just love him so much.

more about my personal headcanons:

Jenny: - I am under the belief that she is transgender. Jenny was made genderless, so her deciding to be a girl was strictly her choice and i believe that makes her trans. (She's also a lesbian) - she did grow a bit, im not gonna explain how idc really i just liked her being a taller lady :-) - she has A LOT of different cute outfits and hair styles, honestly too much to draw. she never transforms back into her base show outfit when crime fighting, she just fights in her cute summer dress she don't care. - her and vega are dating grrgrgrrrr - when vega is in rule she makes it so there is complete free access between earth and cluster prime for citizens in both places. - I say that cause i think when jenny is older she moves in with vega, technically living in cluster prime but visits earth like everyday. And brad/shelby/tucker/wakeman visit cluster prime - Jenny also hangs out with the nicktoons unite gang, but i deffo feel like its just that secondary friend group that you don't talk to with for months. when you talk again its the same goofiness as before - i think danny calls for her help when he needs it (also manny) Tuck: - he is still a little shit but we love him - adhd boy - questioning cis (he/him) - he got into robotics/stem and builds little silly things - with that, he gets help from Shelby - pretty much just a silly teen, he's on the internet a lot and has "cringe" interests - but idk he's having fun and being silly and finding himself (those interests is stuff like sonic and among us) Shelden(Shelby) - honestly kinda nervous about ppl thoughts on my Shelden, idk it makes so much sense in my brain - hits you with the transfem beam (she/they) Pansexual (she just wants anyone type of vibe) - I think when jenny is visiting vega often that leaves Shelby and Brad hanging out alone a lot. which they don't mind honestly, they are actually good friends! - but during that they just get closer and start catching feelings. Shelby eventually lets go of her feelings about jenny and realizes they were a real jerk and weirdo to her. brad helps them through that and eventually her realizing she's trans. blah blah they in love and kiss at some point. - Shelby is also a furry lmaooo her fursona is a cat.

Brad: - bisexual cis man (he/him) - Still his old brad self if i'm being honest. - totally forgot to say i think all 3 of them go off to college together (even though jenny doesn't have to i feel like she would prob want to just for the experience, but tell me if you think differently i'm still unsure) - i really don't know what else to say sorry brad! he's literally just as silly as ever man. he's just also gay - i will say here i feel it takes a lot longer for shelby and brad to start dating then jenny and vega. they got that slow burn kinda shit going on, since a lot of that is shelby being confused about her feelings. and jenny and vega just hit it off right away if im being honest, very high school sweethearts. - (also i think shelby makes brad make a fursona to match hers, so brad got a dog fursona)

Vega: - Lesbian cis (she/her) - That ending of her just ruling cluster prime was just so crazy to me cause like, aint she like 16? - i think she has a lot of stressed nights and fearing she's not doing the right thing for her people, and jenny tries to help as much she can - that is why jenny visits so much, she wants to help her. - very much got those nights were she accidently falls asleep at her desk, jenny finding her and giving her a blanket and a kiss goodnight - it's not like she's unhappy, she is actually very very passionate about her work and wants to NOT be like her mom - and yeah she deffo goes to robo therapy for the stuff with her mom. - i think it's a conflict where vega is scared her mom is gonna come back and jenny has to reassure her that if she does they'll get rid of her for good.

imma be honest a lot of my hcs are pretty half-baked and random things, im sure im going to think of more stuff in the future but that will be in different posts.

[pastel-peach-writes]

Can you CatVi x Reader where Reader touched VI’s jacket and it got into a mess of paint that the Reader was painting and Vi and Cait came home and saw the painting but saw VI’s jacket. But Vi was shocked and didn’t say anything but was angry.

Comin' right up!

Don't Cry Over Spilled Paint | CaitVi x Reader

╰┈➤ PLOT: Messy. That was the word to describe you and your relationship with paint. After fair warnings to wash your hands after you paint, you get yourself into some trouble that might bite you in the butt later on.

╰┈➤ WARNINGS: Cursing, Not Proofread, 3000+ words, No Use of Y/n, Angry Vi, Fluff Towards The End, Caitlyn Giggles (shh)

⍣ ೋ Enjoy!⍣ ೋ

(A/N): UMMM totally didn't see where Anon said Vi doesn't say anything ab being upset. She totally did and IM SO SORRY ANON 😭😭

You weren't sure how it happened. One minute you were painting a beautiful piece that showed Zaun in its light and then the next you were frantically scrubbing paint off of Vi's red jacket.

Maybe this could've been avoided if you just listened to Caitlyn.

"Make sure you wash your hands after you paint," she would always say to you. "You touch everything after you paint and you get paint everywhere."

You should've listened to her, you really should've, but she wasn’t here to warn you. So, technically, this was on her!

"Come on, come on," you muttered as you scrubbed a white rag on the jacket. Luckily, the paint spot was small. The color of the paint a navy blue and it was right next to some forever dirt patches in the jacket so the spot wasn't noticeable.

With the jacket and rag underneath running water, you declared the jacket done. The paint had already dried and there was no going back now. Besides, would Vi really notice that minuscule spot? You didn't think so.

A relieved sigh escaped your mouth as you shut off the tap. Wringing the rag out, you noticed two palm-sized white spots on the jacket. You set the rag down, going to inspect the jacket but before the jacket even touched your hands, your heart dropped to your feet.

The palms of your hands were white from priming your next canvas. The same white on the jacket matched the white on your hands.

Maybe it's just a coincidence.

You leaned your head further into the sink, too terrified to even touch the jacket. Through the white primer on the jacket, some lines and cracks matched the pattern of a human's palms. Okay, if your heart hadn't sunk before, it was now. Oh, and now you were trembling with fear.

You turned the tap on again. The water splashed and sprouted upwards from hitting Vi's jacket. You watched as the soaked jacket continued to take more water but the white spots not diminishing.

You turned the tap to hot.

Still the same reaction. Jacket soaks up water, paint remains untouched.

You should've noticed that the paint on your hands wasn't transferring to the faucet handles; a sign of dried hand paint.

"We're home!" Caitlyn's voice rang throughout the home.

Shit.

You thought you had more time. You thought you could take her jacket to the dry cleaners and get someone to professionally get the paint out yet leave all the dirt and grime so Vi wouldn't notice the difference.

You thought you had time to research how to get primer out of fabric and search up which primer you used to see if it was water-soluble. Was there even such a thing as a water-soluble primer? What's the point of a primer if it disappears with water?? FUCK.

Wooden creaks and deep steps rattled the floor above you. Caitlyn and Vi were settling themselves in the kitchen. This meant you had some time to hide the jacket in your studio before Vi noticed her missing jacket.

Quickly, you grabbed a plastic bag and shoved her jacket inside. You needed to keep the jacket wet. The wetter the jacket, the easier the paint comes out. Well, that was your theory at least. Tying the bag into knots you'll have to cut out later, you shoved the bag into a box of battered art supplies.

Don't ask why you have a large cardboard box filled with dead/empty art supplies. You don't know yourself.

"Muffin!" Vi shouted from the studio's entrance. "You comin' up or what?"

"Yeah!" your voice trembled. "Just trying to wash some paint off my hands."

Hearing the slight tremble in your voice, Vi took it upon herself to travel down into the basement-- oh, sorry, into your art studio -- to see what was the matter.

However, once she reached the halfway point of the staircase, you came running up.

"Whoa," Vi laughed. She placed her hands on your shoulders to prevent the two of you from colliding. "Where's the fire?"

You chuckled, sheepish and breathless. "Oh, uh. I thought you guys needed me and I didn't want you to wait much longer."

"Oh, well, that's cute of you, Muffin, but we're alright." Vi ruffled your hair. "I just wanted to make sure you ate your food before it gets cold."

"Aw, you got me food?" You put your hands on her shoulders and pushed her up the stairs. There was some resistance, naturally, but Vi let you push her up anyway.

"Well, yeah we know you've been--"

"Caitlyn!" you greeted, locking eyes with her. The girl was mid-bite in a pancake, the circle good dangling from her mouth and eyes wide. Vi laughed at her and the girl quickly took the pancake from her mouth with red cheeks.

"H-Hi!" she returned the greeting. She stood up from the counter and cleaned her hands off with a napkin. "Um, we got you food. Your favorite breakfast meal."

"Oh, great!" You removed your hands from Vi's body and made a beeline into the kitchen. The food was already plated for you with your favorite beverage on the side. You ate contently, trying not to let your worry show through facial expressions.

What was your plan now? Do you tell her? Do you let that jacket mildew and mold and hope she forgets about it? No, there's not way she could forget about it. She wears that jacket every damn day.

"Muffin," Vi said, pulling you out of your thoughts. Caitlyn and Vi were sitting at the counter across from you. When did they get there? You had no clue. "Why are your palms white? Like, whiter than Caitlyn white?"

You stifled a laugh while Caitlyn swatted her arm. "I was painting. That's why I was in the studio."

"Yeah, I know," Vi said through laughter. Caitlyn's swat had no effect on her. "But I thought you were washing your hands? Your hands were wet when you were pushing me up the-- wait," Violet deadpanned. "I don't have paint on me, do I?"

Frantic, the woman searched her arms for paint. The woman was wearing nothing but a plain white tank and some random pants. You would totally be distracted by her buff arms if your heart wasn't slowly finding its place in your chest.

Caitlyn hummed, eating a piece of pancake while she searched Vi's body. "No, you look fine which tells me someone forgot to wash their hands after they were done painting again." You received a scolding look from the English lady.

You shrugged with a dry chuckle. "Don't worry. I didn't get paint on anything."

Safe to say, your girlfriends did not believe you. Immediately springing up from their chairs, they raced to your studio despite your pleas.

They couldn't find any new marks of paint on the walls or support pillars. In fact, when they were done searching, they stumbled upon your Zaun painting and praised you for how well you captured the city.

"Wow, Muffin, you did really good with this," Vi complimented. Her fingers reached out towards the canvas, but you quickly slapped her hand away.

"Don't touch! It's still wet."

Vi snickered but obeyed. She stepped back but continued to admire your recent artwork.

Caitlyn, on the other hand, wasn't fully convinced you didn't touch anything with your painted hands. She strode towards the sink to see if there were any new paint marks. Instead of finding new paint, she found that the sink was still shiny from recent usage.

She hummed to herself. Vi said your hands were wet, though no paint transferred to her arms. So, your hands weren't wet with paint but with water. Caitlyn's gaze flickered over to your damp washcloth. Recently wrung up with a new paint mark.

The mark was a faded blue. The blue matched the blues you used in your painting, but the mark wasn't big enough for Caitlyn to assume you were cleaning up your lines with a towel.

You spilled paint on something, but on what?

To the left of her, Caitlyn spotted the box of art supplies. A hoarder, her partner was, keeping empty paint tubes, dead brushes, and other things you use for your craft.

What Caitlyn spotted was a new lump in the box. Instead of your dead supplies lying relatively flat, there was something disturbing the colorful sea, something hiding.

"Darling," Caitlyn called out for you with a finger on her chin and her other arm supporting the elbow. "Did you run out of a lot of paint while making that piece? Your graveyard of art supplies seemed to have grown."

Both yours and Vi's gaze snapped from the painting and to Caitlyn.

The three of you sat in silence, yet the tension in the air rose.

Your gaze flickered from the box, to Vi, to the box, to Caitlyn, and then back to the box.

Before anyone could say anything, you dashed. You didn't get far, matter of fact, you got nowhere before Vi wrapped her arms around your middle to hold you back.

Caitlyn went digging through the box, detirmined. Nothing could get past her. Not even her partner who loves to paint but is too messy for their own good.

"Aha!" Caitlyn triumphed as she held up the tied plastic bag. She poked the bag, a smile growing on her face. "Interesting. It's still wet and slimy inside. A recent hiding, must I say."

"Cait, don't!" you plead, squirming and wiggling under Vi's grip. The pinkette tightened her grasp around you.

"You're not going anywhere," her voice rasped through gritted teeth. You were being a challenge with all your squirms, but Vi had no problem throwing you over her shoulder if you became too much. Besides, she was having too much fun watching you beg and plead for Caitlyn not to open the bag.

"I'm sorry, but I have to." Caitlyn's long and slender fingers toyed with the knot. She used her fingernails to pull up a piece of the thin plastic before slipping her finger inside to loosen the knot completely.

"Caitlyn, I'm telling you, do not open that bag."

Opened, she did.

The girl barely took a gander before she gasped at the bag's containment. "You're right," she said through a trembling and quiet voice. "I do not need to open this bag. This bag must remain closed."

"What?" Vi exclaimed, letting go of you. "Oh, come on! Show me what's in the bag! It isn't fair you two know what it is and I don't."

Vi marched over to Caitlyn, but the blue-haired girl held the bag over her head. "No, Violet, I mean it. We need to respect our partner's boundaries and not open this bag."

You were frozen in fear. Vi was too close to the bag for your own good. You were thankful for Caitlyn's understanding of keeping the bag away from Vi, but that didn't mean you wont be hearing a lesson in your near future.

"Bull. Shit." Vi then brought her fingers to Caitlyn's armpit and tickled her. The bluenette immediately caved with giggles. Her crinkled eyes and cute smile would usually be an adorable sight to see, but right now, the sight made you seethe with anger.

Really, Cait? Couldn't hold on for just a bit longer?

Caitlyn brought her arm down, folding it like a chicken wing to stop Vi from tickling her. "Stop!" she giggled.

Vi grinned, snatching the back from her hand. "Anything for you, princess." The pinkette opened the bag and stared at its contents.

Caitlyn slid her way over to you, a small frown on her face as she played with her hands. "I'm sorry I couldn't keep it away from her for long," she whispered.

You sighed, watching Vi's face crinkle and express many, yet unreadable, emotions. "It's fine," you whispered back. "Just promise you'll attend my funeral."

Finally, after what seemed like 30 agonizing minutes, Vi spoke. "Is this my jacket?"

You gulped. "What do you want it to be?"

Vi called you by your name, her gaze lasering on you. Her eyes were darkened with anger, her lips upturned into a scowl. "Don't play cute with me," she called you by your name again. "Is this my jacket?"

Your heart was back in your chest again, but this time, it felt like it wanted to escape. A deep lump lodged and settled itself in your throat, making it difficult to say the words your brain was telling you to say.

Your chalky palms now wet from sweat and your body buzzing with anxiety. You couldn't say anything. You wanted to, but you couldn't.

You only watched the ticking time bomb on Vi's face as her expression went from upset to vexed. Her face was red with anger, the hands gripping the bag turned into fists, and her chest rose and fell with each staggered breath.

Vi took her jacket out of the bag. She scoffed at its drenched state and brought it over to the sick. She wrung it out like you did once before with a rag. Her hands were covering where the spots were.

Much like yourself, Caitlyn couldn't say a word. The two of you watched her like deers stuck in headlights. What could one say to de-escalate the situation? Caitlyn felt that if she tried to calm Vi down, she would be brushed off and told not to speak.

Vi studied the jacket from each angle. She studied the front, she studied the back. She studied the inside and then studied the pockets. It wasn't until she draped the jacket over a forearm she saw the two obnoxious spots of primer.

"I can't believe this," Vi said quietly, only a true sign of her deep anger. "Time and time again, we tell you to wash your hands and not touch anything. It was cute the first couple of times, annoying the next, and now I'm pissed off."

This had to be worse than any lecture Caitlyn would've given you.

"This is my jacket. My favorite jacket." Vi's back was turned to you, but now she's facing you dead on. Honest, you preferred her back to you. Then you wouldn't have to see the hurt in her eyes and she wouldn't have to see the sadness in yours.

A voice in Vi's head told her to stop talking but the anger she was feeling mimicked the anger she felt when Vander died. She had no control over what she was going to say, she could feel it. She wanted to stop talking to prevent further damage, but her emotions took her whole.

"I stole this from some rando after I beat his ass. I've had this for around 2 years now and until you came along, it was unscathed."

"Vi..." Caitlyn warned.,

"Sure, there were some dirt and sweat stains here and there, but that's what gave this jacket character. It's what made this jacket more like me because even though it was dirty, grimy, and stinky, it preserved through all the shit it went through," Vi continued.

You weren't sure if you were crying. Your eyes stung like you were, but the rest of your body shut down. Vi's words were like piercing sharp arrows flying through the wind and your body was the target. You've mastered the heart of tuning out lengthy and emotional lectures thanks to your parents, but all that skill was no match for Vi's words.

"All it took. All it took was your careless thinking and some fucking paint to ruin the one thing that felt like me. Thanks for that." Vi threw the jacket into the sink and went upstairs.

She didn't bother to look you or Caitlyn in the eye.

-

It's been a few days and you and Vi haven't talked. The first few days you didn't talk because the wounds were still fresh but as the silence grew and the wounds began to heal, the problem was finding the right words to say.

You've tried to apologize for the jacket multiple times, but she wouldn't hear it. Caitlyn even took the jacket to the cleaners to get the stains out, but Vi didn't want to see it.

Every time Vi got a glimpse of you or the jacket hanging in the closet, she knew she had to apologize to you. She wanted to apologize to you, but she didn't know how. Caitlyn tried to help countless of times, but no avail.

Sleeping arrangements were worse.

Vi slept on the couch the first few nights and then after some coaxing by Caitlyn, Vi slept on the furtherest side of the bed. Typically she liked to be in the middle or you would be in the middle, but as of late, she slept on the left and you slept on the right.

Poor Caitlyn had to sleep in the middle. She hated the middle. She didn't like how warm the two of you were in the night, making her burn up. She didn't like how if she wanted to read or work in bed, she couldn't turn the nightstand lamp on. The middle was awful. She wanted her right side back.

The night of the week anniversary of the argument, you and Vi stumbled into the bedroom to find Caitlyn sitting on the edge of the bed and glaring at the two of you.

"I am not sleeping in the middle any longer," she declared. "You two are too warm, I don't have enough arm or leg room, and I can't read which means I'm restless every time I sleep!" Caitlyn stood from the bed, arms crossed over her body. "And to be fair, I've grown tired of your childish argument. You two are grown adults. Talk your shit out so we can sleep in our rightful places."

You and Vi glanced at each other.

You already said your apology. What else could you say? It wasn't like you could offer her a meal, it was too late to eat and you definitely weren't saying another apology,

Vi sighed, looking away first. She shrugged, going to the left side of the bed. Caitlyn stopped her by pushing a hand to her chest. "Nuh-uh," Caitlyn eyed her. She pointed towards your direction with her brows furrowed. Vi groaned and walked back over to you.

"Oh, well that's one way to make a person feel warm and fuzzy inside," you scoffed. Vi rolled her eyes.

"Oh, please, you mean like ruining someone's jacket?"

"It wasn't on purpose!" you exclaimed. "You know it wasn't on purpose. I understand your being upset for my clumsiness and lack of awareness when it comes to wet paint, but you can't still be mad at me for something I got fixed."'

"You didn't even fix it," Vi rolled her eyes again. "One of Caitlyn's fancy buddies did."

"And who do you think paid for that?" you scoffed at her. "It might've been a buddy of hers but I still had to pay full price for a Piltover dry cleaning service. I don't believe in waving money and prices over people's faces, but since you want to go there, that cost me two months' worth of payments and as a starving artist, that's a lot of money to recover."

Vi only shrugged as her mouth converted into some sort of frown. She didn't know you had to pay 1,200 dollars to get her jacket fixed. She could've been more grateful and showed you some gratitude for getting her jacket cleaned, but you were the one who ruined it anyway. It was your job to get the jacket cleaned.

Caitlyn sighed. "Vi, stop being stubborn and say 'thank you' and an apology."

"Why should I have to say an apology?" Vi knew why, though she didn't want to admit it aloud.

"Why?" Caitlyn scoffed. "Vi, I knew you were thick-headed but I never thought it to be this extreme." Shaking her head, Caitlyn climbed into bed. "Fine then. Don't apologize and don't patch things up. I'm tired of being the referee."

Something stirred inside Vi. It wasn't anger or contentment, but instead a sadness. Not only is she unable to patch things up with you, but now she's dragged Caitlyn into this mess. Caitlyn was the peacemaker because Vi, herself, was unable to make peace with anything.

Caitlyn didn't deserve this. You didn't either.

If Vi didn't nip this in the bud, she was going to lose the both of you. She was going to lose the only people who saw her for her and loved her regardless of her faults.

"I'm sorry," the words stumbled out of Vi like a baby bird trying to fly for the first time, "to the both of you."

Caitlyn peered up at her with a book in her hand. You, who hasn't said or done anything since the last time you spoke, met her gaze.

"Muffin, I'm sorry for lashing out on you and not being mature enough to handle this situation properly. You trying to hide the bag is on me because I should've created a space where you can come to me about anything. Even if you think it may upset me."

"It's okay--"

"It's not okay. You don't have to forgive me or say some line like, 'Oh, everyone gets angry sometimes'. No. It's not okay and I apologize for my behavior. I'm working on it." Vi put a hesitant hand on your shoulder. When you allowed her to, she smiled and pressed a kiss ot your temple.

"And, Cupcake," Vi addressed Caitlyn. Caitlyn hummed in response. "I'm sorry for roping you into this and not realizing how miserable you were while Muffin and I fought."

"Yeah," you chimed. "I'm sorry about that too. You didn't deserve any of this."

A soft smile rested upon Caitlyn's lips. She motioned the two of you over, willingly wanting to be in the middle so she could hug you both. You and Vi gathered by her side, wrapping an arm around her. "I love you too, lugs," Caitlyn said behind a laugh. "I hope we can all learn from this."

"Yeah," you said behind a grin. "I learned that Caitlyn is severely ticklish and will cave immediately after a few seconds of tickling."

"What?" Caitlyn blushed. "No, that was not the lesson here," she nervously chuckled, her blush already spreading to her ears.

Vi laughed along with you. "Yeah, actually. I accidentally found that out like a month or two ago and only used it the day of the fiasco."

You gasped. "You found out and you didn't tell me?"

"Well, I didn't know how!" Vi laughed.

"Now, hang on a minute," Caitlyn said trying to catch your attention.

"Well, now I feel left out." "Who's to say you can't tickle her now?"

"Hold on!" Caitlyn pleaded but it was too late. Your hands and fingers found the soft skin on her stomach and laughs roared out of her. Vi joined the activity, tickling some of her neck.

Even after a week of drama, the love between the three of you remained. Plus, you guys even got some giggles out of it.

WC: 3,877

[bunbotbuggiman]

au where the peak lords reincarnate as Bingge's quarter demon spawn

saw a post (https://www.tumblr.com/cursed-angelic-art/686056254886559744/do-you-think-mobei-jun-is-the-one-playing-father) talking abt if mbj "played dad" for og lbh's army of kids and-

au where the peak lords reincarnate as Bingge's quarter demon spawn

they all have different mothers but are all the same age- were born the same year-

even sqq, who's nyy's favorite kid (because he reminds her of her shizun, during the good days before lbh became a disciple) despite not being her kid (she herself never had any kids, which doesn't bother her as much because neither did lmy or shl and they're the head wives still so) (in the same vein, Liu Mingyans favorite kid is the one who behaves most like her late brother)

This world's version of Shen Yuan, however, was born as the son of one of mbj's advisors, before said advisor and his family died in a tragic accident. so he was adopted by mobei-jun and shang qinghua at the ripe old age of barely a few weeks old.

His name: Mo Yuan, named after an old friend of Shang Qinghua's from his secret pre-transmigration life (In this world, SY is not a transmigrator.... maybe he is a reincarnation.... but there's no real way to tell, he sure doesn't remember anything)

So he's an ice demon. looks like Shen Yuan but everything about him is like 30 shades more MBJ. he adores his parents, and his parents adore him, and because of this mutual adoration he has successfully grown up completely secure in his status as their child in spite of fully knowing of his adopted status.

This being said, there are very few individuals who also know this fact, because since the transition was so fast (and because Shang Qinghua knows stuff, and Mobei-Jun knows he knows stuff) they just bullshit it and say that Mo Yuan is a magical plant baby who was born as a full demon in spite of technically being a half demon because of magic plant bullshit.

He looks enough like shang qinghua to make it believable anyways, so it's fine.

Mo Yuan and Shang Qinghua also have a really weird relationship where MY at some point got into Shang Qinghua's writings (only the age appropriate stuff.... he found out about the porn at a later age) and violently hated it, but Shang Qinghua found it:

A. funny that his son was so violently opinionated and

B. thought it was important that his son be able to have an outlet for these emotions so he honestly encouraged it.

So now they have a really close parental relationship but also are kind of friendly-close because when Mo Yuan found some of SQH's writings, he immediately was like "oh my god Baba you suck???? at writing????? How?????? You are a scribe???? This is so awful???? Baba, you could do this better, and this better, and- what the hell, take this out, oh my god..."

Also, his name in the au is 漠垣 Mo Yuán meaning North[ern] Wall, but his courtesy name is 漠 雪峰 Mo Xuefēng, meaning North[ern] Snow[y] Peak.

However, he is beloved by much of the palace staffers, who have watched him grow up much closer than any of Luo Bingge's children, who mostly grow up in the relative isolation of their courtyards and palaces and palace wings, so he is referred to by many of them by his nickname, 雪花 Xuehua, meaning snowflake.

So anyways, he meets + kinda grows up alongside many of the peak lords because he grows up spending a lot of time in the palace by virtue of his dads being, well, Mobei Jun and Shang Qinghua.

Shang Qinghua and Liu Mingyan, shippers prime and book club buddies into this universe (though Mo Yuan staunchly ignores all of LMY's writings because his face is wayyy too thin for that) immediately sees the way that the various children of Luo Bingge climb over each other in desperate attempts to charm and woo the chilly Mo Xuefeng...

and maybe eventually, how one son of Luo Bingge looks at him and how Mo Yuan looks back.

(I haven't decided what I want the pairing to be here.... oopsies y'all, come to y'alls own conclusions ig lmaooo)

[garciaasfluffypen]

take care of me (like i take care of you) pt.1

pairing: jemily x adhd!reader word count: 2.4k warnings: emily smokes in this one (SMOKING IS DANGEROUS LADIES, GAYS AND THEYS pls dont ruin ur lungs), reader is mentioned to vape but it is not shown, female terms of endearment - "little miss", y/n has a minor flashback to a previous relationship where they got belittled that leads to an rsd breakdown a/n: THIS PART GOT TOO LONG AND I DIDNT EVEN GET TO THE MAIN PLOT POINT UNTIL 2.4k WORDS IN so its being split into two parts teehee :) also... i should have put this in the first part, but the house they live in is jj's house from cm evolution bc i'm quite literally obsessed with it anyway pls ignore the fact that it's clearly not three femme presenting humans holding hands i couldn't find a gif like that anywhere

you all had been blessed with a whole week off. a whole week that you got to spend with your favorite people in the entire world and not have to worry about being called in.

it had been ages since you had a whole week where you didn’t have to worry about a single work thing bothering you. the last time you had done this, you had convinced your then best friends to take you to their favorite park and have a picnic, go to the movies and even take you to the trader joes to get your favorite snacks. but this week, this week was different. firstly, you were now dating your best friends, and had been told to stay at theirs as long as you wanted to. you hadn’t left except to go to your apartment and grab a suitcase full of clothes. secondly, the case you had just finished drained the hell out of the three of you. a majority of the time was spent curled up on the couch cycling through shows on netflix and amazon prime, everyone taking turns picking a show to watch while eating leftover chinese food and cuddling. but today you were determined to get out of the house.

the local zoo was holding a sale to celebrate the birth of a new baby giraffe, which happened to be some of your favorite animals ever. so naturally, you got three tickets for the three of you last night and made sure you were up before both of your girlfriends to ensure you got your hands on tickets to feed the giraffes. it had been on your bucket list for a long time. ever since you were little, giraffes had intrigued you. they just looked so soft and cuddly. and you wanted to touch one. so, so bad. 

which is how you found yourself up at seven in the morning, squeezing yourself out from between the two older women and seaking downstairs, curling up in the armchair that you had claimed to yourself and grabbing your ipad. well, technically it was emily’s but she barely used it so therefore it was yours. you had all your favorite games on it anyway, so it was only fair that you used it more since you liked to play games on the jet. making sure you got to the website bright and early, you went to the page where you needed to buy the giraffe experience tickets and waited patiently until 7:30am hit and the first wave of tickets were sent out into the interwebs. within minutes, you had the three tickets you needed in your email. the next step to buttering up your girlfriends for a day at the zoo was to make breakfast. 

you knew exactly what breakfast each of them liked, and had memorized it a few weeks prior for moments like this. emily loved her bacon crispy, her eggs over easy and a marlboro gold by the bay window. jj, on the other hand, loved when you made the pillsbury biscuits with honey and butter, some sort of potato and getting kisses from both you and emily. considering emily usually woke up a little bit before you and jj on a typical day, you decided to start on hers first. you grabbed the box of cigarettes from her purse and put it over by the seat next to the kitchen table, opening the window so the cool dc air would flow through the kitchen as you cooked. sometimes you were tempted to light up a cigarette and see what they were like, but you couldn’t let go of your favorite fruity little flavors. that was another thing you added to your mental list of things to never let emily find out, since you knew she’d give you the look that she gives you whenever you’ve somehow disappointed her. 

jj had found out by a total accident a while ago, clocking your antsiness before you even did. you had stepped out for a breath of fresh air, not realizing that jj had followed you until you were mid hit and felt a presence behind you. while she had been disappointed, she knew that the oral fixation couldn’t be stopped if you weren’t chewing on your chewy necklace. you did your best to wear it, but sometimes the need for the nicotine buzz was stronger than your little necklace and you wanted to feel the dopamine. she sat with you outside while you tried to explain the way it made you feel, and she sat there the whole time and listened to you. she made you promise to lower the nicotine level, which you agreed to, but kept forgetting to go down whenever you stopped by the shop. 

despite the fear looming over you of disappointing emily, you couldn’t help but realize everything had been so easy with them. from communicating your needs to even just asking for them to sit with you. they made sure you were their number one priority. to this day, you were still scared of waking up in your dingy one bedroom all alone and still single. but now, here you were, slowly moving your stuff into their apartment and preparing to leave most of your old appliances at the local goodwill. it was a pleasant change, knowing you were moving somewhere nice and calm and where people supported your every move. where they wouldn’t yell at you when you forgot to refill the soap, or restock the cheese drawer after a grocery trip. 

shaking yourself out of your thoughts, you heard the bedroom door creak open and the padding of emily’s sock feet grew louder as you started smiling. 

“you’re up early,” emily beamed at you. “what’re you doing?”

“taking care of my girlfriends.” you shrugged. “cigs are on the table for you next to your window.” 

emily narrowed her eyes playfully at you. “you have a plan for today, don’t you?” 

“maybe i do, maybe i don’t.” you playfully smiled back at her. “you gotta wait for jayje to wake up.” 

“you know, you can be bad at hiding things sometimes.” emily came over to you and wrapped her arms around your waist. “you have the cheesiest grin on your face right now.” 

“can i not just make breakfast for my girlfriends when i want to?” 

emily placed a peck on your cheek, then captured your lips in a kiss. “you’re a devious little thing, lovey.” 

“and you adore me for it.”

“that i do.” 

you placed another kiss on emily’s lips before ushering her over to her window, grabbing the sheet pan of biscuits and slipping them into the oven. you relished these small moments with emily, where it was the two of you. you got these moments with jj at night, since emily typically stayed at the office later than you guys did. taking the mornings with just the two of you was something you tried to do more often than not, since you craved quality time with both of them. you loved having time with both of them together, but alone time with each of your girlfriends was something you cherished. you made sure to get emily’s coffee mug filled just the right amount and bought it over to the table, wrapping your arms around her from behind as the smoke flowed from between her lips. you had at least five more minutes before you had to start cooking the bacon and eggs, which meant you could sit with emily and bask in the moment. 

before you knew it, jj made her way into the kitchen, smiling widely as she came and wrapped her arms around you as you stood over the pan. your eyes momentarily closed as you leaned back into the blonde, letting her place a few kisses on your neck before turning around and capturing her in a kiss. you smiled at her before turning back to the bacon, making sure that side was crispy as you could get it before flipping it around. 

“what’s all this?”

“well… i uh, i had a plan for us today.”

you saw emily struggle to hold back a chuckle out of the corner of your eye.

“can you guys both be ready by nine thirty? no wait, be ready by nine fifteen and in the car by nine thirty because we need to be at the place by nine fifty in order to beat the crowds and get to where we need to be on time for our tickets because our tickets are for eleven.” you paused, looking at your girlfriends. “can you be ready by nine fifteen?” 

“i mean, yeah.” jj looked over to emily. “do you know the plan?”

“just that little miss over here woke up before us and i woke up with no blankets on me because in the midst of everything you stole all of them.” emily joked, poking her tongue out at jj. 

you started rocking up to the balls of your feet. “so um… there might be a new baby giraffe at the zoo and i might have gotten us tickets because i really really wanted to see the giraffes and they’re my favorites and they were running a sale because of the new baby and--” 

jj chuckled. “you are adorable, did you know that?” 

“is that a yes?”

“of course it's a yes, bubs.” jj placed a kiss on your cheek. “i’d love to go to the zoo with you.” 

“emmy?” you looked over to emily, the new nickname slipping out of your lips with ease. “can you come to the zoo with us? you’ll probably say no which is okay because i can always invite penelope or tara but-”

“why would you think i’d say no?” 

negative feelings overflowed your system as you remembered vividly the face that had been pulled when you asked to go to the zoo or do anything you considered fun. you felt yourself slipping into a dissociative state, fingers looking for something to stim on as you worked through your feelings. the harsh words of “why the fuck would you want to go to the zoo?” reverberated through as memories of one of your previous flings flew to the front of your mind. the shame you felt for wanting to enjoy your time together became unbearable and overwhelming, making you realize that your girlfriends could become annoyed with you like that and change their minds. what if they thought you were childish? what if they figured out you were too much for them?

emily looked over to jj. “did i say something?” 

“i don’t know. i don’t think so?” jj looked over to you, your eyes glazed over. “um.. shit wait, okay, i think they’re having an rsd episode, i’ll get their work bag. the marble fidget they use to calm down is in there.” 

emily scooted out from behind the table as she put her cigarette out, sneaking behind you to grab the pan off the stove before the bacon burned. she put her arms around you and pulled you close, running her hand up and down your back lightly as she waited for you to come out of your funk. she locked eyes with jj as she came back into the room, digging through the bag for the fidget toy in question, sticking it in your hands before you could start scratching at the side of your nails. a few minutes passed before you came back, the feeling of both emily and jj’s arms around you grounding you in the present, pushing the negative feelings to the back of your mind.

“‘m sorry.” 

“it's okay, lovey. do you want to talk about it?” 

“um… can you just… i’m not too much, right?” 

emily pulled back. “what makes you think that?” 

“whenever i asked about doing things that i liked, nobody really wanted to do them.” you looked down shamefully. “i shouldn’t have presumed you’d want to go with me.” 

“y/n y/l/n” blue eyes looked into your own. “you don't need to hide yourself with us. never hide yourself with us. you’re allowed to have your likes and act on them.” 

“but-”

“ah ah,” jj tilted your chin up, making you look at her. “don’t you dare.” 

it was almost as if a switch had been flipped in jj, her eyes darkening slightly as she stared at you. it caused your legs to turn to jelly, rendering you practically useless in your girlfriend's arms. you weren’t entirely sure what was happening, but it sent a wave of excitement through your veins. 

“we’re going to the zoo with you, we’re going to have fun, and we’re going to have a good day.” jj shot emily a ‘we need to talk about this’ glance before continuing. “go get dressed and ready for the day, we’ll finish our breakfasts and go enjoy the zoo.” she gave you a pointed look. “capeesh?”

all you could do was nod, your eyes widening in… whatever this feeling was that you were feeling. 

“words, y/n.”

“y-yes.” you swallowed. “okay.” 

jj smiled, switching back to her normal self and placing a kiss on your lips. “thank you for breakfast, by the way. it smells delicious.” 

you shyly smiled back. “i wanted you to be in a good mood before i asked you to go to the zoo.” 

emily pulled you in for a hug. “you never have to do anything for us to be in a good mood around you. we-” she paused. “there’s nothing you could do to put us in a foul mood.” 

“are you sure?”

“we’re sure. now go get ready, lovey, we’ll be up in a little bit when we finish our breakfast.” it was emily’s turn to kiss you. “don’t forget your meds.”

“oh shit, my meds!” 

emily and jj watched you run out of the room, both of the older women chuckling. emily wrapped her arms around jj, placing her head on her shoulder. 

“we’re going to need to work on talking about feelings, huh?” 

jj nodded. “it seems like it.” 

“would it be too much to castrate the exes who hurt them?” 

“uh… yes? we’re not castrating anyone.” jj lightly slapped emily’s arm. “go finish your bacon, we have places to be.” 

“we do need to have a serious talk with them about it, at some point.”

“yeah,” jj agreed. “lets just… they need to know we’re here for them. let’s focus on them the rest of the week and go from there.” 

emily nodded. “we’ll go from there.”

taglist: @jayden-prentiss

[theloneotaku158]

As of Batman: The Brave and the Bold #12, local precious-gremlin-who-I-would-die-for, Maps Mizoguchi, is now officially(?) the sixth Robin. Or at the very least, she's now "in" on The Secret™.

If this isn’t a set up for her taking up the Robin mantle officially then I genuinely don’t know what is.

As one of the twelve Gotham Academy enjoyers in existence, I am having the extremely normal reaction of "FUCKING FINALLY! LET'S FUCKING GOOOOO--!"

In all honesty, I'd be lying if I said I hadn't seen this coming from miles away. Like, Maps has appeared in a number of seemingly random cameo roles recently, including Batgirls (2021), and even technically as Robin in the backup issues of Batman (2016) #119-121, and in a short story in Batman Black & White. And most of those got collected in a standalone titled "Maps of Mystery", which specifically gathered all her appearances as Robin (and the Gotham Academy Belle Reve story).

And then, of course, her recent time-travelling Future-Trunks-esque appearance in Birds of Prey (2023), as the tech-based Meridian, from a potential future timeline where she apparently makes it as a superhero using gadgets she apparently designed, proving that she's hero material.

That's not something you do for a character for no reason. That's the sort of thing you do when you want to keep a character in the conscience of your readers for whatever reason, because you have bigger plans for them.

Also interesting to consider that, in the "Mother's Day" story where this took place, Alfred is standing right there and not lying down six feet under wood, dirt and a stone slab, and that Bruce is in the old Batcave under the manor so he still has Money™. So we must assume this was some nebulous time in the past (after GA: Second Semester(?), but before City of Bane)... which I won't bother to analyse the exact timeframe of because DC doesn't care about the post-Flashpoint / New 52 / Rebirth / Prime Earth / idfk / Dawn of DC timeline, so neither should I.

But I think it's really funny that this presumably means Maps has known The Secret™ for a long time relative to present-day comics, but always acted like she didn't.

But if all her appearances are in chronological order, that means Bruce is only the fourth Bat whose identity she discovered.

Like, she discovered Cass' identity almost by accident on a trip to the zoo, Damian showed off his grapple gun and gave her an actual Batarang during the three hours he was enrolled in the school (as if she wouldn't immediately put two-and-two together even back then), and she even found out Terry fucking McGuinness would become Batman in a future via a time-travelling grandfather clock.

No I did not make that last part up. Read Gotham Academy istg.

Did Cass know that Maps had been acting as a Robin when she met her, both at the zoo in Batgirls and her future version in Birds of Prey?

Does Damian know the one (1) friend(?) he made in Gotham Academy is potentially in the running for his job?

Is Bruce himself aware that she knows as much about their identities as she currently does?

How is DC going to retcon this so it all makes sense in the barely-functioning canon of the modern DC universe?

I'm digressing. Where was I going with this?

Point is, she's destined to become a Robin, and I'm glad DC finally pulled their fingers out their asses and capitalised on that destiny.

Let's just hope it doesn't take another year for them to follow up on this plotline again.

Bonus: Jason Todd, after learning of Bruce taking yet another happy kid under his wing as yet another Robin, giving her some advice:

[dat-lil-shark]

I found more TFP Characters Stats and they are VERY Interesting

So over a week ago I found out that in the Japanese airing of Transformer Prime, they put up these commercials in between episodes that displays the characters stats. Back then I only found Soundwave’s, but now I’ve found almost everyone.

Again, I have no guarantee that these are canon enough, cause it's made by Japanese, who made Airachnid a yandere.

But it’s fun to assume they are.

(SPOILERS ALERT)

First of all. MEGATRON ACTUALLY HAVE HIGHER INTELLIGENCE STATS THAN OPTIMUS!!!??? (Op got 8 and MT got 9)

Not only that but also higher speed and firepower TOO (OP got 7 speed and 9 firepower, and MT got 9 speed and 10 firepower).

Sure Optimus got bigger courage and skills but in battlefields if MT is not so dr**ed up he might just win a lot more.

And speaking of unexpected intelligence.

Compared to Arcee, Airachnid also got WAY higher intelligence (AH 9 and RC 7) and slightly higher strength (AH 5 and RC 4) AND FIREPOWER (AH 5 and RC 4).

I was at first surprised how Airachnid could be so smart but then it did made sense since she was able to always lure Arcee into her fun cave to beat her up and was able to easily kill Breakdown.

(And I know technically this was supposed to be the Japanese yandere Airachnid but— let’s just ignore that— maybe let’s pretend it’s the normal Airachnid okay? Please?)

But Arcee got 9 on courage.

Airachnid might got the cunning but at least Arcee got the feral.

And the way Arcee only got 7 on the intelligence out here is breaking stereotypes that the only girl in the group has to be smart.

Luckily not all Autobot and Decepticon rivalry ends in a Decepticon topping the Autobot.

For example.

Bulkhead is a lot— AND I MEAN A LOT better than Breakdown is.

He’s got higher strength (BH 10 and BD 9), intelligence(BH 5 and BD 4), courage (BH 8 and BD7), rank (BH 6 and BD 4) AND firepower (BH 7 and BD 6)

Bruh Breakdown is competing with Bulkhead just because he is insecure 😂😂😂😅😅

Bulkhead can actually sweep the floor with Breakdown if he wanna!

also I think Breakdown got the lowest stat in intelligence and rank than any other characters here.

This actually does explain how Breakdown could be killed so easily by Airachnid, honestly, since Airachnid got more than twice as much intelligence as him.

Well at least we know Knockout married him for true love.

And speaking of Knockout.

He’s SO WEAK!! 😂😂😂😂

Dude Knockout is an absolute LOOSER!! (At least according to the Japanese)

He LITTERALLY GOT 5 SKILLS, ENDOURANCE, AND 4 COURAGE!!

THAT IS ALMOST THE SAME ENDOURANCE AND ALMOST HALF THE COURAGE AS ARCEE (who is about only 1/2 of his body size btw) (his buff armours are just for shows) AND HALF THE SKILL OF RATCHET!!

HOW DID KNOCKOUT EVEN MANAGED TO BE A MEDIC!!

He is only a bit good on speeds. Now no wonder he loves racing ITS THE ONLY THING HE IS GOOD AT!! Bro litterally covers himself in makeups cause he’s too self aware 😂😂😂!

I wondered how he managed to lie so perfectly on his job resume.

And speaking of medics.

Ratchet is WAY better in everything than I expected.

He’s more than twice the medic Knockout would ever be.

He actually got EIGHT endurance which is surprising, cause that is only one star lower than Bulkhead!

The doctor might be old but he’s still got armors and bones as strong as boulders.

No wonder he kept getting beaten up in this serie but just got up fine and never snap his back once like my own grandpa after standing up from his chair.

Wheeljack on the other hand is also not bad at all.

He got 9 skills. I guess that’s what got him to be able to make all his terrorist toys.

Also it’s funny cause he’s only got 8 endurance, that’s 2 stars lower than Ratchet.

Could you just IMAGINE Wheeljack and Ratchet fist bumping as hard as they could but it was Wheeljack who ended up having to grab his fists in pain??

Also he only got 6 intelligence?? That’s honestly far lower than I excepted tbh. That is only one star higher than Bulkhead.

No wonder Ultra Magnus has such a bad time.

(it’s also funny how Arcee criticized Wheeljack for impulsively going to avenge Bulkhead when she herself is only like, one stat smarter, and does that with Airachnid on a daily basis (sure she didn’t drag any humans in but she is still barely better).

(Also by the way, speaking of Ultra Magnus, he doesn’t have a stat page unfortunately cause the Japanese TFP never got a season 3, it just ends at Optimus breaking the Alpha lock and that’s it, which means Ultra Magnus never appeared, and neither did Shockwave (beside that one Arcee flashback) and Predaking unfortunately).

Oh and the Dreadwing Skyquake twins are over powered.

Just look at them!

They are almost the exact same in stats except Skyquake got more endourance and Dreadwing got more fire power.! If Megatron had both of them at the same time they could just deep fry the Autobots in episode 10!

RIP Skyquake you had SO much POTENCIALS man. And to think that even the PRIME HIMSELF ALONE can’t take you out without major help from Bumblebee.

And speaking of Bumblebee.

HE MAXED OUT ON COURAGE.

Listen no one else in this whole list got courage 10 except Bumblebee.

Not Arcee, not Optimus, not Ratchet, not Smokescreen, and not even Wheeljack.

HE IS FERAL!!

Damn it man now thinking back I don’t think I recall a SINGLE MOMENT in the entire show, although it wasn’t obvious first time through, that Bumblebee actually considered for his own safety before doing anything. And it’s not even in an “I am willing to sacrifice my own safety for the greater good” way but a “Oh I’m gonna lose a leg for this but it’ll be nice? Sign me up!” Way! “Psyc link into Megatron? Count me in!” “Jump on top of Skyquake? You bet!” “Run straight toward Silas when you can litterally wait for 5 more minutes but then you can get your t cog back for five more minute earlier? I’m coming!!”

If it’s not for the fact that Bumblebee got a good dad that he’s happy to listen to he will be a bigger disaster than Wheeljack is.

The other kid, Smokescreen, is just a tad bit weaker. But he’s way better than I expected since he only just joined this war. (*cough cough* way better than Knockout).

However,

on the other servo.

Starscream is OVERPOWERED.

Bro has got EIGHT STRENGTH despite his skinny arms (same as Skyquake & Dreadwing), NINE SPEED (faster than Megatron), NINE FIREPOWER (same as Optimus) and TEN FRAGGING SKILLS (same as RATCHET)

Honestly. If it weren’t for the 3 courage, DUDE COULD ACTUALLY HAVE A CHANCE TAKING OVER MEGATRON!!! He

is

strong.

He honestly doesn’t even need the apex armour tbh! And there are countless times he got defeated probably only because he froze in fear or else he could have absolutely fought back and won!!

That 3 courage ruined him.

Also they don’t have Cliffjumper too and that is very unfair tbh cause Skyquake also appeared for only one episode but got his, and pretty unfortunate cause I really wanna see how strong exactly Cliff was before his death.

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔗𝔥𝔶 𝔈𝔫𝔢𝔪𝔶

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: The perilous position you have assumed within the hierarchy of the Red Keep has been discovered for the farce that it is. You can see it in the way that the prince watches you; like a beast with glinting claws and teeth waiting for the prime moment to lunge for your throat.

You must leave if you wish to keep your life intact, but in an attempt to flee, you run right into his lethal maw. You had just never imagined the nature that the outcome would be.

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: 18+ content, MDNI!! Some Aegon slander (sorry to the aegon stans), brief mentions of past SA of maids by Aegon but it is not stated in detail, AFAB, and fem aligning pronouns used. Dubious consent, the reader is technically the seducer, but there is a clear, uneven power dynamic, and her life is under threat, so the implications are not lost on me. The sex is consensual but keep the warning in mind. Oral sex (M! Receiving), deep throating, Switch wanna be dom sub leaning Aemond, medieval slut shaming, degradation, praise kink, unprotected sex, creampie, wall sex.

𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰: 23.4k words. Not proofread. Enemies to (reluctant) lovers coded. Reader is a spy. She is also the definition of, "well, mark me down as scared and horny."

You truly cannot help but to berate yourself. This could possibly be the most foolish, idiotic situation you have ever allowed yourself to be a part of. Never have you ever so willingly dangled yourself so close to death. Constantly teetering - swinging to and fro above destruction like a pendulum. The urge to slip away in the cover of the night has never been so great before. No other venture has gnawed at you in such a way. Not the petty gossip you have traded over for coin at the expense of bothered and arrogant nobility and ambassadors, not the misdeeds and horrors of bureaucrats that you have passed off to their disgruntled rivals - no matter how formidable or perceptive they might have been. But those feats are all so small in comparison to your tasks now. Pathetic even. Trivial. 

You have maintained your position within the castle for years. Posing many false expressions and surviving many demeaning orders from arrogant, leering lords and insincere, vapid ladies. Despite the ignorance of the common individuals among the court, there have still always been keen, all-seeing eyes that flicker about the halls and rooms in search of treason and threats. You have learned to dance about their line of vision. To hardly be seen, and never heard as you slip around amongst the shadows to collect what is necessary. 

All of these loose lips and wagging tongues with hardly any consciousness or smarts to command them. These people, the many of them akin to animals cavorting around in rich fabrics and imported diamonds, remain wildly blissful in their ignorance. Still, there are few that skulk about the dark just as you do, and it is only by the grace of the gods that you have not blindly bumped into them in your endeavors. 

You should have vanished as soon as the others had been dispatched. Executed silently by the hand of Lord Hightower for their espionage. It was close. Far too close for comfort. They had all been snuffed out so silently. It had not been made a public spectacle, their deaths, but instead was performed with an eerie quiet. Not strung up like the ratcatchers that had snuck into the walls of the castle and slain the King's heir, but silent. As though they had never even existed at all. As though they were merely false phantoms in your memory. 

You owe your life to the lot of them. For not allowing your name to slip from their ragged breaths as they no doubt endured horrendous torture by the hands of the crown. You should take the opportunity that their deaths have provided and run far from King's Landing when you still had the chance. And yet you remain fixed in your position, tending to the requirements of your station on the day to day. Perhaps you are merely making an effort to honor their memories. To remain here, surrounded by danger out of a sense of duty. You have always survived, no matter the circumstances. You have carved a place out for yourself here within the great walls of the caste, burrowed in the cracks beyond where others can see, and you know that you will weather this storm. But you understand truly that that must be a lie. Perhaps, after all of this time, your arrogance has finally gotten the better of you. 

You have waited for the Worm's call. A raven, a word, her presence, a middleman. Naught have come. She has been absent. Like a whisper lost on the wind. It has you fear the worst. That perhaps that she too has been found out by proxy of the other informants, and the bloody and ruthless sword of the crown has struck her down. You can only hope that she has escaped before the killing blow was delivered. She is crafty beyond compare, and you know (you hope) that in your heart of hearts that she has made it out. 

Soon she will be able to send word to you. As of now, you can only strive to keep your own throat untouched and free of gashes as you continue to change the King's soiled linens and to toss out his chamber pot full of putrid piss while you cling to the notion that you may make it out of this endeavor; still slaving after him even while he has been forced bedridden by his ailments. Now lying along his bedding, whimpering like a wounded dog as he is tormented by the grave burns that sear along his body. 

The delight that had risen inside of you when you had first lain eyes on him in such a state was traitorous. It would have surely cost you your breath had the smile that threatened to lift at your mouth broken through your troubled facade. He is now wrapped from head to foot in bandages that are now so often tinged with the sickly red that seeps from his agonized, mottled flesh. His limbs twitch and quiver weakly, wracked with painful tremors that cause his breath to skip and snag inside his tender chest. He moans at all hours of the day and night, mumbling incoherently with a slurring tongue from the influence of the milk of the poppy that he is frequently dopped on.  

It was a retribution delivered by the will of the gods for his skin to be scorched so severely. Flesh for flesh, you had dared to think elatedly. And you could only hope that the young servant girls and chamber maidens that he has debased throughout the years have also reveled in his suffering. 

Isolde, Lena, Dyana. 

All of them. Soiled and treated as playthings for his vial pleasure. His entitlement truly knows no bounds; as though he is privileged to the blood that runs through their veins, the spirit that possesses their limbs. A disgusting little man.   

It was a task that you once loathed with every fiber of your being. Detesting the moment that you would wake before the sun has even made its descent upward and crested above the horizon in a banner of gold to cross the threshold of his apartments. To urge him from his bed, only done out of his own accord lest you get berated harshly while alcohol still saturated his breath, or rudely shoved away from the edge of the bedding with the unbridled strength of his arm. But now he is too weak to so much as force his eyes open to look upon you and the others as you go about your work, laboring alongside the direction of the maester's as they dabble in their endless tending. 

No matter the hour, he is now too drained, drugged, and afflicted to spare so much as a single word. Energy eludes him and leaves him little more than a shell of the boorish, obstreperous man that he had been before. And though he can hardly speak, his eyes tell so much. They open wide in distress, becoming glassy with unshed tears when you light the candles aflame at night, as not to leave his room in darkness. You know that his mind must be betraying him then. Thrusting him headfirst to that day where he sliced through the air on dragon back, pinned in place by the enemy's jaws and talons as the roaring, spirals of fire rushed towards him and doused his armor with the burning rivulets, melting and fusing steel and flesh. 

He is haunted, and it always gives you a joy that should shame you, but the guilt remains elusive. 

You make sure to keep your satisfaction tucked away and hidden. Managing your expressions to keep them controlled and devoid of the contentment and glee that capers and frolics underneath, deep within the privacy of your own psyche. But no matter how disturbing your internal amusements are, it seems that you may not be the only one that delights in the agony of the King. Whom basks in his misery. 

You can spot it in his eye. Dancing and glimmering within the crystalline blue and lilac like a flame swaying atop its wick, eager to burn and spread and devour like a starved inferno. It makes you wonder if the others can see it as well. If the maesters feel a cold prickle scatter down their spines when he perches at the foot of the bed, leather bound hands gripping the engraved footrest like the awaiting talons of a predator longing to sink into the vulnerable belly of their gutted prey. Gloating over the kill. 

He only darkens the doorway of the King's chambers on rare occasion. Infrequently, and it keeps you on edge in an attempt to guess when his next appearance might be. Like a great vulture circling overhead, waiting for the frail animal below to finally succumb and give underneath its own weakened weight. It is strange. There is no love or kinship in the way that he stares. Only patience and cunning, and the frigid, subtle edge of cruelty. It is not the devoted, worried gaze of a brother, but instead the brutal stare of betrayer. 

You have heard some of the hushed gossip and perturbed claims that drift about the circles of the Courts and the depths of the city's underbelly. They speak of the second son's many feats: of his talents with sword, his possession of the biggest dragon, and his nearly unmatched cunning. But people also talk of his more unsettling traits. Unfounded tales really, but even lies often have merit. They converse of jealousy for the throne. The pursuit of retribution. Not to be trusted, some have said. 

You personally know little of the prince - or Prince Regent now. Your paths rarely intercept, and the attention that he has spared you has blessedly been little. Fleeting, almost unseeing glances. You see him often, striding throughout the corridors in that confident, leisurely way of his. Always in the route to improve or study or join council. Circling around the castle grounds, sword in hand to spar against the finest soldiers and lords that the crown has to offer; scouring over ancient tomes and scrolls in philosophies and military strategies; studying diligently with tutors until he has all but mastered the tongue of his ancestors. He is meticulous and determined, you will give him that, but there is a strange, sinister spirit that clings to his person like an undercurrent. 

The calculated glint in his eyes burns too fiercely. It is a look that you recognize easily. You have faced it in men and women, highborn and peasant alike throughout the years; all of them formidable in their own right. And it is a dangerous sort of passion to have in a person that holds a position of power. Of someone who stands so closely to the Iron Throne. You have seen the same ardor that he holds manifest so violently in the others that have come before him. Impowered by their greed, their desire to claim what they felt they deserved. Many have suffered underneath the intensity of it. Both Highborn and smallfolk. You wonder if his ardor will manifest in the same way. If people will be bent like stalks underfoot and left smoldering and burning like embers from the scorching breath of his she-dragon. 

Still, you cannot help to be drawn by the magnetism of it. To be grasped almost violently and taken into the influence of it like a trout captured by a strong current, unable to fight against the pull. The restrained, conniving violence that he holds himself with should concern you. It should make you shudder and wish to flee, and yet the desire to truly do so remains distant and deep, like a long-forgotten instinct. 

He is like a predator curled in plain sight, hiding underneath the cover of camouflage as it waits for the opportune moment to strike. And horrendously, you were eager to see the moment that his teeth would sink into the naked jugular of his prey's throat, to wrestle the crown down upon its knees to power it into a kneel. Even if only to watch the Greens crumble underneath the will of one of their own. 

But for now, you will have to settle for the tormented cries and begs for mercy that mumble past the King's raw lips. To delight in the wince that pinches his brows close as sweat glints and dampens his disfigured flesh. 

And his cries were particularly raucous one that one particular morning. Induced by the gentle moving of his body as you and Eira were directed to tear the sullied linens from the down stuffed bedding - slightly damp from his perspiration, tinged with a dull yellow from it - so that the filth would not further aggravate his great wounds. You had both made sure to be quick with your work as you stood alongside the edges of the underbed, making to center your attentions on your tasks as the maester's crouch around him, chattering and discussing almost conspiratorially the nature of his condition and the effectiveness of their concoctions and instruments. All the while the King moans from his place settled along the floor, supported on the cushion of thick blankets as you finished in preparing his bed, drawing the linen sheet taught and smooth over the expanse of it. 

He whimpered and shook on his place along the floor like an injured dog. Even while he was effectively immobilized, trapped in place by the ruined confines of his body, you could still spy Eira's discomfort as she assisted you in your efforts. The tension in her shoulders, the hunched way her spine attempted to curl in on itself, as though she was attempting to appear small, trying to shrink in on herself as though she may succeed in vanishing. 

King Aegon has never ventured to seek out her flesh. At least she has not claimed as such. Still, you know the stories of the other chambermaids' awful recounts of their assault has shaken her soul. She is a girl too sweet, too delicate for such a cold, indifferent place, where kindness is a charade and the smiles given do not truly reach the eyes of the bearer. You can only hope that she will not wilt under the extremes of this world. 

Her hands quivered just the slightest as she drew the linen over the edge of the bed. It had you reaching a hand to the center of the underbed, motioning it in the guise of smoothing out a crease but it succeeded in gaining her attention. Her vision lifted up from its down casted position and flickered up to meet your own, wide and glossy like a startled doe, cheeks flushed with worry. You made to keep your expression as neutral as possible, but you did not hide the gentle warning in them, silently urging her to keep her composure and wits about her as you went about your task. 

She swallowed deeply, head jerking in a subtle nod as she reached for the final layer of dressings from the wicker basket near her feet. Quick but rigid in her movements as she did so, as though she is frightened that the King may suddenly jerk up from the floor and lunge for her. But he remained where he lies. Still burned and damaged, surrounded by fretting measter's. It urged you to smile. It threatened to lift upon your face like sunlight piercing a coat of ice. Prickling along your skin like bursts of a playful warmth, and you think you could have laughed if you were so brazen and foolish enough. 

You felt the shift in the room before you noticed it outright, the others pausing unanimously from their ministrations to pass acknowledgments to an oncoming presence. Eira had also drawn up straight, ceasing in her duties to address whoever had entered. You noticed the shape of them in your peripherals, the dark of it looming like a shadow. It commanded that you looked to them, the compulsion to do so seemed to take ahold of your head and turned it on your neck to gaze upon them as though drawn by a string; your body acted on its own accord. 

Here to relish in the King's pain once again it seemed. 

Shifting himself across the stone floor with light feet as he drew closer, hands clasped carefully. So relaxed, so indifferent for someone who should be in mourning. Entirely untouched of worry or unease. His eye found his brother's temporary place along the floor, and you are certain that you caught a glint of delight pass through his aloof expression. 

You managed yourself to extend a gentle greeting, nudging your head downwards as you carried about your work, though he did not offer you or the others so much as a passing glance. Instead, he angled himself in the direction of the King, daring to tread closer until he stood before the injured man's feet to consider him with a closer expression. His cold eye darting about the stretch of his brother's gnarled body and the fresh bandages that had been wrapped along his skin. Looming over his gnarled form like the Stranger patiently waiting to collect. 

"Has there been any progress in his recovery?" 

His voice was soft in its nature, nearly placid. A betrayal of the violent, vindictive nature that no doubt lurks underneath, though it does not make the impact of it any less. It still projected itself across the room highly, cutting across the mild chatter that the maester's had returned to and expelling them back into a hush. It was Grand Maester Orwyle who turned to answer him, ceasing his dotting on the King to address the inquiry. "We do not yet know, my prince. His condition is still delicate, but he grows stronger by the day. Gods willing he will be back to full strength and ready to lead us once again." The Grand Maester dabbed a soaked compress along Aegon's tender flesh carefully, spreading the healing ointment along the wounds. "We should be so lucky having you to guide us while he recovers, Your Grace. " 

If you did not know any better, you would have said that the comment nearly sounded like some sort of quip in disguise of a well-meaning praise. It almost caused you to lapse in your task as you assisted Eira in tugging the thicker blankets right along the bedding, but luckily you did not faulter. You watched the exchange out of the corners of your eyes then, making sure to appear uninterested in the exchange as you eagerly listened for more of the subtle tension that lies beneath the surface of their conversation. 

You expected for Prince Aemond to rise to the indistinct jab. But he remained impassive and unruffled. Quiet. His silence somehow makes him even more unsettling. His head tilted just the slightest as he observed what remains of the man on the floor. A pale ghost of his former self. You must wonder how much he truly comes to visit his fallen sibling. If he waits for the cover of the night to come lurking, slipping inside of this very room while the King fitfully slumbers to gaze upon his ravaged flesh. He nearly appeared as though he is inspecting some sort of pathetic creature that has carried itself across the floor and collapsed in a weary heap. 

Unsympathetic. 

"Hmm, quite." He finally agreed. "Let us hope that his rehabilitation is swift. There are . . . many dangers about; it is a comfort to have him secure in the safety of your healing hands." 

And then the piercing shade of his eye was suddenly fixed on you. Sharp and evaluating. You saw it and bore its weight even from the peripherals of your vision. It was as though you were the accused. As though he meant to gauge your reactions. To see a twitch of emotion bleed across your face. It was like being flayed open. As though he was reaching inside of you and rummaging around to find something of interest. For a moment you had insisted upon yourself that you were merely being paranoid, but in your line of work your instincts are invaluable. And in that moment, you knew the truth. 

You have finally been seen after all of this time. Analyzed and looked within and past. It was horrific to be appraised so openly, as though he was raising a challenge. Imploring you to meet his invasive stare head-on. You had done your best not to flinch or waver underneath it even while your mind scrambled and panicked like the frantic heartbeat of a startled hare. 

He cannot know. He does not. Your thoughts rushed and whipped around like a tempest. Relentlessly chanting, he knows, he knows, he knows. 

But that is not possible. You would be dead. Slaughtered. Executed on the spot for your treason against the crown. But there is an acute knowing in his eye. Like a beast lurking at the entrance of a burrow, smelling blood and life and fear on the earth scented air as a shaking rodent huddles up against the walls of the tunnel. 

You managed yourself to be calm and collected as you and Eira finished off tidying up the bed and fluffing the pillows along the headboard. You are simply a dull chambermaid, tasked with tending to all of the King's frivolous and tedious needs. Dull and simple in your function. But the Prince Regent it seems has just as sharp instincts as you.

You can practically feel when his focus finally retracted from you to turn back to the maester's. It is akin to breathing after forcing your chest motionless and starved of air for a period of time. But you remain outwardly poised as you shared looks with Eira, nodding at a finished job before you had reached down at your side to pick up the basket full of soiled linens and swiftly turned on your feet to make for the door. She trailed after you dutifully with her whicker vessel and dirtied sheets clutched in her hands as she stuck close to your heels. 

Still, you were unable to keep yourself from sparing a brief glance upward towards the Prince Regent, and your breath threatened to snag inside of your throat when you noticed that his vision is once again on you to mark your leave. Head tilted just the slightest to spy you as you entered the scope of his blind spot; the edges of his curled mouth seem to be much more raised than usual. As though he was pleased. Everything seemed to be compressed down to this single, terrible moment. With your heart thumping wildly in your ear; the pained, ragged wheezing of the King seeming to scratch along the walls and claw down your spine like the echoes of a bad omen. A promise. Ringing around the depths of your mind like a hoarse whistle or a shrill scream. 

You are in danger. That much is apparent. 

Will he give word to Lord Larys or Otto Hightower? Signal to them to make preparations for your death? To cut out your traitorous, loose tongue? If he suspects you of treason, it forces you to wonder for how long he has been privy. What might have given you away and revealed your true nature. What blunder might have tripped you into his sight. Perhaps he merely desires to dispatch you by his own hands. To slay the serpent that has snuck its way into the courts and hidden away within the cover of the King's apartments; tucked underneath his bed. 

You should have fled. You should have just fucking fled when you were graced with the chance to do so. But now the city gates have been decreed shut. Guarded and sealed, trapping all who reside inside King's Landing at the order of the new Prince Regent. A wonderful development for your current position. You are certain that he has not secured the city simply in the hopes of weeding out a single spy, especially when he already has you so clearly in the palm of his hand from tending to his brother's needs. This simply happens to be an ill-timed coincidence. 

He has, more than likely, invertedly imprisoned you. A pure accident that has worked fully in his favor. It will have to be near to impossible to escape now. With the constant patrolling of the walls and gates to ensure that the smallfolk remain sealed tight to be properly controlled and herded. 

You should have said to hells with this entire operation and tossed away the many years you have spent tasked with collecting gossip and information. Mysaria is possibly dead or even worse, having been carried away to the castle dungeons to endure great torture. And yet here you are, still toiling away, playing maid while the realm is thrown into disarray and your life hangs in the balance of the Prince Regent's suspicions. And if he has indulged those speculations in another is entirely beyond you. 

You are damned it seems. The gods have turned their backs to you and left you to the wills of men. Or apparently, one man in particular. A kinslayer. 

There must be some sort of play at hand. You would not still be currently breathing otherwise. But if you can at all help it, you would rather not discover what that purpose may possibly be. 

It made you drift about the remainder of your duties like a phantom. Flitting about the other apartments and rooms, washing and cleaning linens, stocking the hearths of fuel for the fires that will be lit to chase away the coming night's chill. You maintained to keep a level head upon yourself as you went about your duty. Only a single day has passed since then, but it flickered by like distorted, murky water and the chaos that stormed within you was still great. You could only hope that it was not noticeable. Eira makes no outward note of it which gives you some solace. She is typically unrestrained in her concerns and opinions, so you put faith in the fact that she would have made her worries voiced had she noticed a difference in your demeanor. 

You see little of the prince, blessedly. Only but during a fleeting moment, having passed him in the corridor with him most likely in route to join the Small Council. He had spared you the weight of his eye. Ignoring you as though you did not exist. As though the subtle warning or threat that he had given only a morning ago had never existed at all. It nearly made you doubt yourself. That you had simply gone mad, but the instincts in your gut shouted otherwise. 

Still it makes you dubious of yourself. Never before have you been so uncertain about your abilities before. Not since you were a young girl child, not since the purging of the other spies within King's Landing. But now you know that there are truly eyes everywhere - much more seeing than you had anticipated. You have always known of Prince Aemond's intellect and perceptiveness, and yet he had never been one to be considered a true threat. Not of the likes of Otto Hightower or Lord Larys Strong, at least. How entirely foolish of you. 

Your stress keeps you sitting in an odd in-between. Dangling somewhere between a sense of odd detachedness and a constant state of vigilance. It has you spread thin. Contemplating on vanishing in the dark and attempting to escape the walls, even if the attempt would yield a lack of results. Perhaps, if fate would have it, you could manage to sneak down upon the docks and stow away within one of the vessels of independent merchants set for the seas for Drift Mark, or if the gods are willing, Pentos. A death among the salted waves, confined to creaking, groaning walls of a rocking ship would be more merciful than what the Prince Regent may have in store for you. 

Even once the sun sets, slipping low underneath the horizon and vanishes to allow the pale shade of the heavens to give to the dark, you are still unable to settle. Comfort eludes you still as you are tucked away beneath the cover of your rough wool blanket; the welcoming arms of sleep refusing to open to accept you. The presence of the other servants surrounding you in their slumber only serves to heighten your paranoia. The noisy, guttural snores and the occasional dry cough that ceaselessly sound out around you only grate upon your anxiety, cutting deep into the musky atmosphere with all of the grace of cutlery slicing obnoxiously over porcelain.  

You stare at the ceiling of the shared quarters, tracing the silvery threads of spider silk and cobwebs that cling to the corners and divots in the damp stone. Feeling the pulse of your own heart thumping within the cavity of your chest, urging the blood to roar lowly within your ears. The chill radiating from the cold floor seeps into your bones and finds home within the marrow; taking root so deeply that not even your blanket and the harsh straw stuffed inside of your bedding could ward it off. 

It causes you to toss and turn, listening to the stalks rustle and snap softly underneath your head as you struggle to calm yourself. But your mind is too frenzied. Awaiting the moment that one of the many bodies may leap up from their place, blade in hand, glinting violently before it plunges into your chest or the sharp of it notches against the tender flesh of your throat to slit it open allowing the damp warmth of your blood to spill from the gash, heating your chilled flesh as the life slips from your limbs. 

But the servants remain still and slumbering soundly. Tucked away underneath their own scratchy blankets, unaware of your own restlessness. The war inside of you is too great. The walls of the quarters seems as they are growing narrow. Shifting close to loom over you with the threat of suffocation and sealing you in tight like the cradle of a casket. It makes your palms grow slick with a nervous sweat and your fingers curl into the rough texture of the bedding underneath you as though your nails desire to tear into the worn fabric and burry themselves along the brittle sticks of the straw inside. Perhaps the sting of the little rods would help in pulling you from your internal panic then. 

That train of though is enough to rip you from the vicious trap of your thoughts. Prying your mind free from the sinking snapping teeth of anger, worry, and dread, and like a shadow your body follows suit. You jerk up from your reclined position with a silent gasp, propping yourself up with your palms to sweep a cursory glance around the somber room, taking in the repetitive rise and fall of the other servants' torsos as they draw in leisurely breaths. Somewhere a leak drops upon the stone floor. Landing with a reoccurring dull plop that echos softly within the chamber of the quaint quarters.  

It feels like a tomb. Like you are another body that has been packed in alongside the dead within the depths of some forgotten catacomb, lost to time; forever lost to the living. What would truly happen of you were to be killed? Would there be anyone left to remember you? There is no remaining family left to whisper your name in hushed, nostalgic admiration, recalling your memory with fondness and sorrow. The White Worm - if she still skulks about the earth with life in her chest, would hardly recount you at all. You are simply a willing body for hire. Another individual capable to fulfill the task that is required. But would she mourn your passing? 

You can hardly imagine that she would. 

Loyalty is bought with coin; compassion is a luxury. 

Like a puppet upon tugging strings, you jerk up from your place on the bedding, tossing the blanket aside to stand upon your bare feet. The stones are shocking against your soles, so harsh that you could compare the temperature to a winters snow. The depths of the servant chambers are too deep within the bowels of the Keep to find the solace and warmth of the sun. Like a hell, the balmy, dulcet rays of the light are unable to breach through the walls and bring you and the other servant's comfort, regardless of the season. 

You must leave, you decide suddenly. Perhaps not tonight, but soon. Quickly. 

It is such a sudden thought, rushed and impulsive but you are unable to rein it in. The possibility of death hangs far too closely. The Prince Regent is plotting. Why he desires to extend your life, to allow you to wallow inside the icy, ripping depths of your worry and dread - that must be it then. A sort of sadism on his part. Delighting in the way that you ruminate over your own impending execution. Like a cat toying with an injured mouse clutched inside of its claws. 

The White Worm and her plotting can be done with. You must leave, no matter what the cost may possibly be, and if you are caught in the process of fleeing, then at the very least you shall die on your own terms. You will die trying. And even while you internally curse the moment that you had met Mysaria and allowed her to pull you into the influence of her clutch - a young, inexperienced soul for sale in exchange for coin - your mind still frantically latches onto the many faces that fall inside of her employ. Faithfull followers that are tied together by a shared belief, or more often than not, the promise of money. They will be your best bet in escaping this horrid city. There is one in particular that you know you will easily be able to barter with, especially as fellow hire of the White Worm. 

You hold onto his name. Your best bet on such short notice. Often a ferryman of sorts for the White Worm and the many spies that lay within her pockets; one whose service you yourself have counted on many times to give you passage to the cities that rest along the coasts of Blackwater Bay. 

Bahram Mercer is always present in that high-end brothel, tucked away inside a dark corner to drown himself in ale, or to partake in the body of the whores that frolic and dance about like water nymphs, bare with only strips of silk and chemise to drape around their forms in a mockery of dress. It will be a dangerous place to show your face, with the Prince Regents appetites frequently taking him outside of the Red Keep to spoil himself in the rich variety of talents that line down the notorious Street of Silk. But now with panic festering deep in your gut you can hardly be bothered to care.  It must be creeping close to the hour of ghosts, and yet you are certain - you are desperate to hope that Mercer is still there. Partaking in his favorite sins. 

It is enough to find yourself navigating around the bedding and slumbering bodies, careful to place your feet within the narrow space sliced between the blankets and cushions. Squinting in the dark to step over wayward legs and arms that have slipped outside of the boundaries of their respective linens and onto your path in the throes of slumber. You are even quicker in finding an old, homely garment of yours and snatching someone's worn cloak to cover your coverings. Dressing yourself hurriedly, ice and terror in your veins with no time to spare. 

You are even quicker as you ascend the stairwell in the goal to seek out the old secret tunnels that stretch throughout the bowels of the castle, hiding behind stone walls and lurking just beneath the floors. Traversing up the steps to enter the dimly lit corridor. You feel as though you are being chased up by phantom threats, imaginary fangs snapping at your heels, and assassins with daggers tucked away in the dark with the intent to leap and gut you from gullet to groin. But the horrid paranoia is not enough to halt you in your trek. You continue in your path, listening keenly for a second pair of footsteps trailing after your own, the sharp brush of feet murmuring along the texture of the stone, but it remains as a single set. 

The patrol of the Keep has been intensified since the murder of the King's heir. A slip in the guards' schedule, an unfortunate gap in postings led to the poor child's brutal decapitation. A great lapse in the Lord Commanders judgement. And if Talya's last speculating gossip holds any bearing, then it may have been a command given by Ser Crispin Cole himself so that he may be able to have a tryst with his paramour, the Queen Dowager herself. A scandalous and ignorant relapse for the Commander if that happens to be a truth, considering the crown is in the midst of a war conducted by a grieving mother. 

But fortunately, with your knowledge of the guards' schedules and positions, you are able to navigate the labyrinthian corridors with hardly crossing paths, managing to evade and slip past their posts as you make for the library. It is there that you enter the passage securely tucked behind a false door fashioned from one of the looming bookcases built into the far southern wall.

 It was horribly silent in there. That was the first thought that slipped into your mind as you stared into the inky, flat black before you. Gazing into it like a heroin of an old tale peering into a hellmouth, like an animal staring straight down the gullet of a starved beast. The pathetic flame of the candle that you had stolen from the roost of one of the many scones along the corridor wall lightened only a pace or so in front of you, dipping it in a shade of muted amber. Bathing what little you could make out in weak shadows, the divots in the walls created from the spacings between the stones seemed to stretch and pool forward like blotches of ink from the casting of the light. 

You felt as though you were holding your breath the entire trek. Anticipating for some unseen creature to rush from the dark with lashing claws. Many of the passages are fruitful of traps and horrors intended to wound or kill possible intruders. Though if those snares are only rumors fabricated to dissuade possible thieves or assassins, you are not certain, but you are thankful that you have yet to wander upon one in your usage of the tunnels. 

Fortunately, you already knew of what to expect with this particular shaft, allowing your feet and the dim flame of your light to guide you beneath the Red Keep and under the slumbering life of the city. You took familiar turns and listened to the patter of your feet along the floor, the whisper of your skirts on the dust covered stone as you went about. Clutching the candle within your grasp so tightly that it had nearly molded to its shape, giving underneath the warmth and nervous sweat of your palm. You snuff it once only you come across the worn old ladder posted along the damp wall. A ragged thing, constructed of weakening, damaged wood and rusted nails. You could only attempt to guess how long it might have been down there in the depths of the tunnel. Of how many people before you may have climbed along it and for what purposes. 

It creaks and quivers unsteadily when your haul yourself up its worn rungs, reaching upward to shift the rounded stone plate that conceals the opening. Slipping it to the side with unsteady fingers to allow yourself to lift your body through the open mouth and into the crisp night air. The majority of the Red Keep may be deep in the safety of slumber, but Flea Bottom is forever in the wild throes of depravity. Men and women alike prance about in the similarities of the devils of the Seven Hells. Cavorting down the lively streets in flashes of flesh and smiles. Even in the midst of the night, salesmen still gather to sell their cheap wares, forcing themselves into the spaces of unfortunate victims and passerby's with longwinded speeches and the promise of life altering effects. 

You make sure to avoid the desperate folk that hope to pull you into their influences with the shoddy products and goods. Though "goods" is being generous. Especially considering that a man had tried his very hardest in persuading you to purchase the dried womb of a rat as a means to bring about good fortune. A prompt, but polite decline had been your only response. 

You allow your feet to carry you down the chaos that runs rampant along the Street of Silk. Blocking out the unintelligible clamoring of the spirited masses around you as they indulge in their most debased desires in the open. Unabashed and uncaring. You weave through the crowd, undeterred by the vulgarity that pervades around you, keeping your head low and face indiscernible underneath the cover of your hood.  

You use a small cluster of men as a shield to enter the brothel, hiding behind their shadows and the drunken wobble of their bodies to give you passage within the walls. The air here is so much heavier. Balmy and scented with the sharp bite of ale, the floral undertones of oils and perfume, heady from the distinct fragrance of sex. The pleasured cries of women and the low groans of men hum and rise within the air, scattered about like a lecherous sort of music, rising and falling in pitches of ecstasy, intensified by the unmistakable smack of skin meeting skin. 

Only when you slip far enough into the depths of the brothel do you depart from the rowdy, intoxicated cover of the men, ignoring them as they jest in slurred shouts, shoving at each other boyishly in favor of allowing your eyes to rake over your surroundings in the hopes of landing on that familiar, rugged face. It is difficult to make out ones features, as all the men present are currently caught indulging in the many facets of sex. It is writhing bodies shed underneath the golden glow of firelight, sweat glittering and winking like diamonds, mouths dropped open in rapture to release high whines and begs for mercy. A painting of pure hedonism. 

You navigate the depravity with watchful eyes, scrutinizing the guests for the familiar, but unfortunately quite common shade of auburn hair, peppered with worn, aged gray and silver. It makes you fear the worst. That he has perhaps broken his tradition of frequenting the brothel in the night and has invertedly nudged you closer towards your doom because of it. But you do not allow yourself to be dissuaded. The desperation burns in you too hotly, nipping at your fingertips like the chill of winter and skittering down your spine. It all but forces you to press on deeper into the bowels of the brothel, slinking past the women men frolicking about like the fair folk whispered about in the tales of old, winking and smiling demurely in the hopes of luring away the patrons who come to crawl inside the bottom of a bottle or to lose themselves in the haze of sex. 

It is all so overwhelming, with the many bodies that pack themselves. Boisterous laughter, drunken shouts, wild cries and moans scattered and thick along the air. Shoulders and arms brush along your own as you slink past them, weaving throughout the sea of shifting limbs and torsos, observing each and every face as you pass them, but none bear the weathered features you search for; reddened, sun stung cheeks, or a stern pair of dark eyes. 

You make a sweep through the dining area as efficiently as possible, making a quick note of the patrons as you circle the room, but they are all entirely unfamiliar. Though you do spot a few of the lords that occupy the Red Keeps courts, a ser or two occupying the tables and drowning in ale, and politicians and bureaucrats - nearly all of which are married, and none of which you are searching for. 

In one final attempt, you move back to the farther stretches of the brothel, peeking past the sheer canopies and heavy fabrics that conceal private quarters and hide the beds that have been dispersed about the spaces, catching people in the throes of bliss, acting out exotic positions that you yourself had never even guessed to consider. Still, you had yet to find him. With each passing moment you can feel yourself threatening to slip further and further into that suffocating sense of worry and dread. Skirting up your form like thousands of claws, hooking in deep and you nearly let the primal fear sinking down at the base of your spine to fuel you and possess your body. You have to be mindful to control your pace, to not walk about too quickly, or to jerk the canopies aside harshly as you search. 

There are many men of the courts here at present. He could be here, skulking about like a demon prowling around one of the Hells. Or possibly partaking in the flesh of his woman. That gives you pause suddenly. Searing through you as though you have been struck by a rod of lightning, causing the hand you have gripped on a draped piece of heavy fabric to pause. Freezing in place like hare overcome with shock. A woman moans and keens just behind the hanging cloth, more than likely accompanied by a man. It could just be a man. A simple, average man. 

Or a Prince Regent, your mind notes treacherously. 

It has you jerking back from the canopy, stepping away with a weak breath snagged in your throat. You have been reduced breathless by the simple dawning realization that in an attempt to flee from him, you may have invertedly stumbled right into his path. It was something that you had initially considered before, but here and now it seems too real. The walls are drawing in close. The moans and shouting pitches too high; all but wailing and slicing through the soft, balmy atmosphere that now suddenly seems too scorching and humid. 

This was stupid. A foolish idea. You are entirely out of your depth. A simple information broker, a barterer of petty gossip that allowed yourself to be spun and caught within the wiles of the conniving White Worm in exchange for petty coin and security. What a lie that was when you allowed her to toss you into the dragonpit. Drawing you before mouths full of glinting teeth and throats burning with fire to play the role of a tool; a piece that truly had no part in the traitorous game that she played. You were practically an ignorant child, bewitched by the promise of money. The shelter that wealth could give you. 

One thing that you know for certain is that you cannot go back to the Red Keep. You will not allow yourself to willingly walk into the snare again. Not now that you have managed to sneak out of it. You know naught of where you will go. Many of the White Worm's contacts surely must have slipped off into the shadows. The threat of revealing themself too great in the recent executions of her spies. The sudden train of thought makes you feel as though you could strike yourself if you were not out in the open. Perhaps that is why Mercer is unusually absent from his place in the brothel. Especially with how the regent himself has come to frequent its halls; it is a dangerous place to be spotted. You are so stupid. Reduced to that inexperienced, floundering child who clumsily slipped around the alleys and shadows of Flea Bottom, trailing after unfaithful spouses and gathering fatuous gossip in exchange for scrap and measly coin. 

You have come so far from that shaking little girl, skin smeared and soiled with grime and dirt and ravaged by hunger in her belly, but suddenly it is as though you have been plopped right back into that place; shoved into that horrible point of time. It makes you angry and lost. Burning with a quiet irritation that prickles and sears beneath your flesh like a fever brought on by a poison. 

You are sure that the only reason as to why you may presently be alive is due to the Prince Regent's own uncertainties. The possibility that you might not truly be a part of something nefarious, and he is operating on speculations alone. That is the only thing that makes sense. But fleeing after he had subtly called you out will look badly. It will absolutely validate whatever assumptions he has been withholding and eliminate the doubts that he may have, but hopefully you will be long gone before he can even realize that you have escaped. Long gone from the boarder of King's Landing and far beyond the influence of his reach. 

You have to get out of this brothel. You need to slip somewhere to gather your thoughts; to formulate some sort of plan. There are many other ships that rest port along the bay that stretches beyond the city. And even with the Prince Regent's decree, many continue to slip past the eyes of patrol; holding illegal cargo and goods set for faraway places such as Essos. It will be next to impossible to sneak or barter your way on board, but with the threat of the prince's blade looming overhead, it does little to dissuade you. 

You turn to go back the way that you came, crossing through the gaps in the ever-shifting crowd in the goal of reaching the door, eager for the fresh air. Or as fresh as the air can possibly be in the filth of Flea Bottom, with the tainted breeze that sweeps all the way up from the lowest points of the warren, putrid with hints of human wastes and tanneries that settle at the bottom of the hill. 

You cannot stay here with the possibility of danger so close. You should not have come in the first place. You were ignorant and weak to allow your panic to get the better of you, to drag yourself out here like a desperate animal. 

You need peace and quiet. Somewhere safe from the dangers of this place and the Red Keep to gather yourself. The urge drags you forward. Shuffling and sliding past the men who shout and cheer lecherously and the women who chortle and dance; navigating silently around the quaint tables and the people that laugh raucously and bang their fists upon the tabletops to pronounce their cackling. 

You draw near the door, nearing the small set of steps. A taut grip clasps around your forearm. Seizing you so tightly that the rigidity of their hold jerks you back a pace or two, snapping your head back to sharply that the fabric of your hood slips free from the crown of your head and unveils your face. Your lungs snatch, feeling hollow and tight as your head snaps on your neck to look at who has captured your arm. Fear takes root in your stomach, dropping like a chilled stone. 

Venom rushes through your veins when your vision lands on the dazed, flushed face of a stranger. He rocks on his feet unsteadily, and when his spit smeared lip's part open, you have to fight of the urge to let your nose scrunch at the stench of alcohol on his breath. "Why's a pretty creature like you all clothed and hidden away? Hmmph?" 

You long to lash out and strike him. To rake your nails down up the sweat dampened skin of his face, to gauge his leering eyes out. That will have to remain a last resort. He will surely retaliate if you were to even attempt such a thing, and the overwhelming number of men that occupy the space will hardly take to protect a woman, much less a woman that they believe to be a whore. 

He is clearly too far gone to remark the homely state of your dress. The underwhelming, ugly garments of a peasant and not fabrics that one would wear to entice the appetites of lords and politicians. 

You school your features into something much softer. Pulling the grimace of your mouth into something neutral and unbothered as you restrain the desire to twist yourself from his grip. The clutch of his arm will no doubt cause your flesh to smart and turn tender. 

"I am sorry, my lord, but I am promised to another client tonight," you lie easily. It is only then that you allow eyes to drop down to the place where his hand still holds onto you, his knuckles having turned pallid from the ferocity behind it even as the effect of alcohol causes him to sway and hold himself on weak ankles. "He will not be pleased to see me in the arms another." 

The grin that pulls his lips apart is horrid, revealing snarling teeth that seem as though they want to rip you apart. He squints his eyes at you, probably seeing double from the copious amounts of ale that ravage his veins, and he leans himself forward with an unsteady jerk of his spine. His arm also tugs you closer, squeezing you to the press of his body until you can feel the harsh bite of his buckle prodding at your stomach through your garments. He smells of sweat and booze, a putrid combination that begs you to gag.

"An' this client of yours then? I bet I could pay you so much more than he." He dares to tuck his face closer to your person. Near enough that you can feel the ghost of his breath along your throat, the heat of his body brushing on your skin. 

"I doubt it," you snap suddenly. You regret it as soon as it leaves you. He seems the type to rise to the apparent challenge that you have just set. Instead of wondering off and having his pick of the plethora of many willing women that giggle and dance about the brothel, he will much rather remain here, stripping you of much needed time and personal space. 

You only vaguely register his response but are hardly able to pay it any mind as your dare to shift your focus about the room, sweeping it along the many bodies and corners of the space as though a guiding apparition may materialize and spirit you away into safety and out of this hellmouth. All at once time and motion seems to grind down into a thrumming, inaudible halt. The boorish presence of the man crowding himself against you shifts from a horrific weight to an inconvenience; like a gnat buzzing about your ear. 

The galvanized pandemonium bursting around you falls into a hushed chatter as your heart plummets and stills. This must truly be a punishment. The gods have forsaken you and allowed you to bumble into the pits of the Seven Hells: electing to torment you for a fault in your past life. Maybe this is where you finally die. Slain by sword or choked until your life passes from your lungs. 

He seems so menacing standing in the wide entrance of the room, posted above the small set of stairs as he stares past the ocean of writhing and jeering bodies. His attention has not been ensnared by the displays of intemperance and lust that pervades the air. 

Instead, it rests on you. Flaying and arresting in its intensity; as though it is gripping you, slicing you open and seeing you all at once. Never have you ever been so evaluated. So observed. And yet, you can see an equal amount of surprise projected in the wide glint of his eye. It gives you some small, fleeting sense of comfort to know that you are not the only one who has been taken entirely off guard, but you are not given the bliss of basking in it for long. 

You can practically see the thoughts circulating and warring within in his mind. His stance is rigid underneath the shroud of his cloak. The hint of shock thaws at the firm set of his features, the frustration that must have rested there before giving beneath your shared bewilderment as the sight of his single eye seems to burn into you. A sort of stalemate. 

You dare to pray and wish that it is not truly him, but the leather concealing his socket and the unmistakable silver glint of pale hair pouring down his shoulders gives you no other option but to accept this reality. It has you gasping in dread, swiftly turning your head to once again look upon the drunken man who still clings to you like a parasite. 

"It seems that my customer is finally here." You blurt, tongue heavy in your mouth like stone while your heart skips and flutters like the wings of a startled bird. His brows cinch close as though you have presented him with a troubling paradox, and his eyes leave you to observe where you had your focus had pinned just breaths before. 

You dare not to follow his scrutiny, giving yourself a few seconds of reprieve but the unattractive, smug grin that stretches his mouth snuffs it as quickly as it was kindled. 

"And jus' where is he supposed to be?" Comes his smarmy, obnoxious reply. 

It forces you look in the prince's direction once again. Terror grips you to see that the space that he had once occupied is now horrifically vacant, as though he had merely been a figment of your imagination. It has you spinning on the heels of your feet, rotating as much as the stranger's grip will allow as you frantically scan the crowd for the faintest traces of silver and white flickering within the bare flesh and writhing throng, but there is nothing. 

You are damned soul, whisked away and trapped within the maw of Hell as one of its devils' skulks about the masses to taunt you. You must escape. You have to. He will kill you here and now if he manages to get his hands upon your flesh. He will have you tortured inside the depths of the Red Keep's dungeons where your cries for mercy will go unheard. You have listened to many horrific tales of the agony that the prisoners of the crown endure. Whispers of the rats, bigger than housecats, that gnaw upon flesh and trim limbs down to gnarled, bloody nubs with the slicing of their teeth; how soldiers and practitioners of torment are ordered to flay skin from sinew while the prisoner is still living; the pulling of limbs until they pop wetly from their sockets and finally give and rip free from the torso as the victims scream and plead to their gods salvation. 

The alarm of it gives you strength, pouring vigor inside of your bones, and with a sudden lurch you lift a knee to crush it between the apex of the man's legs, bearing the point of it upon his manhood. As soon as the sound of his piercing cry snaps inside of your ears you twist and tug your arm free from his slackened hold. Leaving him to collapse pathetically upon his knees on the floor. You rush away quickly. Separating yourself from the scene before the witnesses of his sobbing are able to notice you and connect you to the crime. Blessedly, most hardly realize his whimpering and swearing at all. Far too engrossed in their own gratification and lust to hear the sharp, sniveling sounds of his pain. 

You veer off sharply, straying away from the direction of the front entrance. That will be far too obvious. The risk of Prince Aemond lurking outside of the threshold, waiting for you to foolishly slip past is far too great. It would be an obvious slip for you to make. Though luckily you know of the rear entrance of the establishment, often where they cart in the barrels of ale and wine to avoid the constant coming and goings of clientele.  

As of now it may only be your only hope of escaping. Of finally freeing yourself of this horror and dread that you have so ignorantly offered yourself to; stupid, young and too confident in your abilities to see where you lacked until it was too late. Now you may pay for it dearly. 

This must be what a lamb feels as the shadow of a dragon engulfs it, promising danger from above. A threat that it will be unable to see, and once it is finally able to perceive it, the peril and talons will already be upon it, guaranteeing a death by fire. But much like the startled lamb, you will at the very least try to extend your life. To run forward in the attempt to escape the snap of lethal jaws and the cracking of giant, leathery wings. 

You cannot stop the way that your vision continues to skip about the faces that pass you. Dancing from person to person and gliding along the dim corners to catch even the faintest traces of his person sneaking along the cover of the dark, but he is absent. And that terrifies you more than if you had seen him. You have to wonder if this is somehow amusing to him. If a part of him delights in this chase. If he sees your presence here as some sort of confirmation for your assumed treason. If there is a possibility that he has not made any note of you being here (the fantasy of a desperate person, you know) or if he prowling after you like beast sniffing after the blood trail that pours from the wound of its prey. 

A run threatens to break through your brisk pace as you all but shove past a pair that blocks your path, breaking the two of them apart without a shred of an apology on your lips. The woman yelps in surprise, though you do not spare so much as a glance in your desperation, the curse and bothered shout of her client that follows after you remains unheard. 

It is difficult to feel guilt or mind social expectations while fear douses itself over you like a flammable fuel, waiting for a single spark to set you off and send you into a spiral. Never have you floundered so frequently before. So enormously. Though, in your defense, you have never taken on a task of this caliber. The threats that you had faced did not rise to such a scale or prove to be so daunting. 

A sheep destined for the dragonpit. 

The delicate, lively music that drifts from the farther reaches of the brothel dampen somewhat, the sound of the instruments fading into a mild hush. The pleasured moans and wailing of bliss become less in volume and the frequency of them are less prevalent that before as you drift towards the back of the establishment. The number of people grow spars. Most of the couples and even quartets that frequent the connecting halls and adjoining rooms are few and far between; the majority far too engrossed in their pleasures to take notice of your passing by. A blessing and a curse all at once. You no longer have the shield that the thick crowds provided you, but it will also make it easier to tell if you are being followed and stalked. 

So it seems so cruel when you are snatched for a second time tonight. A hand grips around the back of your neck like a band of steel, fingers burying at the tender flesh harshly enough for you to gasp out a ragged, hissing cry of pain. Your body instinctively twists against the pull of it, but the strength of their grasp is too strong. They haul you back as easily as a cat plucking a wiggling mouse between the clutch of its sharp teeth. 

The world blurs for a moment, tipping unsteadily as you are spun on your feet and your back in slammed against the flat of a wall. It forces the remaining scraps of air from your chest, leaving you choking on nothing as you slump along the chilled stone. You can hardly register it as a warmth blankets itself over you, pursued closely by the fragrance of leather and wind. You lurch when fingers come to grip your face, guiding you pitilessly to gaze up at your attacker. You are not surprised when you meet the vehement, pale glare of the Prince Regent; you are simply disappointed, frightened. The weight of it, the both of you tucked away within the confines of a darkened alcove has your mind drawing a terrible blank. The thoughts slip free of you as you will your lungs to function and draw in air. 

There is so much that seems to show on the prince's face, now fully revealed with his hood having been knocked free from the scuffle, to show it all simultaneously expressed through the demonstrative gleam of his eye: bewilderment, amusement, delight, anger. 

It is overwhelming for you to look at. So much chaos and emotion displayed from a single person. It leaves you rooted in place, fixed along the wall even if the rude, persistent hold of his fingers were not upon your face. The curled edges of his mouth have twisted in an enraged grimace or the possibility of a smirk, you cannot tell. Not with the shadows and the oily amber light that casts upon the sharp contours of his face. He appears wild. As though he is barely restraining himself from acting on whatever terrible thoughts prance about his mind. As though he wishes to lash out more thoroughly but will not give himself the permission to do so. 

Not yet anyway. 

"Now what purpose could a handmaiden to the King possibly have in an establishment such as this, hm?" His fingers tighten just the slightest degree, enough to pull a hiss from your lips. It has your mouth twisting into a weak snarl. You have to resist the urge to rip your face from his grasp to sink your teeth into his flesh when he tilts your head just the slightest, as though he is examining you. Like an animal being studied by a hunter. It makes your skin prickle uncomfortably; irritation and terror searing through your body, but you do not allow yourself to quail away underneath the severity of his observations. 

"That is quite a hypocritic statement to make, my prince, considering that you have become such a loyal patron." It leaves you much more scathing than you had intended, though you suppose there is truly no delicate way for you to deliver the quip. It is foolish to prod at him this way. To rouse his anger while he already dangles so precariously over the edge of control, but you find your own wanning thin. "Perhaps I whore myself out in the night. Despite being so over bloated with riches, the crown is quite greedy with its wages. I am surprised that you have failed to notice me here before, though I suppose that you have been too caught up in the skirts of your madam. Have you come to visit her tonight?" 

His nostrils flair at the barb. You can see that fire in his eye flickering and burning brighter, the shape of it widening in a glint that you could only consider wild. It was a low blow from you certainly. You heard whispers of Prince Aemond's preference among the Court. The rumor stemming from the rambunctious crowd of King Aegon's men, and it had spread throughout the Red Keep like a wildfire. Like a plague, carried by the hushed giggles and snickers of the Lords and Ladies alike. Adults laughing like snobbish children, spreading the taunt on their lips that the fierce Aemond Targaryen had fallen in love with a whore from the Street of Silk. 

It has clearly struck a nerve. He manages to crowd himself even closer to you, curling in on himself to lean his head towards your ear. His hand moves, fingers slipping from your face but not daring to part from your skin as they drift downward to cup the length of your throat. The uncomfortable weight of his palm on your neck forces you to nudge your chin up, but in an attempt to escape the press of it, you only bare more of yourself to his grip. All of your air once again seems to slip free of you. Not from the presence on your throat, but the fervor in his eye all but steals it from you. 

You think that this may be what it is like to look upon death. To stare the Stranger down its eye. But it offers no reprieve when he creeps closer still to your ear, parting his lips to speak to you lowly. The warmth of his breath sweeping over your flesh in a nearly scathing hiss. 

"I saw you down here before. Slipping down the streets and alleys. I could have thought nothing of it. " He pauses for a short moment, eclipsing you further into shadow as he nudges you tighter along the wall of the alcove. Forcing you further into the dark. Even as the laughter and music and pleasured cries continue to thrum and drift through the air and past the walls in a lively current, it is not enough to bring you solace. It seems, instead, like a cruel jest. A horrid juxtaposition to fully drive your circumstances deeper. A rabbit caught within talons, trying to struggle and snap at the unwavering grip. "But then there was that woman - one of my mother's ladies in waiting. What was her name? Talya? " - his fingers flex and he shifts your face to direct you to stare at him once again - " and I've seen you traversing in the shadows, using the hidden passages of the Keep to whisper about in secret, no doubt. There is talk among the Court for her sudden disappearance. Speculations of treason against the crown."  

Your mind scrambles wildly, thoughts swirling and twisting like debris caught within a vicious storm. You struggle to think back on all of your past meetings with the fellow spy. The care that you both had established in curating your assemblies. Or so you had so foolishly assumed. 

"And you somehow managed to survive the purge." It sounds like such an insult. And coming from someone as sardonic and sharp tongued as he, it most certainly is. "The former Hand is not typically so careless, especially in regard to the security of our family; you were in league with her, I am willing to bet. So . . . How did you manage to evade the watch of his eyes?" 

Your mouth has long gone dry. Your tongue a heavy, useless lump of flesh in your mouth as you struggle to think. You could attempt to lie to him. To cover your tracks and fabricate a story to explain your meetings with the recently deceased Talya. But you truly know that no good would come of it. He will sniff it out; see it plain on your face. As volatile and rigid as the Prince Regent may be, he is not one that is easily tricked. There is no possible way for you to claw yourself out of this burrow, to weasel your way free from the trap. You have fully been caught between teeth. Balanced between rows of lethal fangs that long to puncture meat and snap bone at the faintest hint of a lie. You must tread careful, lest you guide yourself to stumble and fall in the hopes of saving yourself. 

"I do not know," you answer truthfully. A low, bare whisper. 

You can see the faintest trace of surprise reflect in his expression. It was fleeting. Hasty and nearly fragile, but unmistakable; replaced just as quickly as it had been with the blaze of anger. You know instantly that he is not satisfied with the response. The subtle contraction of his fingers around your throat confirms as much. 

"The ratcatchers-" he begins but his voice seems to snag. It's such a soft hitch that you would not have noticed if your attentions were not siphoned down onto him. "Did you play a part? Did you show them how to find the passages?" His hold around your throat becomes harsher than ever before. Fully threatening the possibility of suffocation. It almost causes your head to go light, and the rush of your blood thumps lowly within your ears. "Did you give them aid into the castle?"  

Your hand reaches upward to claw onto his wrist, nails threatening to dig into his skin in an effort to try and rip yourself from him or to merely anchor yourself, you are not truly certain. His inquiry and all of its ire is a righteous one. It is one that you yourself would have asked if the roles had been reversed. But you are still unable to resist the anger that licks up your spine and smolders inside of your chest. You struggle for a moment to still your mind and collect yourself, drawing in a ragged, harsh breath that drags sluggishly up your throat and you are just barely able to gain enough air support your words. "I am many things, Aemond Targaryen, but a child killer is not one of them." Still his grip does not waver. The venom in his stare still burns like a lilac fire, streaks of cerulean blazing through the shade in his fury. His jaw clenches, the muscles tensing as his eye pins you in place, much firmer and resolute than the hold of his palm. "I am here to observe, not to interfere." You assure and it sounds much like a promise. "I would much sooner cut out my own heart than bloody my hand with the life of an innocent." 

He only continues to stare. Considering you closely as though he is trying to sniff out the possibility of a lie. It must only last for but a second, but for you it seems like a lifetime passes before he allows his grip to slacken. It does not dare to recede from your skin, lest you slip away like a snake slithering through a snare.  

There is so much warring within him. No matter how aloof or guarded he has constructed himself to be, you can see it all playing out on his face. Reflecting through the expressive stare of his eye. It is a vulnerable sort of anger. The sort of rage that comes from a person who must allow the agony and fire to consume them, or else they will give underneath the pressures and anguish around them and collapse instead. 

You could hardly consider the Prince Regent as a virtuous person. The atrocities that he has committed in the name of his house is already many. There is a volatile aggression that has been cultivated inside of him. Purely by his own hands or simply as a product of his environment, you cannot say for certain. Perhaps it is definitely both; crafted by the rigid expectations of the crown, the aggression in him nourished and flourished by the madness that seems to be carried within the Targaryen bloodline. 

But there is something delicate in him too. You see that here and now. Cracking and pouring through the fissures in his carefully made armor and walls. He is struggling underneath the weight of it all. That much is apparent. Snapping at the seams and straining underneath the facade of pride and indifference. It makes him appear delicate almost, but equally untamed. Like a beast that has been drawn into a corner and threatens to lash out with ferocity and desperation. 

Perhaps, just perhaps you can use that. 

It might rebound back upon you horrendously. It could flare up in your face in a frenzy of chaos and plummet you down into the pits of your own destruction if he manages to discover even the faintest hint of deceit. But you are a dead woman regardless; at least this way, you may be able to prolong the length of your life, even if only for a few days, a few moments longer. 

"I am sorry," you whisper. That is the truth, at least. It is the only shred of honesty that you may be able to extend tonight, and regardless of how he will respond, it gives you some sense of consolation. A glimmer of something pure that you may hold for yourself even as the fury in his eye burns bright. You may have only roused the dragon in him. Prodded and poked at it until it has uncoiled from its slumber and lifts its head to face you with a rumbling growl and the promise of fire in its throat. His brows furrow subtly, threatening to pinch close in bewilderment or denial or annoyance. Perhaps all three. 

He shuffles closer, shoulders threatening to hunch forward even while his arms straighten out, as though his body is at war with itself, struggling to decide if he should recoil away from you or dare to tip closer. The draw of his rage and confusion fixes you in place like an invisible force. Like the grip of a phantom sweeping you inside of its deathly embrace and forcing you to look upon him. 

"You are sorry?" He mutters the echo lowly, but you can still clearly hear the heat and venom lacing each word. He articulates it carefully, as though it is foreign. As though he is shocked that you would be ignorant enough to claim such as thing. It is such a short sentence, but you can hear the fraying of his psyche around the edges; stretched thin and taught underneath the weight of everything. 

Hypothetically, he is closing in now. The fire in his throat welling up to scorch you with burning heat and agony. Danger is crowding in on you much higher than it has ever been before, even more so than when you were trapped within the perilous walls of the Red Keep. The tensing of his hand around your throat is confirmation of that enough. Seizing tight and threatening to snuff the air from your lungs once again. 

"You come here to commit treason again the crown, the heir to the throne is dead; slain where he slept, and you are sorry?" 

Him repeating it aloud makes it seem so silly now. And truthfully, it is. You are not worthy of his forgiveness, and neither is he, of yours. You are both sinners you suppose. Monsters in your own right. Two twisted souls desperate to claw a place for yourselves in this piss-soaked pit of an earth. 

"Yes, I am," you repeat, just as firm and honest as the last time. And in a mad scramble, your mind sifts through all of the knowledge it has. Latching onto whispers and gossip in a wild attempt of saving yourself from being burned. To keep your throat and life intact lest he squeeze too tightly and wring your life from your straining lungs. You do not allow your eyes to flutter underneath the strain of it all. Maintaining the contact between your gaze and his single, piercing eye, even as tears blur your vision, welling up along the corners. "But it begs me to wonder if you are capable of feeling any guilt. Was it not you who is responsible for the disfigurement of the King himself?" 

You can see that you have succeeded in catching him entirely off guard; delivered a blow that he has not anticipated. But the disorientation will not last for long, and desperate to keep him reeling, the hand that had cautiously holds his wrist slips free and raises to delicately cup the side of his face. You know for certain that the rigid, detached Prince Regent craves for something that has been withheld from him for a good period of his life. Maybe even the entirety of it: affection, warmth, comfort. 

The boisterous gossip of his laying with the madam. He was not caught in the act itself, but instead found secure in her arms. He had not immediately left as most men would have done, having got their fill; the ache in their balls drained and satisfied. He had stayed with her. Perhaps even requested - insisted that she remain with him to take him in the solace of her arms. It feels revolting to you to use such a soft vulnerability in your favor. To capitalize on his desire for touch for your survival's sake, but you have been backed into a corner. Literally and figuratively speaking with little other options afforded to you. 

Positions of power are often unforgiving. It is lonely at the top, you have heard, lifted so high above others, where so little are capable of treading. Peace and relief must be a luxury, and it is clear to see that such a denial of it has impacted the prince so heavily. A man that must seek out the false intimacy of a woman for hire to replace what he has been denied his entire life. 

Even now, with hatred still tenacious and rich in his eye, something in him weakens at the warmth of your palm along his face. The sweep of your thumb motioning dangerously close to the sliver of damaged flesh that raises and slices down the swell of his cheek. His eye nearly flutters, pale lashes quivering just the slightest like a delicate flake of snow caught within a low breeze, like he longs to let his eye slip shut. His posture seems to go taut and pliant simultaneously. As though his desires have been split down the center and divided into two separate beings. 

"The few survivors of Rooks Rest often speak amongst themselves. They talk quietly, but if you listen closely, you may hear them, recounting the horrors of the battlefield. The wounded cries of men and dragons alike. The bursts of light that brightened the sky as though comets rained down along the clouds. " He watches you so intently. As though he is suspended upon every word that leaves your lips, and the abrupt shift of it all leaves you perplexed and astray in your own right. If you allowed yourself to be foolish enough, you would let yourself to believe that you held sway over him. That he is ensnared by the tender press of your hand on his cheek. "They say that the prince - or should I say Prince Regent, lit an enemy dragon aflame with no consequence of the King being locked within its jaws." 

His brows furrow close again, his chest expanding in a harsh, silent breath as though he means to ground himself. Those fingers clench again, though they no longer hold your throat as though they mean to crush and wring. "They could be executed for daring to say such things. Just as you could be, a threat to the security of the crown, speaking in sedition and tongues." 

"Have I not already committed worse offences?" You allow your features to soften while your heart races fretfully within your chest; you are sure that he can detect the crazed thrum of your blood rushing just underneath his palm. "Aegon Targaryen is no king of mine, Your Grace. He is hardly befit to rule a kingdom so great. Foolishly rushing into the fray, urging his young dragon to the battlefield like a lamb for slaughter. A recklessness that is unbefitting for a realm in the throes of war. I think you are inclined to agree." 

Your fingertips brush close to his hairline, parting them around the shape of his ear, daring yourself to thread them through the thick of those pale tresses. It parts easily, like water slipping through your fingers, glinting like the face of a river flowing through your palm, reflecting like silver in the shine of the sun. That stormy look breaks upon his face again, weighing his striking features down with ire and offence. It makes you worry that you have dreadfully overstepped. That you have lent your hand to the open maw of the dragon, above and below so many lethal teeth. 

"Do you dare to trick me? Do you think that I am so easily fooled?" 

The question seems to be an affront rather than stimming from a place of righteousness - a brother meaning to protect the name and title of his sibling and king. It is the hubris that you have heard so much about. That you have seen from him as you allowed yourself to observe him the corridors overlooking the courtyard, spying him as he trains rigorously in the art of swordsmanship with the Kingsguard; his eye flashing with an almost conceited sense of satisfaction whenever the blow lands and he successfully bests his opponent. All but preening underneath the title he often receives, proclaimed as the best swordsmen in the realm by many of the lords and knights alike. 

"Would it truly be a trick if it is the truth?" You answer calmy. It is not lost on you that despite his reservations and anger, that he has yet to remove his face from your hand, that the grip of his own on your neck has softened considerably; still firm but no longer threatening. As though he means to keep you close and beneath him as opposed to caught and forced in place. "You are so much more observant that he. After all this time, busying myself about his chambers, cleaning the drunken vomit from the corners of his room and changing his linens, he had never suspected me. He has never suspected you. How can a man be expected to lead and protect a realm when he cannot even do the same for himself?" 

You let your thumb drift lower. Emboldened by the heavy breathing that causes his chest to rise and fall, allowing yourself to skim just underneath the shape of his bottom lip, even though he appears as though he may snap at any moment. He is just hardly restraining himself. From what you are not certain. And perhaps it is stupid to let yourself touch him in such an intimate way. A fool who has let themself fall into a false sense of security, tricked into stroking the snout of a dragon that pretends to be placated. Waiting until you are entirely at ease and snapping its fangs down around the flesh of your arm when it is least expected. 

But the fire in his throat does not brighten and blaze, the rows of teeth do not bare themselves to you. And there it is again. That hint of something vulnerable, and woefully unnurtured flickers to life in that hue of lilac and cerulean. It is starved, even in its subtly. Uncertain, delicate, and yet equally fervent and hungry. 

Some treacherous little part of you cannot help but to mourn that tender side of him that has been neglected. Shunned in favor of honing himself into the perfect picture of a Targaryen, a prince, and a man. Hacking away those soft pieces of himself off like a sculptor chiseling away sharp edges of stone and sanding away perfect imperfections in the name of making art; cutting away everything that makes him human. But you stomp that little train of thought down, burying those horrid feelings deep. Shoveling the blossoming warmth and empathy underneath the heft of indifference and spite. 

"And whom then, would be better suited?" He asks. The question surprises you, and it begs you to wonder if he can see the confusion bleeding through your features. It is difficult to tell if the query comes from a place of contempt. If he means to mock you. You are certain that that is the case, but the tone of his voice has abandoned its pervious harshness. It has thawed, whether he realizes it or not, like ice melting from the rays of a spring sun. It seems so genuine. As though he truly desires to hear your opinion. 

Certainly, it is some sort of ploy. An odd means to lure you into a false sense of security. It is here that he means to finally engulf you in the spires of his flames and anger should you answer incorrectly. Or perhaps, at all. This a dangerous game that you are playing. A mouse scurrying around the paws of a lashing house cat. It will be in your best interest to keep him on his toes, but toying with him too much could, at the same time, wear his patience thin and nudge you closer to the sword. 

The pommel of which digs painfully against the flesh of your torso, jutting out from its place secured along his waist to poke just shy of the edge of your rib. It does not allow you to forget your position. Of where you stand with the Prince Regent and the precariousness of your circumstances. 

"My opinion matters little, Your Grace." You respond, swallowing underneath the insistent press of his hand. 

His eye narrows just the slightest degree. Annoyance and entitlement flaring unanimously. He manages to move himself closer, eliminating the faintest scraps of space between you two until he is flush along your body. You can feel the warmth projecting from his skin, seeping through the barriers of both of your garments with a potency that would be alarming in the average man; fueled by the liquid fire that vitalizes the Targaryen heart. It has his scent rushing upon you again. Eclipsing you a shroud of spice, warm and rich and earthy in its musk, but the sharp hint of wind and leather cuts through in a distinct undercurrent. It manages to ground and disorient you all at once. The severity of his stare burrowing through you, urging you to meet his eye; the passion behind it prickling along your skin. 

"I expect a proper answer; use your tongue and speak freely." That demanding, unforgiving quality is back lurking within the tone of his voice. It almost causes you to flinch. You manage to catch yourself before the instinct brings you to do so, but you do choose to remove your hand from his face all the same. The air that brushes along your palm is chilling now that your skin has parted from the balmy warmth of his flesh. Still, as though trapped in a current, you hand does not stray far. It falls downward, and your fingertips come to hook against the metal clasps of his doublet as your palms flattens against his chest. 

"Do you want me to say that it is you, Your Grace?" You inquire. Fear and caution clings to you, but despite it all, you swear that you can detect the presence of amusement reluctantly gathering underneath it all, scattering dimly. Something telling passes through his expression, his posture. More revealing than any words or confession could be. The prince desires approval. The revelation, though known to some extent, douses itself over you like chilled water, seeping along your chest like the sun's rays. He has been so deprived that would be led to search out your favor. You; a peasant, an enemy to the crown. To his family and power. He hides it behind the mask of a command. As extending his strength and dominance, but the truth of it is painfully clear. It nearly makes your heart ache, but you have little time to entertain such sympathies. "That it is you who deserves to sit on the Iron Throne? Commanding the realm and all of its powers. . . " 

For the first time this night, it is you who leans forward, allowing your head to lift from the chill of the stone wall to tilt your face to his own. So close that the point of your nose nearly nudges his. The authority that his gaze had held over you has transferred places, and now it is he who watches you as though you are the one who wields the blade. It could be intoxicating if it were only the truth, but the reality of your state refuses to leave you. 

Drawn under a spell of your own, your eyes dare to flicker down the curve of his lips, rosy and slightly parted as he draws in a deep breath. It is simply a means to tide him further under the pull of his own sudden fixation, and it seems to work with the way that his eye dips down openly admire yours. His hand flexes again. Not out of aggression, but it feels more like a mindless compulsion. His body acting out to grip you greedily; betraying him while he struggles to maintain and latch onto the remaining flickers of anger that rest upon his features; growing fainter by the second to be replaced by bewilderment and a type of fixation. 

The shift of it is odd. A strange, untreaded territory that you could never have possibly imagined with every ounce of your creativity. It feels so dangerous. The tendrils of your fear still hold tight, slithering along your spine like rivulets of freezing water, but it almost produces a haze when it meets the cloud of wonder and intrigue that packs your skull. It makes you feel emboldened. A dangerous thing, you know, but it is a great temptation, urging you to murmur against his lips. 

"Smallfolk and lords alike bending the knee to you . . . King Aemond Targaryen, in all of your glory." He does not speak. Either the ability has escaped him, or he has drawn himself silent to process your words; evaluating the best response. It empowers you and frightens you all at once. It is so overwhelming. Your circumstances, the emotions that is stifling across the air, thrumming and thick across the perfumed atmosphere around you. You fear that you could choke on it. On the scent of him, the fear trembling down your spine, the intrigue nestling within the center of your gut. The combination of it all gives you a courage that you never could have foreseen, prompting you to further press your palm to his nearly panting chest, forcing you to speak still. "Unfortunately, that day is not yet upon us. But I could bend the knee for you, Your Grace, if that would bring you satisfaction." 

Those words surprise you, even as they leave your own mouth. They are foreign on your own tongue, but shockingly, they do not feel entirely unwelcome. But the confidence is snuffed when you a spiteful type of amusement twists his features. Anger and delight alike, as though your sudden hubris has truly caught him astray. And in truth, it has done the same to you. It is difficult to grasp that you have allowed yourself to be snatched within the intoxication of your own ego, bewitched by his apparent infatuation. And now you may pay for it dearly. 

"And what leads you to believe that I could desire such a thing of you?" The mockery is not hidden or restrained. His aim to correct you and cut down your confidence is accurate and successful in its endeavor. It is humbling and horrific; embarrassing in a way makes you uncomfortable in your own flesh. But you force yourself to remain poised while he observes you, trailing his eye across your countenance before meeting your vision. "What value could the loyalty of a treasonous serpent possibly hold?" 

Your mind blanks and for a second you flounder. This is where you drown; sunk by the weight of your own hubris. You have finally missed a step in the dark. Stumbled, not blindly, but from your own sudden, idiotic confidence. But the desire to survive, no matter how short that period of time may be, burns strong and bright. Undisturbed and stirred from the unbroken passion of his stare. 

The cast of the candlelight that douses along the alcove paints over his face in hues of dull gold and rich amber. The dramatic nature of the glow and the crowded intimacy of the small space hides pieces of his features in shadow, making the striking, pronounced ridge of his nose and the subtle plush of his mouth that much more defined. It reflects through the fine, smooth drape of his hair, shinning along the pale silver and ivory, projecting around the crown of his head like a halo. As though he has been blessed by the gods themselves; a god in his own right. Or at least that is what is claimed of his lineage. You ponder now that such a bold claim could be true. 

You have never considered the prince in such a way before. Not in all the years that you have traversed the corridors of the Keep. You have always been aware that he has held a sort of beauty. All of the Targaryen's do. There is an otherworldly grace about them all, carried within their blood, in the lilac shade of their eyes. As such his allure has always been unavoidable, but it had never given you any sort of trouble before apart from a fleeting appreciation for it as you went about your tasks. 

But now, forced within his presence, bared to his proximity and drawing in the scent of him with each breath, listening to the soothing, velvet cadence of his voice, it seems to guide forth notions and sensations that you had never perceived. 

You are beginning to feel less like a lamb to slaughter and more so a moth fluttering around the edges of a dazzling fire.  

"I suppose you're right," you agree easily. "My devotion bears little weight. But it could be nice, even if only for a moment. To pretend. To indulge." 

You can taste the shift on your tongue, hot and dulcet and rich. It hums and tingles across your skin, raising the hair along your nape and shuddering down the notches of your spine. From fear or from the heat that engulfs your body it is impossible to distinguish. The lines between dread and attraction have blended and merged into a confused chaos. It is messy and bewildering, splitting you between two primal instincts that serve very different purposes. To crowd closer or to back away; those are the warring factions within you. Each just as desperate as the other, and the sight of that intriguing sort of longing returning to the glint of his eye fuels the curious hunger gnawing in the pit of your gut. Your fingers long to grip him, to claw over his skin, leaving red to blossom in their wake along the alabaster of his flesh. A mark that he will bear long after you may be gone. 

There is conflict in him too. You doubt that it is much different than your own. Just as troubled and unsure as you are. It leaves you both to remain silent in each other's presence. Simply evaluating and observing as the festivities and echoes of pleasure persists around you, seeping along the shadows and privacy of the alcove. 

It leaves you to breathe each other in. To simply admire and contemplate while that strange brand of desire hangs heavy. You cannot tell the passage of time. It seems as though you have been taken under and swept in the influence of a haze and fog. It seems to settle in your lungs, finding home between the apex of your thighs, coiling and starved. 

It is the prince who seems to come to a decision. The hand around your throat, going slack until it is only his fingertips that brush along the stretch of your throat, a mere suggestion.  

"Go on then." He answers, voice rumbling low and firm. "Get on your knees and serve."

Like many things tonight, it takes you by surprise. You had insinuated and stewed within your own confused lust. You saw his own reflecting inside of his eye. But you never suspected that he would truly have the means or the desire to agree to such a thing. To request so boldly for you to act the strange, starved hunger between you. It makes you freeze, limbs falling motionless as you struggle to repress the shocked, silent gasp that escapes your lungs. But even while lost inside the sea of your raging emotions and thoughts, you are unable to resist the sliver of want that rip through you; smoldering, hot and twisting as it moves underneath your flesh, the sinew, muscle and bone like a prickle of lightning present in the swell of a summer storm. 

On instinct alone your body shifts. Your knees slowly bending to guide you in sliding down the wall slowly, as though you are scared on some primal level that quick movements may rouse the hunter in him and bid him to lunge forward. You are unable to remove your stare from his in your descent, fully entrapped by the extreme focus of it, even as your knees come to settle upon the floor, the harsh cold of the stone seeping through the layers of your skirts and burrowing in your bones like a morning chill. 

His hand has not left you. Remaining fixed to your skin as you drop in place, slipping from its stubborn position from the stretch of your neck to settle along the edge of your jaw. Cupping the shape of it in a way that could be mistaken as gentle. Cherishing. The nudge of it along your chin gives you no other option but to gaze upon him, even as the weight behind it is feather light. As though it is a suggestion instead of a command. 

You are experienced enough to know what his goal is, what the ardor in his eyes hails from. Your face hovers close to his groin, the space diving you so short that you could only lightly lean forward to have your lips brush along the soft wool of his breeches. The urge to do so tugs at you like a lead around your neck but you will yourself to resist. You draw your hands up to clutch the thick of your skirts, bunching them up within the palm of your hands to keep them from the possibility of wandering. The sudden compulsion to allow them to amble and touch rises up high. The impulse is not entirely unwelcome, just uncertain and new. This thing - this situation you have found yourself in, that you have somewhat blindly meandered and snuck into is unlike anything you have instigated before. 

Never have you attempted or desired to pursue such a thing. Not for the sake of acquiring information or luring the targets of your past surveillances into a false sense of security. There were always other means of escape. Of surviving. But that is not right either. Despite the uncertainty that suspends in the air, being here, pressed inside the alcove with the Prince Regent keeping you obstructed within the intimate space of the niche is not unwelcome, oddly enough. 

There is something tantalizing about it. Kneeling before a person so dangerous and volatile, who holds so much power over you, over an entire realm. It should revolt you. How easily you have succumbed to the peculiar want that aches and gnaws at the pit of your stomach like a horrendous type of hunger. You had hardly put up a fight to resist the desire coiling in your belly. It had descended upon you like an enchantment, enrapturing you as easily as a dry brush taking to the embers kindled by a lightning strike; rising into flames and smoke that sweep a forest up in the throes of an inferno. 

It nearly makes you feel like a traitor to yourself. To your cause. A deserter to the task that you had been assigned by the trusting guidance of the White Worm, but she is presumably dead. Or best, has escaped to safety, long gone from the boundaries of King's Landing and far from the reaches of the crown, and with it the course of your life now lies entirely in your hands. Something as fickle as morality has no place in the means of survival. Loyalty, in this case will not extend your life, nor will it shield you from the horrors that prevail the world, the war that threatens to tear the earth to shreds and pieces. 

But here and now, it almost easy for all of those worries to slip your mind, for the dulling prickle of fear that trickles down the nape of your neck like a cold breath to go unnoticed. The pommel of his sword glints in the low light of the alcove like a warning. A promise of what could come should the circumstances shift. If the dragon in him wakes and chooses to snap you between its jaws. 

And yet that demented lust that he has managed to inspire in you does not waver. You have become bewitched by the heavy rise and fall of his chest, the flex of the muscles in his throat as he draws in deep breaths as though he is trying to orient himself. He watches you so eagerly. A multitude of different emotions alight in his eye; wanting and longing. There is a blending of authority and desperation in his expression so strong that it nearly boarders on fanatic. It should concern you to some extent. To be watched with such bare zeal. But it does not. It feels empowering. 

You are the one on your knees, awaiting instruction with the patience of a pupil and yet you are certain that you could easily switch the positions of your power if you pursued it enough. The naked longing in his expression seems to solidify as much. There is a need in him that has been so clearly denied, and now that you are here, plopped within his hands and awaiting a command at his feet, you can see the desire in him to finally satiate what has been lacking. 

It begs you to wonder if he would become pliant under your hand if he allowed himself to. If he would give to the warmth of your palm and become as malleable and soft as a rich clay, eager to be shaped and supported by the gentle sweep of your fingers. Perhaps for now you will have to settle for taking him apart with your mouth instead. To feel him quiver and give from your touch alone, even if it will only last for a small moment. To taste him so that you may die with the salt of his skin on your tongue. 

"You know what is expected of you." Is all he says, pinching his thumb gently to the swell of your cheek before releasing your face entirely, gripping your hair instead as though he is unable to come to terms with the possibility of letting you go. Whether that be because he means to keep you trapped in his grip or because he is unable to part from the physical contact that he has been starved of for so long, you do not know. 

He speaks the command as though he has all of the control. And yes, you are not ignorant enough to believe otherwise. Physically, politically, he wields your life in his hands. He could smite you down with the flick of his wrist. But here, in the shade and gold of the candlelight, you know that it is you who exercises dominance over his body, over the heat of his flesh and the ardent tremble of his rapacious hands. 

It makes you crave it. Drunk and stupid on the lust that hums throughout the atmosphere like the pulse and breath of a living creature. And you are unable to deny him any longer. To deny yourself. 

Finally you allow your grip to lift from your skirts, freeing the bunched fabric from your clutching fingers to slip along the groin of his breeches. You almost gasp when you feel him underneath your palms. Hot and straining against the soft material. His lips part just the slightest at the sensation of you pressing against him, shamelessly sweeping your fingers along the shape of him. His hips jerk when you stroke around it, rounding the head of his cock from over the obnoxious barrier of his breeches and you are immediately rewarded by the low sigh that rips from his throat. 

The sound of it, as simple as it was, causes your heart to flutter in your chest and liquid heat pools along the base of your spine, scorching like warm honey and melted sugar. He does not allow you to bask in it for long, his grip on your hair tightening to draw you closer to his pelvis, making your mouth run along the wool and the rigid press of his cock underneath. 

The action seems more brattish and desperate rather than demeaning and dominant. It has you resisting the urge to smile. You are sure the sight of your internal amusement making an appearance would only cause him to become cross. Which would only prove to be dangerous given the circumstances. 

"Don't test my patience," he warns lowly in a baritone velvet. 

"I wouldn't dream of it, my prince." You dare to murmur before leaning forward to press your lips where your hands wandered, dropping your mouth open to drag your tongue along the rough material over press of his length. There is a weight to it even while tucked behind the hindrance of his garment. It already feels delightful along your tongue, and you cannot stop the satisfied moan that shudders from your lungs as your gaze peers into his own. He looks as though he has been lit on fire. Engulfed in heat and want as you continue to kiss him through the wool. 

It is only then, spurred on by the irritation and ardor in his expression that you finally reach for the ties of his breeches. Picking and plucking at the lacings until they unravel. Despite your previous teasing the movement of your hands is almost frenzied as you slip the ties free. It makes your fingers nearly catch on themselves as you work to draw the laces slack, but you do not miss the amused hum that rumbles from the prince's chest and drifts down to your ears. The humiliation that flares through you only serves to strengthen your desire, and it intensifies tenfold once you finally loosen and ruck his breeches down enough to free his cock. 

He hisses sharply when the air brushes along his rigid length, flushed and heavy from his arousal.  You have held and witness only a few in your time. The unforgiving nature of your trade allows you little time for yourself and the pleasures of the flesh, but you are sure that his may be amongst the prettiest that you have seen. You blatantly trace plump vein that winds underneath the length of him, studying the tantalizing path where it vanishes just before reaching the swell of the head. He is pale but blushed rosy and red from the lust burning in his loins; the evidence of it smears and drips from the crown of his cock in a pale, pearlescent sheen, glittering lowly in the dim light. Your mouth waters to taste him, to have the salt of it on your palate. 

As though tugged on string your hand lifts to take him in your hand without any instruction. You cannot help but to marvel at the heat and softness of his skin, the near velveteen nature of it. He is not intimidating in size like some of the men that you have seen or even lain with, but you are almost thankful for it. He is still thick in your hand, long enough that you know that he would fill you up so deliciously. Stuffing you full on the substantial length, and it makes you long to have him inside of you. 

You see that there is another barb at the ready on the tip of his tongue, and so you make sure to use your own. Parting your lips to lick along the head of his cock, smearing and lapping his arousal into your mouth. It is curious, unhurried as you taste him, gauging the reactions that you pull from him. And you are not disappointed. You have done so little and already a heavy breath spills from him. It is low, dark, almost guttural and somehow edging on a whimper. It makes you wonder if he had meant for it to slip past his chest at all. 

The salt of him pours over your tongue, earthy and distinct in its flavor and like the wanton thing that you have been so easily reduced to, you crave more. A slave to your desires, you are unable to keep yourself from further opening your lips to take him further into the wet heat of your mouth. His reactions are like a balm on the sting of the vicious lust that courses through you. His head tosses back as the pleasure washes over him before his shoulders curl forward, eclipsing his body over you as he further nudges you along the wall with the greedy drag of his cock rocking into your mouth. 

The silvery curtain of his hair pours over his shoulders, framing his face so beautifully. The shadow casted by it pronouncing the way that his brows pinch close, almost as though he is pained by the sweep of your tongue. It nearly distracts you from the way that he chases after the fire in his belly, seeking out the solace of your tongue to fuck his cock deeper, almost rocking it against the back of your throat. 

You focus on your breathing, stilling yourself to drag in steady gulps of air in between his thrusts as he uses you for a vessel for his pleasure. It should be a little demeaning, the way that he utilizes you as though you were only crafted for his gratification. But the desperate clutch of his hand on your hair keeps that bit of disgrace at bay. He holds you as though you might vanish otherwise. Like he aches for your touch. A desperate, starved thing that has stumbled upon a banquet and means to gorge itself. 

And it seems impossible to deny him. Especially now with the traces of whimpers on his breath. Subtle but no less alluring, much more so than the constant cries and groans that still drift down the halls and through the vigorous, intoxicating atmosphere. It makes you crave to hear more from him. To watch him shed that imposing, untouchable armor that he has fashioned around himself. To see the vulnerability underneath it all. To see him as a man. Just a man. Not a Prince Regent or Protector of the Realm or fearsome dragon rider, or any other title that he may bear. Simply a human being. Just as weak and liable as you. 

You bob your head over him, working alongside the rhythm that he has set with the insistent roll of his hips, slipping your mouth further down his length until he brushes the back of your throat, until the thatch of hair around the base of his cock tickles against the point of your nose. The threat of tears prickle along the corners of your eyes, and even with the blur challenging the edges of your vision you can still notice the way that his abdomen clenches above you through the layer of his garments. A gasp shudders through him and his free arm drops against the wall to support his weight as though he might double over otherwise. 

He is not the only one who needs to ground themselves, and in an attempt to weather the need that ravages your body, your hands clench around the leather belts and straps that wind around his waist and hips; nails digging into the thick of them as though you are torn between urging him away to breath and guiding him deeper so that you can choke on the weight and taste of him. 

"Fuck, look at you," his voice marvels mockingly from above. It forces you to try and meet his eye, though the position is straining with how he has curled himself above you, his head leaning against the support of his arm posted against the wall, and the both of you refusing to allow your mouth to leave his cock. The expression on his face is derisive, the curl his lips is equally amused and shaming all at once, but something about it has your own hips grinding into the air to seek a friction that is not there. "A great, allusive spy reduced to a common whore of the Street of Silk. "

You whine around the width of him stretching your mouth open. Disgustingly, it is not a noise of objection but a drunken sort of agreement. Though it is difficult to be disappointed or upset with yourself when the musky, heady scent of his skin nestles deep inside the hollow of your lungs. The effects of it seem to stuff your skull full of an intoxicating influence much like the drugs that you have heard of that permeate the air inside of the underground dens here in Flea Bottom. Inebriating fumes that turn your limbs to syrup and dull your thoughts into nothing but a euphoric, silent haze. 

"So you agree then?" Comes his taunting response. "I do still think that 'whore' may be generous. They at least necessitate a need for payment, but here you are, on your knees without coin or little prompting to take your would-be executioner down your throat." 

The snark, the bite of his words licks a fire between the crux of your hips, and you can feel the wet heat of your arousal smearing down the inner skin of your thighs. But it is also a challenge. He has grown far too articulate and the desire to draw him breathless and silent again raises up high. It has you redoubling your efforts. Lapping your tongue over the slit on the head, drinking down the little bit of arousal that trickles from there to pour on your tongue before cupping your lips around him to lightly suck. 

It causes his hips to twitch sharply, and you use the motion to once again take him all the way down again, working him in until he is in your throat. Your hands releasing their grips on the leather straps around his waist to quickly follow and cup the heat of his stones as you suckle and swipe your tongue across him. 

The doubling of the sensations tears the most delicious reaction from him. It feels like a gift when his mouth drops open in gutted groan. The focus of his eye seems to glaze over from the wet warmth of you on his cock, the strokes of your fingers on the soft skin of his balls. Massaging and cradling them within your palms. The following sound he makes can only be described as gutted. You do not think that you have ever been able to draw such a noise from a man before. Not one as mindless and consumed as that, as though he has been doused in pleasure and left to drown in it. 

It nearly makes up for the crude taunts that he had hurtled at you. Nearly. 

He is close to his release, that much is easy to tell. The thrusts of his hips have become eager and just toeing the line of wild; plunging his cock into you in a fervent chase for his peak. Whether he realizes it or not, his breathing has become thin and frequent, punching softly across the sultry air in desperate pants. The glossy gaze of his eye is fastened onto you has you bob your head along his girth, relishing in the warm stretch of your throat giving around the drive of his cock, pushing spit around the tight seal of your lips with each clumsy thrust. It is sloppy and unseemly, but you have no choice but to relish in the depravity of it. To bask in the flush that has come to stain his cheeks, the way that his lashes flutter around the dazed hold of his eye. 

The fingers gripping your hair tenses and threatens to burrow into your scalp, and his abdomen squeezes harshly in anticipation for the bliss that fastens around his body; preparing to wring him for all that he is worth. 

You rip your lips from him quickly, jerking your mouth from the rigid swell of his cock just before his rapture can wash over him. It is a difficult feat with the way that his hand holds you like steel, but you manage to succeed, hissing past the sting in your scalp as you pull back enough, being mindful of your teeth as you move until your lips are free to brush along his head. Smudging his arousal across your lips. 

The noise that leaves him is a whimper. High and full of despair as the cruelty of your denial causes his release to rip and ebb away into what must be a painful ache. A torturous agony for certain. The sound of his anguish is a desperate one, but the outrage in his eye is close to terrifying. It burns bright like the promise of something hellish. Like he might consume you alive until there are only scraps left. It is equal parts horrifying and arousing, and it has a twisted sort of excitement and appetite welling up inside of you. 

"Do not test me," he hisses with pure venom and contempt. The hold he has on your hair manages to become harsher, tugging against your scalp with enough force to tug your head back to further meet his stare. 

Even with the danger in his posture you are unable to quail away from the threat that hangs between you both. It only serves to rouse that demented brand of delight in you. The hold that keeps your head secure in place is still fixed, but you are close enough that are able to reach up to take his length back in your hold, proudly presenting your tongue to tap the head of it along your open mouth. Transferring the salt of his arousal back along your palate, teasing yourself just as much as him. 

"Take what you want," is your only answer. 

The feral flash in his eye is the only warning you are afforded. You expect for him to force your mouth back onto his length, to steal his pleasure. So it is a complete surprise when he hauls you up onto your feet by the sting of your scalp to shove the flat of your back against the wall. It is disorienting to be lifted so suddenly, to be pinned back against the stone bricks in such a short period of time. It is jarring, sweeping you astray and leaving you lost. But just as quickly as it happened, Prince Aemond descends down on you like a shadow. Herding you in place and keeping you secure with nothing but the weight of his body. 

HIs hands are on you like a glutton sweeping their hands along a feast. Gripping and clawing at the shape of your body to begin plucking and tugging at your skirts to ruck them up around your hips, baring your legs to the air. It tears a gasp from your chest as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, nipping at the tender skin there with the blunt edges of his teeth. 

"Is that truly what you want, hm? To be used up and split open for me? Nothing more than a whining, whimpering thing on my cock." The way that he speaks is so vulgar. It would be repulsive to any respectable lady, but it only serves to make you burst alight. Cut hollow and wanting to be filled and fucked with a man that you should despise. And perhaps you do still hate him. But here and now, with him so close and hot, flushed against you, you are unable to conceptualize such a notion. You long to feel him. The warmth of his skin, the bite of his teeth, the slice of his nails. 

It has you dragging your hands up the sturdy support of his shoulders, your fingers gripping harshly before gliding upward to thread through the fine silk of his hair, burrowing them along his scalp as a means to draw him closer. You hitch one of your legs around his hips, pulling him flush with your body even while the buckles of his belts and the pummel of his sword burrows meanly into your flesh. 

"Yes, yes, please," you beg easily. The please rises out of you with hardly any resistance at all, flowing freely like a deluge of water spilling past a fracture in a dam. 

You expect more teasing. More degrading remarks to further fray your pride thin and humiliate you, but the prince it seems, is intent on surprising you tonight and just as impatient. There are no moves to warn or prepare you. The only thing you get to serve as a notice is the brush of his cock slipping against the soaked heat of your cunt, and then, seemingly all at once he drives himself into your entrance, splitting you open and forcing your walls to stretch open and give around the shape of him. It punches all though and air from you, reducing you to some mindless, moaning thing to cling onto his shoulders as though your life depends on it. As though it might actually save you. 

The pace that he sets is punishing and intense from the start; desperate to rekindle the pleasure that you had stoked within him just before. Chasing after it like a thirsting man stumbling after a mirage. It leaves you try and stay aloft. Only able to hold on as he ravages your body like he has been tipped into the throes of a frenzy; feral and hungry. 

He tries to muffle the low noises that stirs from his chest, clasping his teeth along the junction of your neck rough enough that you are positive that it will leave a mark behind. It forces him to breathe through his nose, wrenching yearning pants from him to spill across the flesh of your shoulder in warm puffs of air. The hug of his teeth on your sensitive skin is not the concern that it should be. The stamp of his mouth will be left behind for sure. A clear claim posted on your body that he had touched you. That he has staked a sign on you that no other man has been able to or dared to do before. 

But you care little now. Not with the way that he drives himself into you. The constant drags of his cock inside of you, brushing deep and firm in strokes that threaten to liquify your mind. It has your body split between winding up tight and going lax in its place tucked between him and the wall. Your limbs longing to squirm and reach for something, anything to anchor yourself as he devastates you with a prowess that you never imagined he would possess.  

His cock drives sharp, pitchy sounds from you with every cant of his hips. His pelvis and the curls at the base of his cock nudging against your clit with every and every thrust. The sensation of it sears through you like smoke and embers, coiling in your gut like a band of molten steel. It has one of your arms extracting itself from its place nestled in his hair, flying out wildly to scramble along the wall behind you; nails digging into the soft corners of the stone for purchase. 

The sound of your voice has him releasing the clutch of his teeth from your neck, lifting it to nudge his face along your cheek until you can feel the defined bridge of his nose nuzzling along your flesh. A gesture that could so easily be misconstrued as tender if the circumstances were so completely different. If he did not hold your life inside of his hands. "You're fucking soaking, love." He croons, his voice all teasing and velvet. But it only serves to make you clench tighter around him, causing the want in you to lick along the cradle of your hips and rest there. "Did sucking my cock do it for you? Does your mouth being fucked - being treated like you deserve - excite you?" 

And now that he has drawn attention to it, you are forced to notice the wet sounds that echo within the quaint chamber of the alcove. The sloppy, lecherous noise of your coupling bouncing of the walls crudely. It is impossible not to hear the soaked smacking of his hips joining yours, of his cock parting the slick heat of your cunt repeatedly. 

The only facet that saves you from true embarrassment is that you have happened to find yourself in a brothel; a place where not a single soul will care or be appalled by the pair of you, should they happen to stumble upon you both. 

And despite it all, you find yourself nodding in agreement. "Gods, yes Aemond - fuck - I - " 

Something between a laugh and groan leaves him at the sound of your failed, broken words; entirely pleased and arrogant with the almost drunken state that he has reduced you to. That persistent part of you longs to make a quip of your own. To knock him down a peg or two, but even in your muddled condition, you are still able to realize that it may be a bad idea. Thankfully it is overcome with a new desire before it can get the better of you. The need to be closer to him washes over you like a wave crashing along the surf. It has your arms moving to lock around the nape of his neck, the leg secured around his hip tightening to guide him even closer. 

The loss of that little bit of remaining proximity changes the rhythm of his thrusts. Instead of the quick, impactful pace, it has changed them into deep, churning strokes. His cock barely leaves you now. He has been pinned too closely, leaving him with the ability to only grind himself against your heat, circling his hips against your sensitive clit in tight, intense motions that cause your jaw to drop. It has your entire body drawing up tight. Squeezing and working up in preparation for the release that hurtles before you like the swell of an oncoming storm. 

You are chanting his name now while the taste of him is still thick and warm on your tongue. Uttering his name as though it is a prayer, a curse; a salvation and damnation all at once. The weightlessness of it all, the desperation in your veins directs you to turn your face towards his own, tilting it until you are able to properly look at him, your nose nuzzling along his with each pronounced, grinding, debilitating thrust he delivers. 

Lightning wracks through you when you see that his eye is already on you. The lilac and traces of blue cutting so intently that you swear the gaze of it brushes along your soul. Strands of his hair have come loose from their tie, hanging slack and slightly askew around the curtains of silver that spill around his face. Pink has flushed around the points of his cheeks and nose - even the tips of his ears, and his lips are parted. You both draw in each other's breath, breathing yourselves in as though you only need the other's air to survive. 

It suddenly feels wildly intimate, and that hungered glint in his eye only serves to nourish that. Here, underneath the dark, with the anger absent from his posture and stare, it is easy to admire him. To notice how enchanting he truly is. And for a dangerous moment, you can pretend that you have not been brought here out of hate and violence or the need to flee. The dulcet warmth of it builds within your chest, swarming with a multitude of emotions that you cannot allow yourself to truly process. But some of them manage to slip past your grip regardless, seeping through the fissures and holes. 

"Aemond - pretty, so pretty." You choke on your words. Caught up within your admiration, your pleasure. But you are unable to keep yourself from sweeping a hand along the plains of his face, caressing the swell of his cheek. Adoring the striking features that press along your palm; scar and all. 

The vulnerability that breaks past the lust in his eye is tragic. He looks at you as though you are strange, unfamiliar, and yet as if he has known you for an eternity. As though no one has ever dared to blatantly praise and favor him, and he does not know how to manage it. But you feel the way that his cock twitches inside of the tight clutch of your cunt; his lashes flutter as though his eye was going to roll back inside of his skull. 

The power that it feeds you is unlike anything you have ever felt before. The way that he has reacted to a jumbled compliment, hanging onto your words as though they were a scripture and he a man in need of salvation. 

"So good, Aemond, don't stop, please don't stop," you pant against his lips. Almost immediately the grind of his hips becomes invigorated, as though the sound of your voice alone has galvanized him. And now that you have begun, it is difficult to stop; threading your fingers through his hair, gripping the back of his head to keep him close and orient yourself through the rush of it. "Just like that, my love. You're so good like this - so deep - it's you, just you, no one else." 

The endearment slips out unintentionally, a mirror of when he had used it himself to mock you, but the utilization of it coming from your lips seems nearly damning for him. He pitches forward to drop his face back into the nestle of your neck, as though he means to hide himself from you and bask in the press and scent of your flesh all at once. It makes his voice muffled and low, suppressed by your skin as his speaks out in a way that you just barely catch. But the words, your muddled brain sluggishly realizes, is not of the Common Tongue. It sounds out in a way that is rumbling and flowing all at once, his tongue cradling around rolling r's that belong to his ancestor's language. The tone of it nearly sounds as dazed as your own, and though you know naught what he is saying, the wrecked, slurred state of his voice pleases just as much if you were able. 

"Please, please," you beg against the crown of his head. The rapture coiling around your body is burrowing its claws in deep, slicing into your stomach to tear you asunder. And you welcome it. Longing to feel it lighting you up from the inside out, and the ceaseless drag of his cock and the grind of his pelvis on your clit has it suspended over you. Dangling so close that you swear you are able to taste it. That you would be able to reach out and touch it as though it is a tangible thing. 

"Do it," comes his strained reply. "Fucking do it." 

As though it was waiting for his permission, your body seizes up as though it has been struck. Heat and bliss lashes through every facet of you, ripping and twisting inside of you like it means to eat you alive. This is what it is like to be consumed. To be plucked up piece by piece and given over to someone else to fuel them, to prolong the ecstasy that pours over you like melted wax; like stars bursting in the heavens. In the haze of your pleasure, you can feel it doing just that. You can hear the loud grown that pierces the air as his own peak crests over him, induced by the clenching of your cunt flexing and tightening around him as though it means to keep him locked and buried inside forever. 

Liquid warmth spreads and settles inside of you with the twitch of his cock. His hips continue to grind and hump against your own in a strive extend the rapture that possesses your bodies. And that is how you both remain for a blurry stretch of time. Buried in each other's warmth and arms, saturated in bliss, and no longer enemies with the promise of bloodshed and war on the horizon. 

The scent of sex is heady and thick in the air, embellished by the spice and sweat on his skin and the wind in his hair. You do not move from your position cuddled against him. And you do not pay any heed to the clarity and the cruel realities of your situation as they clamor to draw your attention. You would like to remain ignorant to the truth for as long as possible. The horrors of your circumstances will come knocking on your door soon, rising up like a dawn you may not be alive to see. But for now, it will just be you and him. 

Not enemy and enemy, but two lovers intertwined in a private alcove designed for two. Safe in shadow and candlelight with the steady thump of each other's hearts rushing together; your breaths synced and calming. 

But the prince it seems is in no mood to afford you solace as he shifts to straighten his posture. A pathetic part of you mourns when he removes his face from the safety of your neck to meet your eyes. There is a curiosity in them that makes you unsure. The contentment in the way he watches you is so odd to see that it brings you more unease than his ire and rage could. He almost appears tender. Placated by the press of your body and the grip of your cunt still tight and hot around him, and he makes no moves to leave your body. 

He lifts a hand, allowing his fingers to trace along your jaw and lips as though he is studying a delicate valuable. Something that could easily shatter if handled too harshly. There is a possessive edge to it as well. Wanting and greedy like he fears someone may try and snatch you from him. It leaves you to fear that you may have coaxed that starved half of him out and left it with no desire to leave. Now he truly does mean to pluck you between his teeth. Not to rip and tear, but to devour carefully. With a mouth that longs cradle bone and stroke flesh lovingly. 

You may have just made a monster. But even worse still is that you cannot help but to delight in the possibilities of it. 

And when his voice speaks out next, soft and tranquil, and welcoming in your ear, you find yourself waiting on his promise. 

"I think I'll keep you." 

[serafilms]

song 53! magic (one direction) + percy jackson requested by @isabelboo (2023 spotify wrapped event)

you, you’ve got this spell on me, i don’t know what to believe, kissed you once now i can’t leave

Percy isn’t really sure how or when it started, but he’s pretty sure you’ve put some kind of curse on him.

His thoughts are consumed by you day and night. His vision tunnels in on you every time you’re around. Whenever you talk to him, all he can do is think of your lips. It’s excruciating. It’s nauseating. And it’s definitely affecting his daily activities, he thinks as he sits, dazed in the infirmary, with a stab wound (a very minor one!) in his side.

It has to be some kind of magic, he thinks, because he’s never felt like this. Maybe some voodoo? Maybe a trick by Hecate as vengeance for defeating the Titans. Maybe you’ve been slipping him potions in his food. It could be anything, and Percy is not as well-versed in magic knowledge as some other people at camp, so he has no idea.

But he finds himself always looking for you, asking after you. He finds himself trailing after you always, and depressed when you’re not around.

The strangest part is that nobody else seems to notice anything out of the ordinary, and he’s too afraid to ask them about it.

He mentioned something about it to Annabeth once, but she merely waved him off.

(“It’s like I can only think of Y/N,” he said.

Annabeth looked over her notes distractedly. “Uh huh, yeah, that’s great, Percy. Hey, since you’re not being any help here, would you mind getting Y/N so they can help me finish the Capture the Flag plans?”

Percy blinked. “Okay?”)

He thinks it must have started somewhere between all the times you held his hand to lead him somewhere, or the times he stood behind you to help correct your sword fighting posture, or the times you touched his hands and arms to correct his archery posture. He always ended up blushing furiously after each of those ordeals.

Or maybe it started that time he kissed you. Although, technically, you’d kissed him first (on the cheek, nothing crazy!) before he went off to face Kronos.

But then again, Percy had been the one to kiss you on the lips when he found you again after.

(“Percy!”

He heard the call of his name, registered your voice, and his head was already whipping around to find you. He found you, a strained look on your face as you hobbled towards him, and Percy rushed towards you.

No sooner had you steadied yourself by holding onto his forearms than he had leaned forwards and kissed you on the lips.)

But Percy couldn’t help it! He’d just been so worried about you, and so relieved to find you alive. He thinks maybe during one of those kisses you transferred your evil little spell.

Still, he hoped that kiss might have meant something to you, more than friendship, but you hadn’t gotten the chance to talk about it, since you’d collapsed on your broken ankle right after.

Even until now, you two have never really discussed what you are, or what the kiss/es entail for your future relationship. Because magic spell or not, Percy’s endless thoughts about you have him planning out your future (however much of it you can plan for two demigods who face certain death before their prime). An apartment in New York, close enough to his mom and Paul but not so close that it’s overbearing, college and planning schedules to match up, weekends out with your friends laughing and eating and watching movies and doing normal teenager things.

That’s all he wants. But he’ll settle for the lingering touches and smiles he gets from you for now.

But this curse, spell, whatever (because gods forbid Percy Jackson admit he’s in love with you before he’s sure you’re in love with him. They kissed you, Percy! What more do you need, for Zeus’ sake) is seriously becoming a problem, because somebody explain to him how from 30 feet away, Percy managed to see an Ares camper headed straight for you and make it over the battlefield in time to intercept it. With his own abdomen.

It was a stupid mistake, he acknowledges now. He’s been through countless battles, and he knows he could’ve incapacitated the camper from behind, or just knocked the spear out of his hand or something. But something about seeing you in danger just sets alight a fire in his mind that burns through any rational thought, leaving only an urge to stop you from getting hurt.

A little inconvenient now that he’s wincing on an infirmary bed with his side burning up. But at least you’re okay. And oh, look! It’s you! He’s not sure if he’s hallucinating now, or if you’re really standing in front of him.

“Seaweed brain,” you say, sniffling.

Okay, definitely you.

“Hey Y/N,” Percy says meekly. His side still feels like it’s on fire but his heart feels warmer with you here.

You take his hand and his heart aches at the tears in your eyes. “Hey, I’m fine,” he assures, ignoring the fact that he is definitely not fine.

“You’re an idiot, is what you are.”

“Yeah, that too.”

You look at him, at the ridiculous little smile he’s giving you to reassure you, at the bandages around his waist, and his hand in yours, and you lurch forwards and press your lips to his.

Percy jolts in surprise and feels his abdomen screaming at him from the movement, but kisses back nonetheless, feeling your lips on his once more and your tongue graze his bottom one.

When you pull back, he stares at you in a daze. If kissing is how you kept this spell on him, he is okay with being under it forever.

“You’re ridiculous, Percy Jackson,” you say, “but I love you.”

He swears his heart has never felt this warm. “I love you too.”

(“Sorry,” Leo says, looking rather gobsmacked, “they weren’t already dating?”

“Leo!” Piper throws her hands up in exasperation.

He smacks his cheeseburger back down on his plate and stares at the faces of his friends. Jason and Frank also look rather miffed, but the girls are all rolling their eyes. “Excuse me for being surprised! They’ve known each other since they were, what, 13?”

“12, actually,” answers Annabeth.

“12! When Percy woke up on the other side of America, the only name he could remember was Y/N’s, right?”

“Correct,” says Frank.

“And we spent ages on the Argo II, during which they got caught in the stables—“

“They were just talking,” says Hazel.

“—and they fell into Tartarus together! Because he refused to let go of her hand! They literally went all the way to hell, all the way through hell, and back out, together!”

Nobody says a word, all looking at Leo.

“You’re telling me,” Leo says, breathing very intensely as though he just found out that his pet dog has been run over, “that during that entire time, neither of them asked each other out?”

“Nope,” says Annabeth matter-of-factly, “and he also kissed Y/N on his 16th birthday.”

“Man,” Jason sighs, “talk about slow burn.”)

[mickandmusings]

felt good on my lips

part of the 'hangman & honey' series! (stand alone story)

summary: as the sun settles over the texas air on the most patriotic day of the year, honey and jake find themselves encased in a different kind of heat, the kind that had little to do with the burning star in the sky. that night, as fireworks erupt against the starry sky, a different kind of spark flames between the two.

word count: 3.4k

warnings: sticky sweet fluff, southern american traditions, a fourth of july special, some slightly suggestive thoughts from jake and honey's mind (nothing spicy)

*timeline: this takes place the summer after part III!

**i'm not sure if this is common knowledge anywhere outside of the southern US, so some explanation: window air conditioning units are necessary for most older homes (they get extremely hot), the 'pig' is a local grocery store aka piggly wiggly, and also, kids are always sort of everywhere at family get-togethers, and the closest adult will take care of whatever kid, whether they belong to them or not, lol. southern americans give their grandparents weird names.

-

Under the scorching rays of the Texas sun, Jake lifts his shirt to wipe the sweat dripping down his face. It's nearing lunchtime, and it's prime time for the heat index to reach its max temperature. He'd been outside for an hour or so now, setting up folding tables and taping cheap red, white and blue tablecloths to them. His extended family would be trudging down Seresin Farm Road in an hour's time, and the day's festivities would be off and away. His grandmother had all but stormed into his bedroom at eight that morning, startling not only him, but Honey who was sleeping peacefully between his arms. (They were both more startled at the fact that they weren't technically supposed to be sleeping in the same bed anymore, and that they'd been caught, but Janet had seemed more focused on the fact she had a dozen more people to feed.)

After he sets up the last table in the front yard, he sighs and decides to shed the sweat-drenched shirt plastering to his chest. He wipes his face with it and takes a moment to look at his work before he went to retrieve his next task from his grandmother. The tablecloths were uneven and more than a little wonky, but they would do good enough. He shrugs and begins to make his trek back to the farmhouse. Jake's bad mood had already begun to seep in, he truly despised most of his extended family. They only visited on holidays, despite only living an hour or so away in Austin. They never visited for any pure reason, they always came when they needed or wanted something-primarily monetary-from his well-off grandparents. They would come and complain incessantly about the heat or the simplicity of small-town life, and it drove Jake absolutely mad. As he walked up the porch steps, he heard Honey's boisterous laughter filtering through the screen door he was opening. Her sweet happiness made the tension fall from his shoulders, and his face broke into a small grin.

His eyes found her immediately-she's standing at the kitchen counter next to his grandmother, a pair of denim shorts adorning her legs and her his well-worn, thin white shirt on her torso, doing little to hide the red and white striped swimsuit top underneath it. Jake felt heat fill his blood, and he knew the Texas sun had nothing to do with it. Her hair fell in waves across her shoulders from the braid she'd slept in, and she stood barefoot as she stirred something in a mixing bowl. Neither Janet nor Honey had heard him walk in, so Jake stood in the door frame, a smirk painted across his face. He watched them work in perfect tandem-there's no chatter between them, they navigated the kitchen without having to say a word-Honey working on sweets while his grandmother seemed to be making something in a casserole dish. Country music filled the kitchen from the radio on the opposite counter, and the hum of the window air-conditioning unit sounded over it, providing the ambiance of Jake's idea of a perfect southern, summer day.

After standing staring at his girlfriend for probably far too long, Jake decided to make his presence known. He sneakily slides his hands around Honey's waist, causing her to jump and let out a small yelp. She turns around in his arms, her eyes wide as she looks at him, her mouth open like she has something to say but she falls silent when she looks down at his bare torso. Jake laughs and places a chaste kiss on her cheek, and she sends him a pointed look when she composes herself.

"You scared the absolute mess out of me, Jacob Thomas!"

He kisses her other cheek, distracting her long enough to snatch a cookie from the plate in front of her. Janet watches from the corner of her eye, smiling as she chastises and shoos Jake out of her kitchen. He shuffles up the stairs to his and Honey's room to get in his own patriotic swimwear, leaving Honey with a rosy blush on her face. Honey tries to swallow her visions of the sight of him down, focusing on icing the cupcakes in front of her with red icing and white and blue sprinkles, but her cheeks still flamed.

"You alright, Honey, need me to bump up the air in here? You're looking a little red," Janet's voice is dripping with faux sympathy, she's not stupid, she knows why Honey is blushing.

"Uh, n-no, I'm fine," Honey gives her a bright smile, focusing back on the desserts she was supposed to be finishing up. The sound of Jake's heavy footsteps come down the stairs, American-flag printed swim trucks on his tanned legs, a white and blue Cowboys shirt on his torso. Honey rolled her eyes, had she really fallen in love with the most stereotypical American dream boy known to man?

"Jake, dear," Janet's voice pipes up, turning to face her grandson. "Alice is bringing her grandkids along, the younger ones. I bought some water balloons the other day, they're in that Pig bag on the back porch. Why don't you and Honey fill those up, hm?"

"Yes ma'am," Jake nodded heading towards the back door, Honey right behind him. He holds the door open for her, and slides his hand across her waist and into the back pocket of her shorts as they walk around back. Honey looks over at her boyfriend, not surprised by his action, but more so his constant affections today. She uses the plastic bag full of water balloons to slap his chest playfully.

"You're touchy today, Seresin." Honey's voice is humorous, simply jabbing at him as a joke.

Jake's green eyes shine in the sun, his eyebrows furrowing as he shakes his head, his favorite Longhorns cap backwards against his head. Once they reach the back of the house, Jake (unfortunately) lets go of his hold on her, turning on the water at the faucet. Honey dumps the bucket full of rainwater next to it, making room for their tied balloons.

"Sweetheart, after you meet my asshole family members you might run like hell, got to hold on to you while I can."

Honey frowns, she knows all about asshole family members.

"Jake you've met my mother and didn't run, I think I'll be just fine."

Jake fills a blue balloon with water, handing it over for her to tie off. He lets out a dry chuckle, pausing his actions to look up at her.

"Take your mother, times her by like eight, and give her four kids a piece, and grandkids. Then, give them all better-than-you attitudes and lookin' down their noses at you. Honey, baby, they're monsters."

It was Honey's turn to feel heat wash over her, and, under the shade of the house, she knew it had little to do with the heat and the new pet name Jake had just used. She'd never say it, too embarrassed to admit something like that to him, but she certainly liked that one the most. She stands stock still, holding the completed balloon in her hand, only staring as Jake fills another one, this time red. He hands it to over to her to tie, and notices her not moving.

"You alright, Hon?" He ties off the balloon himself, noticing the flames painting her cheeks. "Damn, you're already red. Can't stand in the sun five minutes before your skin starts burnin'."

He slings his hat over her head, the bill facing forward now.

"That'll at least keep your face from peelin' tonight."

Honey could've told him the truth, that the red was from a blush, but she didn't. She simply smiled, tucking her hair into the back of the hat to fashion a ponytail as she helped him finish the task at hand. As Jake slung the bucket into his arms and the pair started walking back towards the house, the rumble of vehicles sounded down their gravel driveway. Jake stops in his track, using his spare hand to hold onto Honey's, his voice annoyed as he spoke:

"Fuck me! They're already here."

Honey only laughed and shook her head, pulling her dramatic boyfriend back towards the house as she spoke:

"Hey, look at this way, we hang out here for a few hours, and then we have fireworks out at Willie's family's place at nine, and we're leaving before then to swim with Brett and Willie, and then you won't have to see them again until Thanksgiving."

Jake sighed, pulling her into him by the waist. The backyard was secluded enough that they could have a private moment, so Jake leaned in for a deep kiss. Honey felt her skin tingle with goosebumps, Jake's hands on her hips sending them down her spine. They broke apart and he winked at her, walking around the front to greet his family.

-

After meeting Jake's family, Honey realized he hadn't been exaggerating when he thought they were the worst. The adults had a sort of holier-than-thou air about them, with the exception of his Uncle Danny who seemed to be relatively down to Earth. Danny's only downside was that he came with his overly judgmental wife, Yvonne, who sneered at the dirt on the bottom of her fancy-looking sandals, and his six kids. Jake seemed to like Danny, and the two carried on a conversation over one of the tables. Honey found herself off to the side, not wanting to interrupt. She nursed a solo cup of lemonade as she watched the Seresin family interact with one another-a perpetual wallflower in any social situation. Janet and Jacob Sr. sat with a group of older family members, swapping laughter and memories of those long gone. Honey felt herself pick at the skin around her fingernails, swallowing a set of tears that loomed behind her eyes. Even if Jake despised his family, with their attitudes and short looks, at least he had a family to see each other on holidays. Honey thought of her mother, likely at a party with her new boyfriend's family, before she shut the thought down completely, her bottom lip between her teeth. Without much thought, she went around to the back porch, overlooking the group of kids playing in the sprinkler. All of Danny's kids (all under ten, and completely wild) played with Alice's two granddaughters peacefully, and Honey smiled. She had a slew of cousins back home in Mississippi, and, in times like these, she missed them terribly.

When she looked back up at the kids, she saw the scene of disaster unfold before her eyes. One of Danny's older girls had all but barreled into Alice's youngest granddaughter, who couldn't have been older than two. The toddler hit her head against the ground hard, and it was obvious by the look on her face a round of tears were coming. Honey's instinct kicked in before her logical thinking, and she shuffled down the stairs of the porch and scooped the little girl up before her loud sobs filled the air.

"Hey, hey, you're okay, you're okay," Honey rocked her in her arms, the toddler now sobbing against Honey's shoulder. Honey looked down at her for any possible bruises or knots on her head, but she seemed fine, the fall had most likely just startled her. "How about we go get you a popsicle, yeah? That sound good?"

The toddler, whom Honey still didn't know the name of, nodded against her shoulder, and Honey sighed in relief. She brought the young girl onto the porch and wraps her in her Barbie towel, plopping her into the rocker on the porch. Honey slings open the freezer and spots the plastic bag of different colored popsicles.

"What color, little lady?" Honey smiles at the toddler with sopping wet pigtails. A grin forms on the young girl's face as she shyly responds. "Blue."

Honey smiles and retrieves the popsicle and hands it to her, popping it open and smiling down at her.

"You alright?" Honey speaks, sitting down in the rocker opposite her. "That was a pretty hard hit."

The toddler nods as blue begins to stain her mouth, her big brown eyes looking over at Honey. "I okay, thanks."

Honey laughs at the toddler babble and begins to look out at the other children again, the children still running through the sprinkler safely. It isn't until she feels a cold hand on her leg that Honey looks down, the toddler looking up at her with her arms raised. She wants to be picked up. Honey picks her up and places her into her lap, the girl looking at her with a blue, toothy grin.

"I'm Presley."

Honey grins widely, "Hi Presley, my name is Honey."

The toddler smiles again, getting more comfortable in Honey's grasp.

"You're pretty."

"Me?" Honey jokes with the girl. "You Miss Presley are so pretty."

Presley giggles and Honey finds herself laughing too. The two are so absorbed in conversation about Barbies and Presley's preschool friends that they don't notice Alice and Janet rounding around to the front in the search for Presley, Jake behind them, in search of Honey.

"There you are, sweetheart," Alice coos to her granddaughter. Honey grows shy, not knowing Alice well. When Jake spots her, his eyes grow wide, his blonde-haired baby cousin sitting in Honey's lap. Honey was relaxed, her body language comfortable. Jake stops in his tracks, another feeling coming over him that he couldn't explain. The sight of the girl he was in love with, sweetly comforting the toddler in her arms made his emotions stir.

Presley looks at her grandmother from Honey's lap. "I okay, Gigi. Honey gave me a 'sicle!" The toddler waved the partially melted treat in the air. Honey's sweet smile formed across her face as she looked down at Presley, and Jake's heart hammered. He'd never seen Honey so comfortable with strangers, but he knew his girl's heart, and she had a soft spot for babies. Presley launched into her grandmother's arms and Honey went to meet Jake down at the bottom of the stairs. His jade green eyes glimmered down at her, her sun-kissed face hidden under his baseball cap that still sat on her head. All he wanted to do was pull her in for a heated kiss, but he decided against it, given that their company was made up of children and his own grandmother.

Honey smiled up at him, "You alright? They annoy you that much already?"

Jake only shook his head, grabbing her hand and intertwining with his own.

Honey gave him a look, as if she didn't fully believe him. "Ready to head to Willie's place?"

Jake nodded, kissing her cheek. She smiled.

"Did you grab our towels? I can go get us some if not it's-"

"I got it, baby, go get in the truck."

Honey stilled in his arms. That damn nickname was going to kill her.

-

Later that night, Jake and Honey found themselves sitting on the sandbar of the river under the moon, Willie and Brett both drunk off of Willie's dad's beer he'd stolen. Jake nor Honey had been as brave, Honey had half of one before she'd tossed it to the side, and Jake had finished it. Jake laughed as Willie tossed Brett into the water, both of them mock-fighting one another. Honey had long since had her fill of swimming, her hair damp and a beach towel around her shivering body. Jake had one arm slung over her, pressing her against his side for more warmth. If he was honest, he'd spent less time swimming with his friends and more staring at Honey in her swimsuit. She lazily floated on her back as his stupid friends all but drowned one another. Now she sat next to him as Brett and Willie picked themselves up out of the water and headed back towards the cabin that Willie's family owned, getting ready to set off fireworks with his family.

Jake had appreciated their offer for he and Honey to join them, but Jake knew Honey would much rather enjoy the fireworks without Willie's entire extended family around. Selfishly, he wanted a moment alone with her anyways. She smiled up at him in the silence, her eyes shining in the moonlight.

"It always ends with just us, huh?" Her voice comes out.

"You complainin'?" Came Jake's retort.

She shook her head, leaning up to kiss his cheek, resting her head against his shoulder. Silence settled over them, and someone shouted in the distance before a display of lights burst across the black sky. Honey smiled as she watched the display, but Jake's focus was on her instead. They hadn't had a true moment alone since his 16th birthday a few weeks before, and he was going to savor every second he had. Her eyes darted at the lights in the sky, Jake's hand resting on the bare skin of her torso, the spot not covered by her swimsuit. His thumb brushed against her skin, and she smiled up at him again. When they caught eyes, Jake couldn't stop himself, his opposite hand coming to her chin to connect their lips. As a round of blue fireworks filled the air, neither of them caught the display, Honey's hands in Jake's blonde locks, and both of his now pulling her into his lap. She giggled faintly as they pulled apart, that kiss had been more heated than she'd intended. Honey feels brave, pulling him back into another kiss just like the last. Jake's hands move to her hips, his heart racing at her touch. He thinks back to Brett's comment about him already being 'whipped', and as Honey's lips meet his again, he knows he's done for. Soon it's messy, clashing teeth and fumbling hands. Jake gently pulls her back, his southern gentleman instinct kicking in. His eyes are dark, darker than Honey's ever seen them, and he's breathing heavy.

"We should probably slow down, baby."

She stills again, her entire frame encapsulated in flames. Her hands go back to Jake's hair. Their faces are close, but their lips aren't touching.

"I love it when you call me that," her voice is a whisper, and Jake almost doesn't hear her over the fireworks popping in the sky. His eyes dart between her own, his lips barely meeting hers before he mumbles.

"Baby," His lips crash against hers, and Honey, in an act most definitely unusual to her nature, let's herself go completely. There's no shy hesitation, she's unabashedly aflame for him, the name feeling ridiculously good against her lips.

As much as Jake wanted to let this progress, the logical part of his brain refuses to allow him to take her on the dusty sandbar of his friend's spot on the river. He pulls away and pushes the hair that had fallen into her face behind her ear, kissing her forehead and pulling her into his chest. He watched the rest of the firework show with Honey in his arms, placing relatively innocent kisses to the side of his neck as he whispered sweet nothings into her ear. When Brett and Willie had come back to retrieve them, they'd teased them relentlessly-kissing noises and snarky comments about the couple-but Jake let it roll of his shoulders as he carried Honey piggy-back up the hill and back to his truck, her head resting on his shoulder on the way home. His hand rests against her thigh, his thumb lazily rubbing against her skin.

The night is quiet, the country music in his truck at a low volume. When he pulls up to the house, Honey's fast asleep against him. He shakes his head fondly and slides her out of the truck, tossing their towels and wet clothes across the front banister of the porch. His grandparents had long since gone to bed, and Jake was thankful, he was too tired to try to sneak Honey from her room across the hall into his. He simply brings her straight into his room, and places her carefully onto their bed. He carefully peels off her shoes and chucks them across the room before falling into bed beside her. He pulls her close, and his eyes are fluttering shut before he can even remember to shut off the lamp on his bedside table. He only mumbles down to her before he falls into deep sleep:

"G'night, baby."

-

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