#the one untouched by the gentle sand of the moon

[bardicbeetle]

Your nickname should be Storybug, if you're okay with that

I ACCEPT

this is accurate I am a bug, I tell stories

[houseofhyde]

iv. another man's pain

pairing. aemond targaryen x fem!reader synopsis. a visit to dorne goes awry as an unexpected visitor arrives, tensions between in-laws come to ahead at last. chapter warnings. no use of y/n, brother-in-law!aemond, stark!reader, infidelity, purity culture, lady stark is having a brat summer ( sunbathing and arguing with her situationship ), male infertility, canon-accurate misogyny, mentions of pregnancy + marital s/a + war crimes + death, a little angst, a little fluff, a little smut ( unprotected piv, breast/nipple play, oral- f receiving, aemond is the verbal consent king ) please kindly notify me of any warning i may have missed. word count. 19.4k (for my pwp girlies: they fuck at the end, i swear 😭) hyde’s input. this chapter is extremely yap-centric, i'm so sorry. i could not get these bitches to shut the fuck up. please ignore any typos, i've driven myself mad re-reading this over and over :( another man's series. feast. comfort. pleasure. pain. legacy. jealousy. ( coming october) read on ao3. listen to the playlist.

The heat in Dorne is sticky.

Stifling, overwhelming, heavy. Upon inhale, it slides through the nose, yet, in exhale, it weighs heavy on the chest. It leaves one panting like a dog, with sweat that soaks through linen, and a longing for the forgiving breeze that sweeps its way through the Red Keep. Already, you await the day the carriage arrives to shuttle you off on your journey back to the capital, if only to move an inch without leaving a river of your own perspiration behind.

Six days and five nights into your moon-long stay in the southern lands of sand and your trunk remains fairly untouched, filled to the brim with clothes too heavy to face the heat. Helaena promises it’ll pass, that soon you will acclimatise and find yourself basking in the kiss of sunlight upon your skin. “Until then,” she’d assured you, a gentle squeeze at your hand across the vanity’s table. “You’re more than welcome to make use of my old dresses. With my body in recovery and two children in need of my care, I no longer make up the same shape I once did.”

At first, the proposal was to host you in Sunspear. A written invitation, extended by none other than Prince Qoren himself, hand delivered to you by one of the King’s squires as you shared a morning under the shade of the godswoods alongside the Dowager Queen. The pair of you had read over it in tandem, a silence overtaking, before you promptly announced your need for rest, scrambling the letter as close as possible to your chest as you raced off to the safety of your quarters. By evening, your husband had been informed, his own mother encouraging him to accept the invitation.

“It will serve the girl well,” she’d insisted, clutching at the arms of her chair within the hall of the small council, meeting long over and naught but the mother and son occupying the tension filled room. “There’s been little joy for her here as of late. The burdens of politics have begun to take toll on her, for certain. It will serve your wife well to take a much needed break.”

“The only burden politics brings her is the difficult decision of which gown to wear to dinner with Lord Up-Himself and his Lady wife of House Prissy-Cunt. Meanwhile, it is I, her husband, who bears the true difficulties of the crown!” Woe is he, the king who never wanted to be, trapped eternally in a life of decadence and obedience, a war raised in his name, and half a bloodline destroyed in his wake. Otto Hightower had warned his daughter, before the dragons had truly begun to dance, of how Aegon’s self-inflicted victimhood would one day be his downfall. With every passing day, the King’s mother sees this destruction growing closer. “My wife is of no use to me building sandcastles down South. She needs to make me an heir, not run off to take care of my sister’s.”

“A visit to Dorne may prove to be more fruitful than you believe, Aegon.”

And, so, it was settled. Three moons after the birth of Prince Qoren and Helaena’s second child — a moon-eyed boy, with his father’s raven locks and his mother’s smile, awarded the name of Jaehaerys — you would depart the city gates, with a small travelling band of knights upon saddles and a carriage large enough to sleep two, yourself and your dearest lady-in-waiting.

Only days before your arrival, however, tragedy struck. An assassin of the Free Cities, infiltrated within the walls of the Martell’s seat of power, made an attempt on Princess Helaena’s life. A half-failure, the assassin claimed a life but mistook a sleeping maid for the dragon girl. The premises were vacated, with Prince Qoren demanding his family find shelter someplace safe, someplace private. 

Three leagues to the west, buried away from curious eyes and beached by the waves of the Summer Sea, the Water Gardens sit. With a decadent, lavish palace leading out into a garden of rare beauty where palm trees stand taller than dragons, and water lilies float upon crystal-clear ponds, and rose buds burst into perfect bloom. Raised in honour of his darling wife, it is a vision of Prince Qoren’s that stands not yet completed, the beginning structures of what will one day be a private sanctuary to the dornish royals, a home to grow their own in, far away from the intruding eyes of court and capital.

Welcomed with open arms — that very soon wrapped around you in a tight squeeze — thus began your peaceful getaway.

Where days in the Keep are spent hiding in shadows, and exchanging pleasantries filled with discomfort, and sitting rigidly at a family dinner table, your days in the Water Gardens are full of glee. The laughter of the many Martell children, running rampant down hallways and through bushes, dirtying their knees with the green of grass and the rough of sand. Afternoons splayed out on beds, hand-fanned with the fallen leaves of palm trees, a soothing battle against the burning heat. A table foreign to silence, with Prince Qoren’s ever present queries into your day, and Helaena’s ecstatic chatter over the recent stitching patterns you’ve taught her, and the many other welcoming faces of the Martell bloodline, each smile warmer than the last.

By far, however, the thing you enjoy most is this: watching over your niece.

Day by day, at an hour when the newborn babe lays his head down to sleep, be it morning, or noon, or evening, you have taken it upon yourself to relieve poor Helaena of the tougher parts of motherhood, gifting her with the blessing of uninterrupted rest as you take her firstborn by the hand and let her guide you around the dornish grounds.

More often than not, she brings you here, to the shallow waters of a pond, with a sweet aroma of surrounding blood-orange trees and the calming sounds of water flowing out a central fountain enough to ease even the most troubled of minds.

Right now, your young niece stands soaked to the bone, dancing around as you sit close by, feet dipped within the very same cooling waters with the occasional splash coming your way from the toddler. In the few days you have been here, she seems to have grown so quickly, doubling in size before your very eyes, and finding a more steady manner in which to stand upon her feet, and learning to babble more syllables, each sounding less like nonsense than the last.

“Aliandra,” at the call of her name, those violet eyes are upon you. They carry the signature twinkle of a mind yet unmarred by life shining bright in your direction. “What is this called?”

You extend your hand towards her, a freshly peeled chunk of orange plucked between two fingers, and await the acceptance from her smaller hands.

“Fruit!” You believe is what she means to say, though her r is hardly pronounced and you’re certain she’s added an extra vowel at the end.

Still, you give her the win, departing with the sweet slice and delighting at the mess made as she bites into it, a spray of juice splashing down her tiny palms. It is incentive enough to move closer, wading through the shallow waters and leaving the lower fabric of your dress to soak itself as it trails behind you. At the height of the young princess, you sink down onto your knees, a much needed refreshment as the water settles over your waist.

“Here, sweet girl,” with a voice as gentle as your touch, you guide her to dip her juice stained hands under the water, the whole of your thumb wiping at the inside of her palm. “We ladies mustn’t dirty our hands.”

In lieu of a reply, the small child merely giggles and surrenders herself fully into your hold, her tiny limbs relaxing so suddenly, you have no choice but to let her rest within your lap, a head of white blonde hair finding respite upon your shoulder.

There is a strange emotion that only the presence of your niece seems to conjure. One of desperation, one of tenderness, one of an all-consuming need to hold her as close as possible and shelter her from all harm that may befall her in the cruelness of this life.

As a child, you’d never truly known the experience of being the elder sibling, the one looked at to lead, and guard, and tend to any other youngling alongside your parents. That job had always been Cregan’s and, for better or for worse, he had made a point of truly stepping into this protective role when it came to you, watching over you from cradle, to courtyard, to the carriage that dragged you down to your fated marriage.

It is half a wonder if this feeling she gives you is owed to the Mother and her instincts at last taking root within your heart, a seed watered slowly into a sapling that promises to grow and spread its branches from limb to limb. An emotional catch-up to the rest of your body, cursed by the moon’s blood for almost a decade, only now do you feel fit to step into the role of care-giver, nurturer, mother.

As if reading your thoughts, Aliandra nuzzles deeper into you, a tiny fist clasping a mighty hold of the yellow silks you wear.

“Are you tired, little darling?” Though she shakes her head in denial, you hear and feel the way she yawns against you, no doubt tired out by the blaze of the sun’s warmth.

You choose to stay like this a little longer, swaying slowly back and forth as you clutch your niece against you, small ripples in the water left in the wake of your movement. They seem to grow larger with each sway, the tremor upon the liquid’s surface lasting longer, the ripples rising higher and dipping lower.

A squawk of birds steals your attention in time to catch how the small flock fly away from a palm tree. You can’t help yourself from pointing at the tree, nor the whispered inquisition you throw at the girl: “Ali, what is that called?”

You watch her head raise off your shoulder, her whole body shifting to look at the tree, her head comically tilting straight up at the sky. The wind picks up, the palm leaves beginning to shake back and forth as the girl lets out an excited squeal. “Zaldrīzes !”

A cloud seems to swallow the sun whole, a cast of darkness coming across the gardens and greying the world around you. In your arms, the child’s excited chant continues, both hands pointing at the sky as a tiny voice calls out syllables you can’t make meaning of, over and over.

“Zaldrīzes ! Zaldrīzes ! Zaldrīzes !”

Craning your neck back, you point your eyes up to the sky and find a mass of flesh.

Aged, large, green.

Claws, tail, wings.

A dragon.

The dragon.

Vhagar.

As a child, you begged your mother to visit the beach.

The request came no more than a day after Cregan had returned from a voyage to the Iron Islands, the first of many politically motivated visits he’d make with your father before his passing. You had been young at the time, no larger than a child of seven years, and so full of wide-eyed belief and childlike wonder that it wasn’t difficult for your older brother to enchant you with stories of sand made of specs of gold, and crystal blue waters warm enough to melt away centuries of snow, and a horizon that knows no limit, stretching onward into an eternity of undiscovered lands, where not even the fiercest of dragons dared venture towards. You’d decided, then and there, that you would be the one to go discover such lands, man your own ship and set off along the perfect waters.

This dream would die, of course, many moons later, as you boarded your first ship and a great fear of it took grip of you.

Your mother hadn’t the heart to tell you the truth of the matter. Of how the beach Cregan had visited had been naught but a warsight, sand made of the dust of bones ground down by time, and water so violent it sweeps away anyone fool enough to dip their feet in, and the sea-creatures dwelling at the bottom of it, with more tentacles than eyes, and more teeth to ever dare count. She instead nodded, brushed the hair out of your eyes and promised you, one day, she would take you to the beach.

It isn’t quite what you expect it to be.

Toes buried in the sand, eyes watching as the tide rolls in only to roll back out. Unforgiving heat burning away at your corneas, the subtle blush of salt in the air. The constant rise and fall of waves collapsing into one another, the overwhelming loneliness that settles in as you realise it is only you here, no sight of your mother, her bones now long gone and buried beneath the walls of Winterfell alongside your father.

The dream of a child is wasted on the pitiful adult.

“Typically, people choose to bathe in the sea, not stare at it from the shore,” a voice calls on you from behind.

Across the beach, the prince strides, kicking up a storm of sand in his wake. A whole four days have come and gone since his arrival upon dragon’s back and, still, he has made no accommodations to his attire, the ever-present shades of Targaryen black and Hightower green sitting snug along his limbs. Without a doubt, the clothing of his house is out of place in this garden of blooming colour, yet the thought of him wearing anything but his leathers would be wrong. It wouldn’t be Aemond.

“I find I much prefer the view from here,” you remark, letting your eyes wander as far down as the length of his torso before you’re forcing them to look onward, back to the constant flow of the water. Something magnetic seems to tug at your soul, willing your feet to shuffle two steps closer to his incoming figure, drawn to close the space between. You dig your heels in the sand and will no further movement from yourself. “This is the first time I’ve stood upon a beach like this. It is… not what I’d expected. I feel no siren’s call towards the sea, no desire to soak myself within its merciless waters, no matter how tranquil and forgiving it may seem.”

The sun hovers low on the horizon, a hair’s breadth away from sinking beneath the line that separates sky from sea and taking with it what remains of the day, plundering the world into the darkness of night. There is a part of you that knows you should find your way back out of the alcove, through the rocky tunnel that feeds straight from the Martell’s summer home out onto the sandy beach, the call for supper soon encroaching on you and demanding your presence. 

But if to know is to care, then perhaps you are not so aware of what mannerly duties are expected of you, for you harbour no desire to attempt any movement that even dares remove you from the one-eyed prince’s presence. For too long, you’ve waited to be in it. 

“Surely you cannot truly claim to prefer standing here, if you do not yet know what it means to let the sea wash over you,” it’s hard to resist temptation, your eyes cast upon him once more. The same well-kept hair, the same brown patch covering his tarnished eye, the same ever-present pout upon his perfectly bowed lips — his time at Dragonstone has changed little of him. You wonder if he notices the changes in you. The lonely spark in your eyes, the threat of an incoming frown line, the sorrow that has rained down over your once positive mind, dampening you into nothing but a mirror of duty, set to obey the status quo laid out by the queens who came before you. “Declaring favour without so much as attempting another option, is that not so similar to settling?”

“You fail to consider that perhaps I am afraid to take the plunge,” an answer you fire with far too much haste, a chord struck within you, a conspiratorial mind that digs for deeper meaning than what the prince offers at base level. “Treading into sea from land is no safer than flinging one’s self off the sails of any ship. I am the queen, after all. I cannot be so reckless as to risk getting caught within waves and ripped beneath the surface by unforeseen currents. I have no desires to meet the Drowned God. Not all of us may rely on the luxury of deserting upon a dragon's back at the first spark of danger.”

Silence settles in between you like fog.

There is a call to anger that brews deep within you, one that has endured far too many moons of being trampled down under the weight of your own exhaustion, freed alas by the crashing of waves and the heat of the sun. 

In the days following the prince’s departure from court, you’d grieved. First had come the sadness, nights spent weeping into the smell of your own sheets, arms curled around your own self as you bathed away whatever lingering touch of his remained on you. Tears gave way to desperation. You picked up a quill, put ink to paper, wrote out the words he’d not given you the time to say, only to falter when the time came to send it off to Dragonstone and, instead, choose to burn it in the flames of your chambers’ hearth.

For a moment, watching how the fire ate up your fragile pleadings for answers from the prince, you’d felt that first flicker of anger. A warm, inviting temptress, blooming in the guts of your body, whispering riddles in your ear of how the prince had no right to play you for a fool, to plunder you both down into the pits of seduction, only to disappear in the night, leaving you stranded with no way back.

As quickly as the feeling arose, you shut it out, choosing instead the easier, more acceptable approach: you denied his very existence. When his name was mentioned at the dinner table, you ducked your head down, kept your focus on stabbing at the next piece of food with your fork. When dragons flew above the skies, weaving through the towers of the Keep, you refused to glance up. With time, it all grew easier, new duties thrust upon you as you and Aegon embarked on your first royal progress throughout the Westerlands, and less hours spent trapped within the walls of the very home in which he’d fled from you. It became as though the Prince had never even existed, much less the complications that came along with him.

Yet now, standing face to face once more, that temptress has returned, an iron fist of anger clasped around your heart.

The prince dares to call your name, gently, as though he’s yet to feel the burn of your glare piercing through his skull.

“Eight moons since you left court and not once have you returned,” your tone has more bite than even you are used to. Words that possess fangs, sinking deep into the prince and drawing blood with one foul swoop. He, of course, doesn’t show this, face as stoic as it's ever been. That singular eye, however, can’t hide the truth, widening slightly and wavering in its powerful stare as your ire rips a wound right through him. “When your dragon flew overhead, I thought this was it, at last you were here to see me. That perhaps you had caught wind of my travels and were no longer capable of denying yourself the need to come to me. Yet four times the sun has risen and you have made no effort to seek me out, you barely glance my way as we break bread at the same table, and you cut through corners to avoid crossing paths with me throughout the palace walls. Now you call upon me, after all this time, with the intention of… What? Sharing false small talk? What a fool you must take me for.”

“My departure was nothing personal, you should not take such offence,” whether he intended it or not, his answer almost seems to goad you, tossing more oil into an already raging fire. The condescension, the thoughtlessness, the implications of his words, dismissing the rightful irritation his actions have brought upon you and denouncing them as naught more than the silly fancies of a self-obsessed mind. It reminds you of Aegon, demeaning you without sparing it so much as a second thought. “I had no other choice but to leave.”

It hits you like a bucket of ice water, tossed upon the raging anger, not enough to scare it away yet enough to tamper it down, have it willing to at least listen to what possible reasons the prince may have had, and condemn him from there onwards. So, you enquire, “why?”

“What grows— Grew between us was dangerous. Deadly. It was not safe within the Keep, knowing our paths would keep crossing and feelings would complica-”

“Then you shut them out!” A step you take forward, the stomp of your foot kicking sand upon your ankles. You wish to invade his space, get him uncomfortable with the tangible closeness of your bodies, united upon common ground and beneath turbulent skies, yet with little remains of the interest you once possessed for the one-eyed prince, diluted by his abandonment in court. “Whatever those feelings are, you push them down until they no longer make noise within you, and you try to feel something else, for someone else, and you move along.” Much to your chagrin, the prince is turning his back on you, literally this time, twisting on both feet and seemingly attempting to flee the field of fire. You can not grace him with such sanctuary, hand darting out and catching a steady grasp on his forearm. “You do not simply take off at dawn’s first light!”

“Do you not think I have tried?” Aemond turns too quickly for you to process, stumbling backwards only to remain caught by his own hands, blunt nails pinching into the skin of your wrists as he presses them tight against his chest, his face so close to your own, you could commence counting his every eyelash. The sound of his voice, a musical combination of exasperation and desperation, holds priority over your attention. “For moons I would keep my distance, keep myself at bay. Only to lay it all to waste, time and time again, at the first sign of you needing me. No one has ever-” The prince pulls in a deep breath, a subtle shake of his head as he lets it free. His eye slips shut, only to reopen and stare upon you once more with a false promise of calm. “I have tried to lay this to rest, do not rob me of this fact. But, you see, it is hard to make a scar out of a wound you keep reopening.”

“You speak as though it were not you who made the first cut!” Try as he might, his peaceful tone of voice can not sway you to relax, your frustration doubling as the words burst out of you, hand fighting its way out of his hold and jabbing a finger at his solid chest. “Or was it not you who welcomed himself into my bed? Was it not you who offered to be my tutor? Was it not you who held me close, only to keep your distance and act as though nothing happened for weeks to come afterwards? But at least then you were still present in court. I mean, you could not even grace me with goodbye. Would it truly be so bad, Aemond, to feel something? So bad that you had to cross sea and mountain just to escape it?”

“When that something is for my brother’s wife, yes.”

“Oh, as though he cares!”

“He does! He would! What is it that you do not understand, Lady Stark?” It is fortunate no others are present to witness the way you and the prince stand so close, nose to nose, chests heaving every breath as though they may be your last, voices raising louder with each exclaim you throw each other's way. “Aegon would have my head on a spike if he knew the thoughts of you it conjures.”

“That is not true. I would not allow him,” both of you know it is a meaningless mutter. You have no control over Aegon, you never have. That doesn’t stop you from denying truths, an attempt at filling both your minds with fallacies of a future. “We could find a way. We have to at least try rid ourselves of the troubles he causes-”

“What would you have me do, woman? Kill my own brother?”

“You are hardly the one to play outrage at the thought of killing your own kin,” you don’t mean to say it. You know this because, the moment you do, your stomach drops and there’s the fear that you may in fact spill your guts up any second now. A mind both stubborn and still ruled by an anger conceived in sadness, you give yourself no choice but to push onward with your cruelty, no chance to apologise or take it all back, and do the one thing you’ve wanted to do since the prince first strolled into the halls of the Martell home: throw yourself at his feet and beg he never leave again. “What is it the smallfolk call you? Ah, yes, Prince Aemond the Kinslayer.”

For a moment, time ceases to be and the world no longer moves.

The waves do not crash, the birds do not sing, the air does not reach your lungs. A background that fades to grey, until all that is in focus is Aemond and the disbelief you strike within him. It’s a gentle progression, like ink staining paper, the way his teeth grind under a clenched jaw, and the way his nose flares almost defensively as though he’s trying to make himself appear as big as possible, and the way his eye moves through shock to anger to nothing. Two steps back, a pause, followed by another step back the moment your feet dare move an inch closer. A deep breath followed by a huff of anger, before at last he speaks again and the world falls back into view, full focus, full motion.

“My sister sent me to fetch you,” over the horizon, the sun is nearly gone and, with it, it’s warmth. You feel a chill run down your spine, a first since you arrived in Dorne. “She awaits you in the nursery.”

The prince has already turned and began to stride back from whence he came before you can even put thought to word, feet frozen in the sand as the rift between you opens wider.

Aemond disappears.

An act he is growing familiar with, a complete removal in the middle of the night, flying off on his war beast. And while you do your best to avoid glancing at the empty seats around the breakfast table, and feign disinterest at the mention of his name as it is spoken, you come to learn it is not Dragonstone he has fled towards, and it is not a journey he made alone.

In the fallout of the attempt on Helaena’s life, Sunspear had remained desolate. Men and women armed with metal and spears the only souls to move within the home, with rat catchers and maids welcomed on every third day of the week to maintain the home's upkeep. Even those who inhabit the city had retreated to the mountains, homes abandoned in fears and whispers of another Dornish war on the horizon, a new enemy yet to be unmasked.

It is Qoren Martell that decides enough is enough. Mounted upon his trusted steed, backed by a flock of his most trusted advisors and fiercest swordsmen, and with the protection of a dragonlord patrolling from the skies, he returned at last to the seat of his house. A letter reached Helaena’s hands, a reassurance of her husband and her brother’s safe arrival, followed by a promise to ensure the safety of both her and her children, a husband's devotion to bringing punishment to whomever orchestrated such a cowardly attack.

You receive your own letter, too. Penned by Aegon, the parchment informs you of his own travels, accompanied by his mother, to the riverlands. A show of good faith, he calls it, an attempt to mend what fragile loyalty remains after Aemond’s fire-filled rampage. You can’t imagine it is so easily fixed, with their lands scorched beyond use and half the riverlords struck down dead amidst their support towards Rhaenyra’s claim. Before you can dwell too long on the ghosts of recent history, Aegon closes off his writings with a request. Perhaps, it is a demand.

I believe we are overdue a talk, wife. Upon your return from Dorne, I do hope that you will find time to at last discuss the shadow that looms over our union. In the meantime, enjoy what remains of your stay with my sister, I am sure your company during this frightening time is much appreciated. I hear my brother has at last flown from his nest on Dragonstone. Perhaps he has more interest than I give him credit for in keeping this family safe.

You have yet to respond.

Trust this: it is not from a lack of trying. You have sat before parchment, quill clasped in hand, more times you can recall, and attempted to construct an appropriate reply. The first carried a stench of guilt, an involuntary admittance to something the king has yet to even accuse you of. The second, third, and fourth edition had been a stream of consciousness, in which nothing made sense and the letters all crashed into one another, written with shaky hands. The truth of the matter is that you’re not entirely sure what is expected of you, what kind of reply is desired.

On one hand, you could assume his words are a warning. A scarlet letter, branding itself upon your skin. He may know of Aemond’s presence and, with it, the possible scenarios that may play out between you two, meaning he knows of what has already transpired between his wife and brother. On the other hand, Aegon’s request could be about something as simple as the need to both agree on a redesign of tapestries within the throne room. Meaning it could be nothing of importance, nor danger, nor threat.

It does not make your hand sit any steadier as you make yet another attempt at conjuring your response.

“The Triarchy?” Helaena’s voice will never fail to soothe an unnamed ailment within you, so soft and welcoming you hardly believe she was raised in the same home as someone as brash as your husband.

“Hmm,” or as him. He returned this morning, at an hour one would hardly call appropriate, the screech of a dragon flying overhead your wake-up call, half falling out of your bed in shock. “It seems they’ve come to claim more than they were offered. Apparently the events at the Gullet were more bloody than they were promised, and now the Stepstones are not a good enough reward to compensate for the nameless men they lost. One must wonder how they did not expect the presence of dragons in a feud between dragonlords.”

The Targaryen siblings sit at the opposite end of the communal balcony from you, a crystal table adorned with golds and bronzes between them and two cups of wine — Helena’s remains untouched, Aemond has reached for his thrice. The view ahead is one of tranquil beauty, where children are playing in the fountains, leaves are rustling in the wind, and a sleeping she-dragon is sighted over the stretch of the Gardens’ walls. You almost wish to tell them to take their chatter of warfare and betrayals elsewhere.

You opt, instead, to continue staring down at the page in front of you, no more than three words cursed out in ink.

My King husband.

“My husband has not returned,” Helaena remarks on what you’d silently noted. Not only his absence, but the entirety of the fleet of Dornishmen who departed by his side, too.

“He remains at the seat of his house, sister. The people of Dorne need to know their so-called prince has not abandoned the city to savages,” in the corner of your eye, you see him, sat with his back perfectly straight and his hair impeccably done, one arm outstretched upon the table in front of him, the other plucking a grape off a vine and delivering it past his pouting lips. The image of him, relaxed and confident, angers you more than it would typically, your wound still unlicked from the incident down at the beach. “In the meantime, I am to fly to the Stepstones and remind them of the dangers of making enemies with a dragon. Should these pirates dare not retreat, then myself and the Lord Martell will begin talking war strategies, deliver an attack so brutal, they’ve neither the will nor the ability to strike back.” Let the history books know that you do not mean to laugh. It simply escapes you, too quickly heard by the siblings before you can even dare hide it. “Am I amusing you, Lady Stark?”

Four eyes, focused solely on you. Six, truly, if you factor in the cupbearer who’s feigning minding her own business, the watering-can she hovers over a bush of nearby roses long ago emptied and free of any liquid. Helaena’s stare is one of curiosity, a million unspoken questions flashing behind them as she bares witness to the tense atmosphere between you and the prince. Aemond’s own gaze is a challenge, a novel of unfinished business, the sour tone with which your last interaction ended still very much present, even if he tries to hide it behind a snide smile.

“Apologies, good-brother, I do not mean offence,” it is tempting to cast your eyes down onto the still blank page before you, will yourself to continue on with your task at hand — giving response to the Targaryen man who you truly owe it to by marriage — but that would mean breaking the intense stare that exists between you and Aemond. That would mean defeat. “Please, continue as you were. Do not let me distract you.”

It seems he too has no desire to forfeit in this war of eyes. There’s a brief squeak that plays as he slides his chair back, the arm that rests upon the table now bent at the elbow and serving as support to his weight as his frame leans closer in your direction. The smile on his lips only grows, rousing a deeper shade of unease in you. “If you’ve something to add, I insist. You are the queen after all, are you not? Who better to comment on the wars that ravage our lands than you, a lady who has never tasted blood.”

It strikes you, hot as fire, strong as iron.

You know in which way he means it, that you’ve never drawn blood from another, never pressed blade into flesh, never drained the life out of a man’s eyes. True intentions don’t stop you from being thrust back into that room, on that night. The sound of rain crashing down on the city, the stench of the two men in your chambers, the taste of your own blood on your tongue. Fighting, screaming, crying. Pleading for your life, running through the halls of the Keep for someplace safe to hide, someplace the rats couldn’t find you.

“Very well, if you insist,” you manage, as you always do, to shove the memory behind, lock it back in the cage of Unwanted Trinkets. May it play out only in your sleeping mind, where no one can witness the weakness it casts over you. Besides, there are more pressing matters at hand currently, such as matching wits with the Crown Prince. “If you cut the head off the serpent, ten more will grow in its place.”

“Sister, your patterns of speech seem to have influenced Aegon’s lady wife,” Helaena meets his words with a gentle smile, one that doesn’t quite match the glazed over look in her eyes. “Speak plainly.”

“Apologies, I believed your skills were at a level to understand such a simple riddle.” A frown bends, momentarily, at the skin of the prince’s forehead, as the cupbearer chokes back a  snort of laughter. You would be lying if you said it doesn’t bring a sick kind of satisfaction, even if it’s immediately followed by a guilty kind of remorse, echoes of your true self, one who would never wish to place the handsome prince within such a public humiliation. “You are rushing into another war, after what will perhaps go down as the bloodiest one our lifetime will ever know. Have you considered that threatening them with the very cause of their ire is only bound to guarantee more backlash? Yes, there is a certain chance that you and Vhaghar will strike fear as you fly above. Maybe you will even burn a few pirates to make a point. But for every one you kill, countless more will take their place. Your viciousness will unite their armies.”

“Then how exactly do you suggest I answer those who would have my family killed? To those who would see our lands ravaged, and our women raped, and our men slain? Should we perhaps host a feast in their honour, open the gates to King’s Landing, lay down our swords and-”

“Give them what they want.”

“My sister’s head?”

“Repentance, apology. Tell them of your failings to protect them at the Gullet, mourn their losses. Mention how fortunate they were that at least the Lys fleet had not been sent into a bloody rampage,” you speak as though you have no reason to waiver in your idea. It is a testament to the years you’ve endured within the Keep, catching the tail-ends of conversations amidst the Council, and attempting to soothe Aegon’s insecurity driven rants of his lacking position among all those who would advise him. It had been your own duty, as his wife, to hold your tongue and speak no part of your mind, serving as nothing but a vessel of agreement to his own warped ideals on how his kingdom should be run. But Aegon is not here and the prince truly had insisted you speak. “Once you’ve made yourself the remorseful council, you must hire an assassin. There are plenty of them within the Free Cities. Whispers sing of tensions brewing amongst Tyrosh and Myr, the wives of their fallen men claim Sharako Lohar led them to their deaths. A Tyroshi killing a Myrish holds more threat to their cause than the great Prince Aemond Targaryen mounted upon his dragon. It will divide them, long enough for you to rinse your hands and let the infighting begin. They’ll be too busy killing one another to unite forces against you.”

Echoes of the children’s laughter fills the air. Glancing through the marble railing, you spy a few raven haired babes — cousins to Helaena’s own — scuttle around in the waters, splashing any who dares step in their line of sight. It carries a certain innocence, one you fear the day they lose.

The creak of leather, a crack of palm striking palm. Aemond sits further back in his chair, smirking as he lets his clapping come to a slow stop. “My my, with such advice, I do wonder why my brother has you here, instead of seated at his council.”

His words do not strike you as earnest, a syrupy kind of distaste laced throughout them. You meet him with a reinforced amicability, doe eyes and sweet mouth. “The King believes it is of more priority that I be here.”

“How curious,” what you wouldn’t give to wipe that smug look off of his face.  “Surely not because of Helaena’s attack. That happened days after you already set off.”

“You speak the truth, good-brother. The ravens upon Dragonstone must truly be put to work for you to be so clued in on my royal plans.” Let it be his turn, you think, to wear the consequence of his own embarrassment upon his face, a rosy tint creeping over the tips of his ears and a hitch in his otherwise calm breathing. “If you must know, the King sent me here to visit my niece and nephew. He believes time with your sister’s children will serve me well. An old folk tale has the maester convinced there is correlation between the presence of children and a woman’s fertility,” you seem to strike a chord within him, for the composure cracks a second time, long enough to let a chortle break through. “Am I amusing you, Prince Aemond?”

It feels good to throw back his own words in his face. So good, in fact, you feel a throb between your legs, a warmth buried only beneath a thin layer of pale cotton. Helaena at last takes a hold of her wine, swallowing down two heavy cups. There is trouble upon her face, one that almost makes you regret the conflict that plays out between her brother and you. As though she senses your eyes on her, she meets your gaze and shakes her head slowly, mouthing a series of words you can’t decipher.

“Apologies, Lady Stark,” Aemond, none the wiser, steals you back over to his side of the table, a fresh layer of amusement painted over his features. “I just find it curious that my brother sends you here, yet there is no sight of him. Forgive me if I am wrong, but don't both the man and woman have to be fertile if they wish to conceive a child?”

For a moment, there is only panic.

Panic that he knows of the private dwellings between yourself and the maester. Panic that he’s read through the lines, with that sharp mind of his, and joined the dots on why your marriage to Aegon is yet to prove fruitful. Panic that he knows of the conspiracies you yourself have yet to even pose against the King, the questions of his fertility disputed only between you, the maester, and your reflection.

You can not let him steal your leverage, not when it is one you’ve clutched so dearly against your chest, all in anticipation for the right moment to present it to Aegon.

The fear must not be too loud, too noticeable, and so you right yourself, reassure yourself that his words are no more the product of a sharp tongue aiming to cut, not of a mind meaning to threaten.

Gathering your paper and your ink, you rise from your seat at your own table and give the Targaryen pair a curt nod, dismissing yourself before you may linger too long on the true intentions of Aemond’s questioning of the King’s fertility.

“The Crown commands my King husband to deal with more pressing matters. It is a burden you should feel lucky you will never bare, Prince Aemond.”

Days pass with little of note.

The monotonous routine you’ve carved within the Water Gardens brings far more joy than the one you live, day in and day out, within the Keep. You do not tire of it so easily, and instead find beauty in the tranquillity, and comfort in the quiet rustling of the household. Qoren and his men remain absent, and the skeleton crew of guards that stay behind keep mostly to themselves, polite yet brief greetings exchanged when paths cross within the walls. Vhagar and her rider also hang nearby, a threat large enough you almost think the need for guards unnecessary. The Martell women keep close quarters, mothers and grandmothers who watch over their blooming children, indulging in their cups and sharing tales from their marital lives the women of the court would no doubt turn their noses up at. They have no shame, and it is frequent they encourage you and Helaena to do the same.

“We are the true keepers of power in our houses. We are the ones who give life through our cunts.”

You have yet to convince yourself this isn’t all part of a dream. A paradise, hidden amidst deserts of sand, where women claim the power of the land, and there is no reason to live if not to graze on freshly picked fruit and sleep the day away under the shades of palm trees. For some reason or another, you find yourself thinking of your good-mother, Alicent, and how deeply she deserves a life like this, free to rest alongside her darling daughter, away from the stresses of the courts, her temperamental sons, and her oligarch father.

The babe in your arms lets out a gentle coo.

At last he’s fallen asleep, no more tears running down his cheeks nor snot bubbling out of his nose. Wiped clean, tear free, he nestles easily into the arms of his aunt, comfort so aplenty his eyes threaten to fall into sleep with every blink he takes, those striking lilac eyes stubborn in their endeavour to look upon you a little longer.

You’d found him crying in his cot as you entered the nursery and had been quick to aid his poor wet-nurse, teats exposed and struggling to get the protesting child to drink. She, too, herself wore fallen tears, a great relief coming over her face as you gently took the babe out of her arms and insisted she go rest. Not a moment too soon, she departed out the room, leaving you alone with your nephew.

Of both of Helaena’s children, you’ve yet to spend much time with him. Moons old, he clings closely to his mother and his wet-nurse. His father too, when he sits present. He is a sweet boy, quick to smile at the simplest of things. The dark of his hair clashes against the blonde of his sister’s, and yet they both make up the perfect mix of their parents. The pair of them are everything your good-sister deserves.

Sinking into a rocking chair, you let the babe snuggle himself against your chest, the picture of innocence held safely in your hands. You peel one away from cradling him, too tempted to ignore your desire to run your pointer finger over the gentle slope of his button nose. The boy’s eyes slip shut a few moments, and you nearly believe you’ve succeeded, until they spring back open and he stretches a stubby arm out to capture your finger in his mighty claps, his entire fist covering no more than one of your knuckles. All the while, he’s smiling up at you, speaking in a language of coos you’ll never understand.

It doesn’t stop you from giggling, enamoured by his very existence as you let your feet begin to rock the seat ever so softly.

“You are a natural,” the prince’s voice is an intrusion that nearly leaves you jumping out of your bones. Dressed in his riding leathers, armed with his swords, he is every piece of the Aemond you have always known. And, yet, somehow he feels distant, different, changed. For a moment, you nearly convince yourself there is a longing in his eye, only to quickly remind yourself of the fraction that stands between you, a rift that remains divided, much as it may pain you. “I imagine you must be desperate for motherhood.”

“I must,” you agree, because that is what is expected of you. Then you recall you are far from the Keep, and it’s master of whispers, and circle of spies, free to speak upon a doubt you’ve never shared. It isn’t hard to convince yourself it holds no meaning that it is him you choose to share it with, he is merely the fool unlucky enough to have presented you with the opportunity to talk. “Must I? In truth, it scares me.”

A weight lifts off your shoulders, the deep breath that follows easier to achieve than ever before. A lady should only ever dream of motherhood, not cower from it. Yet, you find no judgement in the prince, only silence, the kind that implores you to continue speaking your mind.

“This fear, it is not for myself, but for any child I may have. Aegon, he is… a difficult man but I often wonder how much that crown upon his head is to blame. I ask myself, would he have turned out different, were he not groomed to sit upon that cursed throne? I do not want to bring a child into a world where it is no more than a chess-piece. To live a life where its only purpose is to fulfil the role of heir and wait around for its father to either die or grow so weak he must renounce his crown,” like river to sea, the fear flows out of you, spilling itself down your entire being, a cold chill striking at your heart. The boy in your arms tightens his hold upon your finger and attempts to pull it towards his gaping mouth. You try to picture the conqueror’s crown — your husband’s crow — upon its head, and grow fearsome at the image of it encased around the babe’s neck, his tiny face turned black and blue under the choke it holds him in. A blink of the eye and the babe is all rosy cheeks and golden skin once more, smiling with success as he suckles at the tip of your finger. “And that is only the curse of the eldest. I do not even wish to begin thinking of what would come to be of any other child I birthed, the spare to the Iron Throne, the hatred they’d cast my way for not having birthed them first. I do not want it, any of it. I do not want my children to experience the same childhood as Aegon and you-”

You feel more than you hear the way Aemond flinches at your choice of words. Where days ago you thrived in poking metaphorical needles at his frayed edges, now you wish you could swallow the words back in and erase them from existence. Dead and buried lays the anger that had so consumed you, the ghost it leaves behind wearing the name of acceptance.

The prince had claimed no other choice but to leave the Keep and, your own agreement to the side, you believed him.

“It was not so bad,” his voice comes out in that breathy tone you’ve come to know over the years, a feat he cannot help when emotion wells too high within him and clogs up the space in his throat. He moves in search of where you sit, a repeated clink ringing as the hilt of his sword meets the buckle on his green, leather jerkin with every step he takes. “There were good moments. A few with our father, most with our mother.” When Aemond at last stands before you, that singular eye glances down at how you never falter in your rocking of the child. The babe takes interest in him, too, sacrificing the grip on your finger to stretch out in search of some piece of the prince. “Your children will not know a childhood of my kind. They will be loved, nurtured, protected.”

“You speak as though it is a law, not simply a hope,” you say, a furrow brandishing itself across your brows as your eyes flick up to meet his face, momentarily, before quickly glancing back down to where the prince lays his hand out for his nephew to take, a delighted laugh shaking out of Helaena’s boy. “How can you be so certain?”

With his free hand, the prince bridges the gap between you, the warmth of his palm finding rest upon the side of your face, robbing you of any sight but his well-angled, sharply-defined features. “Because they will have you as a mother, Lady Stark,” it is barely a whisper, yet the heartbreak laced within it leaves behind a hole in your chest, vacant and bleeding. The pad of his thumb smooths over your cheek slowly, as though it moves at a will not controlled by the prince, pure instinct commanding it to comfort, to soothe. It would be easy, you think, to slip your eyes shut and sink into a fantasy where this is your life. A babe in your arms, Aemond at your side, that fluttery feeling in your chest swelling so large, it threatens to explode out of you. But the prince clears his throat and you are back in the real world, your nephew in your arms, your good-brother standing too close. “You must allow me to apolo-”

“Brother!” At the intrusion of Helaena’s voice, both of you jump back, his hand ripped from your cheek and the babe’s grip gone from his fingers. Your good-sister seems none the wiser to the scene played out before her, an earnest joy upon her face and her daughter’s legs dangling from where she sits propped on her mother’s hips.  “I did not think I’d find you here.”

It feels like an accusation, an imaginaged query that bites and snarls at your mind, threatening to strike you if you do not lay all your sins at her feet. Reminiscent of Aegon’s ominous letter, paranoia makes home once more within your bones.

The prince, on the other hand, appears as composed as ever. A memory plays on in your mind. His chamber walls, his taste fresh on your tongue, his mother stood across the room. Even then, inches away from being caught, he’d not even broken a sweat.

“I came only to announce my leave,” words you loathe to hear.  “Your husband and I have some matters to converse, arranging a meeting with the Triarchy being one of many.”

Helaena seems relit by a flame of excitement as she shuffles over to a nearby table, rifling through the many papers strewn across it, scribbles of figures and etchings of jumbled words stained on them. The parchment she settles on seems to be the only one folded over neatly, not a single wrinkle to be found as she holds it out towards her brother. “Please, see that this reaches my husband!”

He can only nod in agreement, slender fingers plucking the parchment from her own before tucking it safely within an inner-pocket of his jerkin. Though his back is facing you and his attention remains on his dear sister, the words that follow out his mouth feel as though they’re meant for your ears only. “I will return in five days.”

Your eyes seem to linger on the door long after he’s walked out of it, Helaena talking away in your ear while a desire to sleep what remains of the day away takes root within you.

The prince turns out to be a liar.

Five agonising days come and go, each more tortuous than the last. The hours seem to crawl, slower than Helaena’s newborn, and the greatest curse known to woman befalls you, a stain of red between your thighs and an agonising pain stabbing at your abdomen. At the very least, you try to console yourself, it falls here, under sun and sand, and not in the stone cold walls of the Keep. You won’t have to face Aegon’s snide comments as you announce the repeated failing of your couplings, just this once.

A sixth day dawns, and no sign of a prince nor a dragon shadows over you. A fact you pretend not to notice, a promise of disinterest upon your face as Helaena comments on her brother’s absence seven days after his departure.

On the eighth day, a letter arrives, your name branded upon it. It carries word from your brother. One part heartbreak, the other part intent on mending it. The death of your Septa, taken in her sleep as peacefully as many may only dream of, and the birth of a new Stark. His only daughter, seven years her brother’s junior and, yet, already the apple of his eye. Cregan writes of how the instant he held her in his arms, he was brought back to the first time he’d held you as a babe, all squirming limbs and sniffling tears, and thought there was no better name for such a child than your own, in honour of her Queen aunt.

The news makes your heart ache, a longing for a home that no longer exists — at least not in the way you remember it — that crashes over you and spills out of you, tears staining your cheeks as you lay restless in your bed, the ceiling above blurred by your own sorrow. You should be there, in Winterfell, warmed by furs and surrounded by family. True family, not the disfigured image of it the Targaryen house tries to uphold.

Were your father alive, you would be where the wolves belong. In the north, wife to a Karstark, or a Mormont, or any other house that bears its sigil and bends the knee to the Warden of the North. You no doubt would be happy, whether there be love in your marriage or not, with a handful of children to occupy your time and your childhood home no more than a few days ride away at all times. Perhaps you would live an entire life never casting sight upon the King, or the Crown Prince. They’d be only names in a history book, royalty out of reach. Would life have been easier this way?

A door slams.

A fact you’d dare not take note of, were it not for the late hour, the outside world already enveloped by darkness hours before. You rise slowly from the mattress, the sheets pool around the naked skin of your waist. Sitting patiently, you await another disturbance to the quiet, pray for something familiar, like the gentle pitter patter of mischievous children running down halls, or Helaena’s voice calling out your name, awaiting entrance to your chambers. It wouldn’t be the first of her midnight visits, a comfort you’ve both come to seek in each other when the night is dark, and the palace is silent, and no greater time exists to exchange laughter like the young girls you’d both wished to have been, free of duty, free of pressure, free to live.

But there’s no calling of your name this evening, and so you settle with the silence that remains. With no sleep on the horizon, and no sign of Helaena’s company, you decide you must at least try to induce your own rest. Covering your naked skin with a dress that lays discarded at your bedside, you inch your way over to the unlit hearth and work at starting up a fire. When a spark lights and the crimson flames begin to dance among themselves, you secure a pot of water over it. Your mother always swore there was nothing that could not be fixed with the sacred remedy of her herbal tea, not even insomnia. And though you’ve not quite her mother’s touch, you’d sat by her side plenty a times as a child to give the recipe a try.

Another bang rings out.

Your heart seems to still, as do your hands. With only a blink of the eye, your head fills with visions of a massacre. An intruder, who’s sat idly by and waited until now, when only women, children and a handful of guards inhabit the home, to enact their butchering. Perhaps it is an opportunistic attack, a nameless nobody, with no real idea who sits inside the lavish walls of the Gardens, stumbling across the residency and deciding to try their luck at breaching the unguarded walls. The more horrors you envision, the louder the voice in your head grows as it commands you to move, take action. At odds with your own self, your body seems to move on account of some other force, rushing over to the chamber’s vanity. Searching for something to do harm with, you find it in the shape of a letter opener. Thin, delicate yet razor sharp, a silver knife you clutch within your palm.

The chamber door creaks as you open it, much to your dismay. You pause, awaiting a terrible discovery from someone, faceless among the shadows of darkness. There is only silence, again, until another noise plays out.

The sound is human, you have no doubt, a sharp inhale or a pained hiss between clenched teeth. Your fingers curl tighter around your weapon of choice. The sound repeats and plays out longer than the last. Your eyes flicker to a door. A little down the hall from your own, it sits ajar, a light within it bleeds out into the darkness. Another hiss sings out into the night through the crack between the door and its frame.

You steal your breath, tread only on the tips of your feet. Inch closer, and closer, and closer to the door. With your free hand grasping at the handle, the other gripping even tighter at the envelope opener, you pull the door open and raise your weapon, preparing to at last strike the danger, the threat, the intruder, the… “Aemond?”

The prince stands across the room, his back facing you. A looking glass before him, the image he reflects within it is fickle, forever morphing under the flickering light of several low burning candles. If not for the signature starlight silver tresses, he’d be scarcely recognisable.

“My apologies,” at the sound of his familiar voice, you feel your shoulders slouch and your nails retract out of the skin of your palm as the grip on your weapon loosens, your hand lowering back down to your side. There is no intruder, no attacker, no danger. There is only Aemond, a man who only steals away any fear of harm you may possess. Perhaps that is why it is easy to let yourself give into the temptation to inch closer into the chamber, even if he gives you no leave to do so. The two steps you take announce themselves with an echo. “I did not mean to wake you.”

“It has been nine days,” it is a pathetic proclamation made in desperation, yet it is spoken all the same, a tremble in your voice that matches the one in your chest.

The prince makes no move to face you, his focus stuck on the mirror in front of him. You squint your eyes, and try to make sense of the image he paints in his reflection, but it is a useless action. What you do manage to see is the lack of a leather strap fastened around the back of his head. The eyepatch sits disregarded by his feet, as though ripped off with haste.

“I had duties to attend in King’s Landing,” his hands ball into fists as your stomach twists with knots. The movement calls upon your attention and only then do you notice it, the stain of blood upon his fingers. “My mother requested my presence.” 

It is unnerving to picture him in the Keep, the threat of Aegon’s letter still weighing heavy on your mind. Had the two ran into each other, crossed paths within a hall? Is that why blood now drips from between his knuckles onto the cold floor below? Impossible, you try to reason with your own mind, for surely Aegon would not let him walk away with his life if he knew of your betrayal. But perhaps it is the King who met a certain fate and the blood on the prince’s skin belongs to him. Aemond has always been more skilled in battle, after all. The remnants of dinner turn in your stomach as bile swells up the canal of your throat, an acidic burn that makes a nest for itself at the back of your mouth.

“Are you hurt?” Another hiss slips past his teeth as you question his state, as if the gods mean to rob him of any right to deny it.

“The hour is late, Lady Stark,” the fist squeezes tighter by his side, a second drop of blood splashing to the floor. You step closer and search for a better view, the face in the mirror still obscured. “Return to your chambers.”

“Aemond,” you give a silent prayer, inching closer, eyes stuck on the width of his leather-clad back. The stench of dragon still reeks off them. He must have just arrived. You reach a hand out, so close to touching him, yet far enough that you feel no reprieve of feeling the man you’ve long now missed. “My prince, something brings you pain. Let me help you-”

“Do not come any closer.”

“You cannot expect me to rest, knowing you are injured!”

“It is for your own good,” the mirror gives away his frown and how it shadows over the rest of his face, a mass of darkness haloed by burning light. Were the timing more suited, you’d take note of how angelic the image is, one of pure divinity, a man so infused with beauty, the Gods grant you no grace to gaze upon him. A third drop of blood hits the floor, though this one does not fall from his hand. “This is not a sight suitable for a lady.”

“Gods be good! Aemond, be quiet,” you say, louder than you intended. In a fear of waking anybody else, you clear your throat and compose your nerves. “You do not get to decide what sights are suitable for me. I do.”

By some miracle, the prince puts no effort into halting you from twisting him around to face you. At the curl of your fingers around his forearm, he’s already turning into your touch, feet smudging the red blood across the floor as they move to point towards you. Once your eyes dance up the length of him, scanning for the first sign of a bleeding wound, and settle upon his face, you come to realise what reaction he expects of you.

A disgusted grimace, or a terrified scream, or a heartless laugh. Whatever it is the prince sits awaiting, he does not receive it. You do not even flinch as you take in the sight of his left eye, no leather to hide it, no sapphire that fills it. An empty socket, marred by scar tissue, a bleeding gash reopened atop his eyebrow. A river made of pain and the essence of his life, that flows down the length of his face and drips off the razor sharp edge of his jaw.

“I warned you,” the prince speaks with false pride, one you do not fail to see right through, even as his intact eye stares you down in a challenge, daring you to give him the disgust he thinks he deserves.

“Come,” you plead instead, hand slipping down to grip at his wrist. “Let me see you in a better light.”

He gives no fight against you as you begin to lead him away from the looking glass, grip tightening and pulling further away as you watch him attempt to grasp at the sapphire sphere he leaves behind. As the two of you slip through the chamber doorway, out into the dark hall, your sweating palm loses its hold on the leather. The prince’s hand catches yours, denying it retrieval back down to your side, an effortless lacing of fingers that serves only to make your journey all that easier, pulling him along behind you, hand in hand, to your chambers.

“Sit,” a poor attempt at commanding, finger pointing over at the chair that lives in front of your vanity. The prince makes no move towards it, hand gripping firmly at your own as you go to move away, eyeing the steaming pot atop your hearth. “Sit.”

He listens, at last, and you are free to move onwards with your goals, lighting a few more candles within the chambers before dashing over to collect the warmed water. By the vanity, the prince sits, head tipped to the ground, those blonde locks curtaining him out of sight as you make your way over. Delicate with each movement, you rest the boiled pot atop the dresser and grab at the first piece of fabric you can find. Your own smallclothes, freshly washed and folded only hours ago. 

The slosh of water within the pot as you submerge the fabric seems to snap him out of his daze, regaining his voice if only to speak words you’ve already grown tired of hearing.“This fuss is not necess-”

“Hush now,” the stubborn voice within you can not allow him to finish his sentence. Busy hands ring the soaked smallclothes. Most droplets of water rain back into the pot, while a few dance their own paths down your forearms. “What happened?”

“I insist, Lady Stark.”

“As do I,” cloth meets skin at last, a gentle swipe over the length of the prince’s jaw. Briefly, you feel the weight of the prince’s stare upon you, only for it to return to the floor the instant you try to catch it with your eyes.

You drag the linen over his skin a second time, inching a little further up. There’s a horrible tug at your heart as you smell that metallic haze blood carries. The pain only grows more intense as you watch how quickly harsh red makes home for itself in soft linen, a stain that promises to remain forever engraved.

In new light, the brightness that envelops your chambers, you’re given a better view of the damage he occults beneath that eyepatch. Some may call it a warrior's mark, a sacrifice given in exchange for the glory of claiming the last of the Conquerors’ dragons, but all you see is a blade that ripped out a child’s eye.

You do not feel disgust, not even an ounce. The gouge is a gruesome sight, that no one can deny, yet you feel oddly drawn to it. It is as though you at last see Prince Aemond, instead of the One-Eyed Prince that so fearsomely struts his way through the realm. Vulnerable, naked, whole, beautiful. Never have you felt so drawn to reach for him, draw him closer.

“It appears worse than it truly is,” at last the prince answers. “It is a flight wound. The air over Dorne is riddled with sand, it must have tore at some of the scarring.”

“Does it happen often?” You inch a little closer, till his knee bumps against your leg, and tell yourself it’s to get a better view, keep your hand more steady as it swipes further up his face, washing away at the blood upon it.

“Not so much, anymore,” you dunk the makeshift rag back into the water, the bile burning harsher at your throat as you watch how the crimson hue washes out into the clear of the bowl. You ring it out, soak it once more, only to ring it out again before you deliver it back to his face, the pathway of blood diminished to naught but the reopened skin of his brow. “Long flights are always unpredictable. Some I fair just fine, others I dismount to find my sapphire causes me pain, the skin beneath dried by the cold sky.”

The prince grimaces as you drag the smallclothes over the tear in his face, yet he dismisses your apology, reassures you that he is fine. You pretend you believe him, even if the frown remains indented upon his forehead as you finish cleaning the wound. 

With the promise of being gentle, and a hand pressed against your own heart as you vouch for your skills with the needle and your experience at dressing your brother’s wounds, the prince agrees to let you thread his skin shut. You’re quick to heat a needle under flame, and even quicker to hastily rip a loose thread off one of the untouched gowns in your trunk, returning to the vanity with the speed of a dragon’s wings.

As if hearing your thoughts, a rumbled screech echoes out into the night, just past the gates of the Martell home. You’ve half the mind to think it is Vhagar voicing her rider’s pain on behalf of him, as he sits quiet while you pierce the needle into him at last.

“It is unfair,” you mutter, much before you can stop yourself, as you thread a second loop, watching how the skin reunites with skin once more. “What happened to you, Aemond.”

“It made me the man I am today,” Rehearsed, empty of feeling, you wonder how used to those words the man has grown. Does he truly believe himself? “I am better for it.”

“I’m sorry,” a third loop, and then a fourth. The dark thread stands out against the pale of his flesh, you’re almost certain it will be visible even with the cover of his eyepatch. “For what I said to you on the beach. I was unnecessarily cruel.”

“You owe no apology, most certainly not to me,” a pained hiss flies out of him as you stab a little too harshly, a hand grips around the back of your thigh, as if to stabilise your shaking limbs. It carries the opposite effect, the tremble creeping up to reach your fingertips, the needle threatening to fall under your own nerves. Still, the prince does not verbalise his pain, never tells you to stop. The hand upon your clothed thigh squeezes a single pulse, a quiet command to continue stitching his brow. “You spoke only the truth, I have slayed my own kin,” his voice infects the room with an emotionless air, a murder stated as simply as a fact bringing a chill down your spine. You loop a fifth and final stitch. “It is I who owe you an apology. I should not have taken advantage of you that evening, in my chambers. Nor on the boat, nor your own chambers before that. Neither of us were acting in our right minds.”

“Take advantage of me? You speak such nonsense,” you do not like the way his eye returns to looking past you, nor the emptiness in his voice. “Do you ever… Regret it?” You ask, before you realise you are not quite ready for his answer, nor willing to have what remains of the illusion between you shattered. You cannot bear to be just another warm body to a second Targaryen man, and so you scramble to redirect the question. “Storm’s End, I mean.”

“No.” Heavy, powerful, punctuated. Aemond does not hesitate, even for a moment, to negate it. Still, his gaze will not meet your own. “Given the chance, I’d do it all the very same.”

“I do not believe you,” you speak, only after silence tries to creep its way back between you. The emptiness of your palm calls for the heat of his skin. You ball your hand into a fist, resist the urge to let it find rest upon the scarred side of his face. “You are not so heartless.”

“You do not know me as well as you think, Lady Stark.”

“That is of no cause of my own. I am here, idle and waiting, wishing to know more of you,” denial is futile, your hand makes its own way onto his face, forcing his focus back onto you.  "You are not the heartless monster of some bedtime story, Aemond,” you can only pray to the Seven he can hear how much you mean it. The thumb that rests against his cheek moves absent-midedly, a soothing rhythm against the soft of his skin. “No matter how much you may try to play the part, you feel. There’s no inch of you that scares me, it is fruitless to even try. I may not know you, but I see you. All of you. Man, myth, and heart.”

The wood that burns in the hearth cracks.

The birds outside the window flap their wings.

The dragon by the gates screeches.

But no sound follows from the prince.

There is only his eye, set on you and unblinking, frozen with a quiet that unnerves you. For an instant, you fear you’ve angered him. Struck a chord, made him feel weak. Played so far into your fantasies that you have cast a false identity onto him and, now, he means only to show just how wrong you are, just how little you truly see of him.

He rises out of the seat as slow as the sun does over the horizon, long limbs that stretch to stand tall and stable, and threaten to cast a shadow over even the largest of men. Your hand slips from his cheek and you take a cautious step back, an apology on the tip of your tongue.

An apology you don’t get to speak, as the prince envelops your lips with his own.

Startled, you cry out against his mouth, and it is enough to send him stumbling his own step back, eye wide with shock and his chest heaving with deep breaths.

“Lady Stark,” he starts, only a whisper of that earlier false confidence remains. “I am sor-”

“Shut up,” you don’t let him finish. Can’t let him finish, surging towards him and dragging his mouth to meet your own once more.

It is everything a younger version of yourself had thought a kiss would be.

Hands that seek the warmth of skin, lips that move with the grace of water. The two of you melt into each other, a burning desire that’s been left too long unattended at last burst into raging fires.

His arms wrap around your waist, as easily as yours grapple at his shoulders, frantic in their aim to pull him closer. His lips are soft, pink rosebuds that mean no harm as they attempt to consume you whole, his tongue a viper, striking hot venom with each lave it delivers.

There is no time for thinking. Of the dangers, and the possibilities, and the downright wrongness of your actions. Of the courts, and the spiders, and the King. Of the blood ties, and the marital vows, and the eyes of the Seven looking down. There is only Aemond, strong, and sweet, and present, pressed against you and, still, begging for less distance as he stumbles forward into you, your own feet making new space for him as you shuffle idly backwards.

Lungs that scream for air, lips that struggle to part. You make the first move, a hand on his cheek as you turn your face. His lips chase your own through the darkness of closed eyes, delivering a pleading of three pecks upon them before, at last, he gives you respite.

For a moment, there is only the repeated intake of air and heart beats that run off with the wind, forever to be lost to the wild.

“Being near you, all these days,” there’s an edge to his voice, a rasp he whispers over and stumbles on. The press of his forehead into your own, as mouths rest inches apart, lips that brush against one another as the prince continues to speak. “Watching you sweat under the sun, and care for the children,” the hands upon your body grab at the thin fabric of your dress, balling it into fists that squeeze and tug at orange cotton. “And move in these pathetic excuses for dresses,” he speaks with the desperation you feel, a warmth stirring in your loins as Aemond — consciously or not — slowly inches the hem of the dress further up your calf. “You do not understand the torment it has brought me to keep myself at bay.”

As though having spoken all he deems necessary, the prince’s kiss returns to you. For only a moment, it lingers on your lips before his focus redirects itself elsewhere and he’s chasing a pathway only he can see down the side of your jaw, his lips running off with his own kisses.

“Yet you instead chose to spend all that time at my neck,” you somehow find the ability to think, even as he melts your mind like a dragon’s breath melts armour, one clear swoop and you are at his mercy, hand tangled amidst the hair at the back of his head and holding him secure in his place against you.

Aemond smirks against your skin, trailing kisses over the expanse of your throat and dragging his lips up to the shell of your ear, the perfect excuse to whisper into it how, “some would say I am more at your neck now than I have ever been, Lady Stark.”

There is a collision between where his mouth lies and where his hands wander that leads to a peaceful departure of his kisses, a far more pressing matter at hand: undressing you. The prince seems to do so without giving it much thought, only for the gravity of his action to strike him, ice cold water and melted iron, as he takes in the sight of you, bare as the day you were brought into the world.

It does not matter that he lacks an eye, for the one he possesses carries the weight of a thousand men’s stares. A slow, agonising pause falls over his frantic need, as the prince falls into a trance, tracing over what feels to be every bump and every blemish that marks and shapes your body.

Never have you felt so exposed, not even the harrowing events of your bedding ceremony dare compare. You mean to find modesty, fruitless as it may seem, crossing one leg over the other while your arms do the same over your breasts. He can’t let that be, his own hands shooting out to gently grasp at your wrists and tug at them. Like the prince let you guide him to your chambers, you let him bare you to his eyes once more as your hands fall back to your side.

The intense stare continues, as does the silence, but, alas, he puts his skin to yours once more, a single finger that dances over the expanse of your clavicle, a teasing waltz that dips slowly between the valley of your breasts only to rise again. It takes interest in your left breast, skimming over the swell of it and, as it reaches the nipple, a second finger joins the cause. Together, they clamp round the soft flesh, a gentle pinch that pulls at an invisible string connected to your cunt, the start of an itch that demands to be scratched.

“This is wrong,” Aemond whispers, as if the words are not even meant to reach your ears. 

“So wrong,” you can’t help but echo back. There is a shake in your breath you don’t expect.

“I should not be touching you,” yet he makes no attempt to stop touching you, feet inching closer and his forehead resting against your own. “Only hours ago, I broke bread at the same table as your husband.”

The weight of his gaze lands on your lips. You await the reunion of his mouth and your own, but it never comes. Instead, his head dips down and the very same lips he uses to scowl delicately envelope the peak of your right breast. His mouth is warm, his tongue is curious, and his teeth give a gentle nibble to your right breast, in tandem with the pinch of his fingers on your left breast.

“Aemond,” a futile plea of his name. Your body calls to him, the way it only does for the prince, a subconscious squeeze of your thighs bringing a sweet drop of relief in the desert of desire.

He forces himself off of you, a sign of desperation between his kiss-swollen lips, pink, and plump, and shining with the wet of his own mouth, a perfect match to the residue of saliva he has stained upon your breast. 

“Tell me to leave,” he demands, yet makes no attempt to flee as your hand clasps at the top buckle of his jerkin, nor as you undone it and move down to the second buckle. “Before I lose any modicum of composure I still possess.”

You do no such thing.

You do not even speak.

Both eyes glued to his one, you inch your way backwards blindly, until your legs hit the edge of the bed. You let yourself fall back, unable to hold back a giggle as the mattress bounces you several times. The prince still stands a foot away, top buckles undone and the two that remain strain against the heaving of each breath that enters his chest.

“You stare too much, Prince One-Eye,” an unexplored part of you seems to take the reigns, a version of you that teases, and mocks, and feels no shame as you bend your legs at the knee, plant your feet flat against the bed, and slowly let your thighs part, baring your naked centre in a quiet offering. “Do you never tire of observing instead of participating?”

His footsteps echo, a slow approach towards the bed. He makes no sound, yet his face speaks a thousand words of longing, hunger, lust, all framed in a tightly bound brow, a pointed nose, sharply carved cheekbones, and lips that hover apart, drifting further from one another to make way for a rosy tongue that wets the lower lip. Like treacle slips down the tree or honey drips from its comb, the prince sinks slowly to his knees at the edge of the bed.

The image of a man at prayer, so buried in his worship that the caps of his knees bruise a pretty purple, made into a sin by the tugging at ankles, and the grabbing of naked thighs, and the hoisting of a single leg over a shoulder. He turns his face, closes his eye, and delivers a whisper of a kiss against the lower calf that rests upon him. It is a slow advance down into the well of madness, both the journey his lips make along your skin and the longing that it awakens in you, a heat that rises, and rises, and rises between your legs, melting away into a wetness of sin that dribbles its own path out the eye of your cunt and down the swell of your rump.

“Aemond,” it has become something more of a plea than a name. A call for something, anything, so long as it soothes your ache and laves your burning skin back to health, back to sanity. The prince protests with a tight squeeze around the meat of your thighs, his mouth paused above your knee. The eye reopens, blinks at you twice, before it shuts once more and he continues his descent down the length of you, growing closer to the apex of your legs with each fleeting kiss. 

When he strikes, he strikes hot. Like dragon’s breath, the prince’s mouth melts you beneath its kiss, open-mouthed upon the slickened lips of your cunt. Another kiss follows close behind as the prince continues a short journey higher, lips enveloping the hardened pearl that rests atop your centre. The leg on his shoulders jerks inwards, delivering a harsh kick of your heel against his back, yet Aemond barely seems to notice, too lost in the feast he sets himself between your legs.

He delves into you with reckless abandon, open mouth and curious tongue. They are a fearsome pair, who move over the length of your cunt with the grace of any great waltz. Lips pull the tongue in, and explore the pleasures of suckling at your pearl like a babe does its mothers teat. They descend further in their dance, twisting and twirling, parted lips and dipping tongue. You are rendered speechless, unable to speak much other than his Valyrian name and a cacophony of wanton moans, and shivered gasps, and back-arching whines, your head thrown back and your eyes feeling the need to shut. You cannot let the sight escape you, too far and too dark does the memory of the night in your chambers now live, more of a picture book than a motion play-by-play of the ways in which the prince had ravaged you between your thighs, the original sin of kin-by-law, kin by king. 

You’re barreling towards your own undoing, mouth barely finding time to breathe between each coo, and whimper, and cry it gifts the prince in honour of his efforts. Where he calls, you seem to follow, hips moving on their own accord to meet the breaching of his tongue between the warmth of your walls. He welcomes the movement, a groan of approval and the reopening of his eye, if only to stare at you intensely before returning his focus to what matters: delving in between your thighs.

“Ah,” he nods at your pitiful proclaim, and you swear you feel him draw out each letter of his own name upon your skin, branding you with his tongue and forsaking you to a life you already lead where the dragon prince is the only man to master the skill of pleasing you, of bringing you to a peak so thrilling it is hot white, burning, and blinding, and, unfortunately, fleeting, a beauty the gods gift you only a moment in time with, rather than the eternity you long for. 

With your good-brother’s tongue burrowed as deep as it may reach within your cunt, and his hands grasping your flailing legs tightly by the thigh, and his nose swiping back and forth at your pearl as your hips bend and rise to meet the strokes of his mouth, you at last take a tumble off the mountain of desire, rolling directly into a river of your own peak that stains the prince’s mouth. He answers it with open lips and delighted grunts, a gentleman who dares not leave a single drop of his prize go to waste.

It takes you time to regain your composure, and even longer to regain your breath, mind floating out your own head and drifting somewhere among the clouds, leaving the puddle of limbs that becomes your body. The prince, however, takes no pause, no break, no reprieve, the lips you stain with your own pleasure travelling a new path up the slope of your gut, the dip of your belly-button, the valley sloped by your heaving breast, the clavicle that shakes under the beat of a racing heart, the length of your neck that begs to be turned purple and blue by possessive lips, all the way to your ringing ears.

“Tell me you want this,” his command is but a whisper beneath the rush of your own heartbeat, so quiet you fear you mishear him. As if to reassure that your ears do not deceive you, he repeats the very same words, louder.

You nod, wordlessly, though your mind lies leagues away from rationality and you’ve little to no idea what the prince means by this. All you know is that if Aemond is willing to give, you are happy to take, no matter the nature of his gift.

No clothes live between you any longer, the prince undressed in your moments of delirium, leaving you both bare bod against bare bod, warm to touch and eager to explore and be explored, conquer and be conquered. The leg that sat upon his shoulder now clings onto it only by the ankle, the knee of it bent and sitting firmly between both your chests. The stretch of the angle brings a sweet pain to the back of your thigh, the muscle pulled taught like a bow ready to be released and shoot an arrow out into the night.

There is something hard, heavy, and warm that rests against your lower stomach, and it takes you glancing down to notice the familiar length of his cock, pink-tipped and spilling a tease of what seed lives within it against your skin, a liquid that shines under the flickering candlelight. The fire in the hearth has already lost its flame, yet you feel no chill while laying naked against the night. Though you’ve no doubt anybody feels a chill in the dornish air this evening, you prefer to credit this phenomenon to the blanket of muscle that hovers over you, four limbs, two hands and one eye that warms you beneath its stare, greater than any sun or hearth may dare.

“Tell me. Say it,” he grows desperate in his words, a hand slipping up between your bodies to grasp at your face and pull you back down to earth, eyes on him and mind back in the safety of your own head. When he catches you looking at him, at last, he seems incapable of stopping himself, bringing his mouth down against your own, a desperate parting of lips and the curious exploration of a tongue eager to taste yourself from upon his lips. Your essence tastes sweeter than you imagined, yet simultaneously more tart. Like a raspberry, freshly picked, you needn’t wonder why he feasted upon you with such delight. “Tell me I am not taking that which you are not willing to give.”

It’s not clear who out of the two of you moves, but the action gives way to friction between you, a buzz of pleasure that shoots down both your spines as you grind, body to body, mouth to mouth, heart to heart.

You realise then what he’s asking of you, the tension that has lay, building stronger and fortifying its defences over the course of an unspoken number of years, from the first moment you lay eyes on him and the night you married his own brother under his own watchful eye, to the nights of pleasantries exchange at feasts and indiscretions exchanged thrice in the privacy of each other’s company, all leading to this, right now, both of you as bare as the Mother delivered you into this world and desperate to let the fever of lust at last break between you.

So you nod your head, and quickly realise that’s not enough.

“A man cannot take what is already his,” the prince between your thighs seems to approve of your words, the hand upon your face reaching down to grasp at the length of his manhood as he aligns his hips with your own, before dragging the tip of himself between the mouth of your cunt, all the way up against the hardened nub that lives above it. “Aemond, I want this. I want you.”

“Yeah?” He croons against your mouth, tongue dipping down to brush against your own, lips parted as a single breath of air passes back and forth between you.

You nod your head for a third time this evening, curl an arm around his neck as you pull his mouth fully against your own, losing yourselves once more in a kiss of tangled limbs and racing hearts, neither mind thinking of the risks that lay on the road ahead. There are no vows that bind you by law, no customs that dictate how you should interact with each other. There are only two bodies, bare upon a bed, losing themselves in one another.

His lips are the first to drift away, while your own continue to press against the sharp line of his jaw. The weight of his forehead presses into your own, the heat of his breath warms your ear, and the tips of his fingers drag over your thigh as he takes hold of his cock once more.

“Then it is decided,” he mutters, half distracted, it seems, as the mushroomed tip of his prick at last breaches the opening of your weeping slit. “I’m going to defile you, Lady Stark.”

The first thrust is shallow. You welcome him with a delighted gasp and a tight grasp at his blonde locks. It’s not long after that he gives a second push and, lastly, a third, till the base of his cock kisses against your soaked lower lips and his stones rest against the swell of your arse.

With Aegon, the process of your couplings is ritualistic. Him, drunk out of his wits, you staring blankly at some blurry horizon. You’d cried at the beginning, till war had come and taking your husband between your legs was no longer the scariest threat that loomed in the shadows. There is always that initial pain that fades into mute pleasure, teasing you with the thought of enjoyment, only for it to be snatched away all too soon as your husband spends his seed and takes his leave, a sardonic voice that calls over his shoulder, “let’s hope you make yourself useful and spare us the need of repeating this come the next moon.”

There is a pain now, as the walls of your cunt spread and mould themselves tightly around the shape of another man’s cock, yet it doesn’t deter you. It awakens you, makes you crave a greater dose of the toe-curling pain as the prince stills himself, fully sheathed within you, mouth dancing across the skin of your neck, the length of your jaw, the dip of your clavicle. He’s everywhere upon you, a blanket of Aemond, and still it is not enough. 

The prince grasps at your ankle, yielding it down from the pedestal it took upon his shoulder. In an act of pure instinct, you choose not to lay it rest on the bed but, instead, find yourself hooking it over the slender frame of his waist. You fight back a wanton whine as it drives him closer to you, deeper in you. He takes it as his command to move at last.

It starts off slow. A testing of waters, a low burning ember. His hips retreat from your own, only to undulate back down against you, smooth as a hot blade cuts through butter. Your body reacts with ease, legs begging to spread further than they can dare go, a display of how willing it is to offer you, whole and hole, to the prince. It makes it easy to drag your mind away from your husband, and the many misdeeds of your marital bed, and the anger that begs to be called upon when you think of the years you’ve spent being bowed and broken-in by a man who knows no pleasure but his own.

You find yourself turning Aemond’s face away from your neck and up to your parted lips, need to connect with every part of him that you can as your other hand lays splayed across his muscled back, delighting as it tightens and loosens beneath your fingertips, a pattern that only doubles in speed with each passing moment, a testament to the prince finding his footing, setting a pace with which to ruck himself into your opening.

The room fills with whispers of moans, cries of each other’s names, and the squelch of his manhood spearing into you. Over, and over, and over again, till your toes curl in on themselves, and your back arches off the bed, and his mouth trails wonders down the expanse of your neck down to the valley of your chest once more, that warm mouth claiming ownerships of one of your breasts and the other is engulfed by his hand.

“Gods,” you cry out, a blasphemous act amid this display of naked sin upon the goose-feather mattress.

“No, no gods,” the prince answers, voice ragged and breath hot against skin that shines with his spit and your sweat. “Just you and me.”

The leg thrown over his waist clutches tighter, holds him close. Some part of you fears it has all been an illusion — the visit to Dorne, the return of the prince, the thrill of at last tasting the sting of his cock slipping between your lips — and that soon you will waken with a gasp to find yourself back in the Queen’s apartments at the Red Keep.

The only gasp you give is one born of pure pleasure, the gentle grind of his pelvis against the hardened pearl between your legs. It sets off butterflies that flutter in your gut and fly from there, ripples of pleasure down your thighs, and up your spine, and through your chest. 

He kisses your name against your skin, as his hands clamp down tighter and his hips fuck into you harder, faster, more desperate and out of rhythm with themselves as the moments drag on, and on, and on, a force that’s driving you both closer to the edge of pleasure and certain to throw you off it, down into the pits of blinding ecstasy.

“Aemond,” it is a warning, one you needn’t even speak, one you would not be able to put into words if you even tried. And try you do. “I’m- Ah! I can’t-”

“I know,” the prince cuts you off and, despite his ability to speak without his own vocalised enjoyment interrupting him, he is in no better state than you are, hair sticking to his sweated skin, and eye struggling to keep itself open, and hips stuttering with every few trusts they give, as though he’s actively fighting off the inevitable release his body begs of him. “I know, I know.”

A hiss blown out into the night, through gritted teeth and followed by a pathetic noise that crawls itself out the prince, the growing intensity in his grip upon your thighs, your hips, any part of you he dares touch becomes a reflection of your walls tightening around the swell of his cock and the lips kiss the base of him, praying that he never dare leave.

You feel your peak hovering right over you, as if you need only stretch out your hand and grasp at it. Instead you grasp at his hair, fingers curling around the tresses and tugging them at the roots. The moan that follows the prince is one of approval. As the world around you melts away under warmth, and light, and sweat, you stumble at last and crash straight into a blinding pleasure, a cry of ecstasy infused with his name.

“Don’t leave,” you beg, and he listens.

He takes his own leap, no warning, mouth at your ear, hands on your thighs, cock in your cunt. The pair of you are a mess of panting breaths, and ill-delivered kisses upon sweaty skin, and fluids that stain you in each other’s lust. Together you stay for what feels like an eternity, limbs entwined and air shared between you, until the prince rolls off of you and lets himself crash, back first, against the mattress. Coolness kisses at the sweat that lines your body, the wetness in your thighs one you’d usually find uncomfortable, yet you welcome it now, even as a trail of his seed slips out your slit.

This is treason, of the highest order. The Queen and the Prince, bare for the world to see, bodies sated and shaking in the aftershocks of coupling as they lay side by side, one bed that holds two hearts. His seed has stained your insides, an act that threatens you both, yet neither of you care to speak of it.

Because right now, you are not the Queen, nor is Aemond the Prince.

It is just him, and you.

No gods, no duty, no family, no honour. 

Just you and me, his words echo in your mind.

“It was an accident,” he whispers. You shift on your side, all at once, elbow digging into the bed as you scan your eyes over the length of his body, waiting for him to inflict more pain, waiting for him to scramble away from you in a hurry, redress himself and walk out the door, fleeing on his mount and plundering you into another drought of pretending his is not the company you long for. But his voice starts up once more, and the prince does no such thing. “What I did to Lucerys. I think.” Under a sigh of relief, your shoulders sag and the exhaustion that alluded you hours ago creeps up on your bones, forcing you to surrender yourself against the prince, laying your head to rest upon his shoulder, your arm across his beating chest, and your legs entwining with his once more.

“I did not give the command…” The prince continues to speak, barely acknowledging you with his eyes as his own arm secures itself over you, dragging you closer, as if there’s any space left between you to be crossed. “It was Vhagar who struck. I do not know what I set out to do that night when I took to the skies in pursuit of my nephew. Perhaps I meant only to scare him. Maybe I truly wanted to strike him at that moment, and Vhagar was merely my vessel to do harm.”

You watch the apple of his throat bob as the prince swallows back words you will never hear. Despite your curious nature, you find yourself at peace with this, no part of you wishing to learn of things he wishes to not share, events he can barely recall without a shake making nest within his voice.

“I do not know the full answer, if I regret it or not,” comfort in your silence, Aemond finds it in himself to continue recounting, letting his mind spill to the floor and his mouth collect it as coherently as it can. “All I know is that repentance is not my path to take, my role in history has already been written. Kinslayer, that is to be my legacy. What kind of man can outrun such a thing as legacy?”

You, you wish to say.

But fear you would not even believe yourself. The maesters gather in Oldtown already, putting quill to paper and weaving tales from the dragon war into the history books, binding rumours, and facts, and treason, and falsehoods into its pages. History favours the victor, that much is known, yet you wonder what the books will read and what the songs will sing of Aemond Targaryen and the acts he committed, from the lead up to the Dance, to the recapturing of King’s Landing. A trail of blood taints the path he walked, but is it any more than your husband’s? Or Ser Criston Cole’s? Or your good-mother, the instigator of Aegon’s coronation and accused usurping?

Perhaps the trails of blood all lead back to one man, Viserys Targaryen, dead and gone before the dragons took the sky, and fire and blood became not just the words of House Targaryen but the death of it.

“Promise me, Aemond,” the candlelight has burnt out, the room encased in the darkness of the moonlight, a pale blue hue that blankets over the shapes and shadows of the chambers.

“Anything,” his voice is gentle yet firm all at once, soothing in its own assurance of the word it speaks.

“Leave before morning dawns,” you feel the hand that had begun trailing patterns over the naked skin of your back freeze, unexpectant to your request. You, too, can hardly believe it. Moons you had spent in court, wishing and hoping for a moment of his company, if only to scream in his face and lament your own lonesome days in the Keep. Now, you have him bare beneath you and it is more terrifying than you ever dared consider. “I do not wish to be burdened with the memory of how it feels to lay by your side all through the night, nor do I wish to know the sweetness of your face being the first view that greets my waking eyes.”

You glance up at him, head lifting off his shoulder to fully gaze upon his naked face for one last time this evening, wishing he could understand how much you truly mean it. He gives you no response and so you take upon yourself to end the conversation, a gentle kiss delivered against the scarred tissue of his cheek, one last gaze at the part of himself he’s haunted by.

As you feel your eyes slip shut, head back upon the safety of the prince’s shoulder, it is unclear what rings louder in your ear: the beat of his heart or the final cry of his dragon gives from outside the walls.

You wake at dawn’s first light.

It creeps in through a crack between curtains, the gentle breeze of early morning air billowing them further apart with each passing moment. Disorienting, for half a moment you’ve forgotten where you are, eyes blurred by sleep that scan over a room that holds no familiarity to your apartments in the Keep. 

The bowl of water upon the vanity reminds you of where you are, and everything that transpired hours before.

A stifled yawn, a stretch of limbs. You reach a hand up to wipe the sleep out of your eyes, but on its journey it gets caught against something else. It is soft, and warm, and wrapped tightly around you. The image of the prince, head nestled against the naked skin of your chest, sleeping soundly as the world passes by and daytime steps forth into the sky.

He has broken his promise, yet you cannot even fool yourself into feeling angered.

Not when the sight is one of beauty, a rare peacefulness on his ever-weary face. He looks his age, a man no more than a couple years past his second decade. You brush your hand over his messed hair, trail over the freshly made stitches that live temporarily above his brow, and sigh in utter defeat.

Not a day will come where you will not wake and long for this sight.

And not a day will come again where you will see it.

The moon has almost completed its cycle once more, and your return to the Keep crawls closer by the day. You will soon trade your time of respite and warmth with duty and court, by your husband’s side once more. And far, far away from the one-eyed prince.

A longing to watch the sun’s light rise over the horizon calls you away from the prince, and the bed, and the chambers. You leave him there, sleeping peacefully as he tangles himself amidst your sheets, and slip out the door with no more than your wits and the very same dress Aemond had pulled off of you during the night.

You make your way quietly through the halls, your bare feet padding carefully over the floor, careful to attract no wandering guard or waken any curious child. Solitude is a virtue you have so little of, and so you want to reach for it while it sits in front of you. You almost believe you’ve achieved it, stepping out onto the communal balcony that overlooks the gardens and stares right out to the rolling tide of the Summer Sea.

Until, for a second time in so few hours, you find yourself faced with the back of a Targaryen.

“Helaena,” you call out to her gently, apologising with a smile as the hand you lay on her arm causes her to flinch. “I wasn’t expecting for anyone else to be awake at this hour. Are you well?”

You both stand before the marble bannister of the balcony, shoulder to shoulder, and as her face turns to you, you find a shell of the girl you’ve come to know.

Eyes rimmed with red, and wide with panic, and brimmed with unfallen tears. Her hair is a mess, and not in the usual careless fashion that it seems to live in, but dishevelled, distressed, as though pulled at and tugged on. She’s pale. Pale as the days she lived in King’s Landing, hiding from the world with her critters and her bugs, before she travelled south and found the joy of sunlight warming one’s skin. 

The sight of her is most unnerving.

“I used to wish for a sister,” her voice is hollow, like the rest of her, emptied of its joy. “I had Rhaenyra by blood, but she was gone by the time I reached an age where those things matter. All I had was my brothers, each one equal parts awful and wonderful in his own way.”

“I, too, knew only brothers growing up,” you hope the worry she’s birthed within you goes unnoticed as you smile her way, appeasing the strange conversation she sparks up and praying it does not head in the direction that you fear it may: Aemond. “I used to force Cregan to sit at my feet and let me paint his lips and cheeks with rouge, and braid his hair. I think he began to wish a sister for us both, if only to take my affections off of him!”

Your laughter is met only with more troubled looks from Helaena.

“Then you should understand why I am so grateful to have you now, as my sister. Not by blood, but law, but a sister all the same,” you nod in agreement to her words, place your hand upon the one she rests against the bannister and deliver a comforting squeeze to it. “Then you should understand that I worry about you.”

Ice runs through your veins, in place of blood. You begin to fear the worst, images of Helaena knocking at your door and you replying in only sounds of pleasure. Of her twisting the handle and finding the sight of you in bed with her brother, her other brother instead of the one you’re bound to by law. 

You swallow back a ball of anxious energy that lodges up your breathing pipes.

“Helaena, sister, you do not seem yourself,” you keep your voice hushed, hoping she’ll do the same if she dares speak of the events transpired between you and Aemond. You were wrong to be so reckless, to think you were safe to step where you like because you sit far from the Red Keep. Nowhere is safe enough, nowhere will ever be safe enough. “What worries you so deeply?”

“I see him,” she hisses the words, like she cannot bring herself to speak any louder, forcing it out of herself in a breath. “In my dreams. It frightens me.”

“Who?” You pray for her to tell, try to think what defence you could possibly have for yourself and the prince under the accusation of her mind’s eye, a gift you’ve heard much of and seen little, the curse of the Targaryen dreamers.

“You’re there, too, in a bed soaked by tears, and sweat, and blood,” the more she speaks, the more the fear rises within you. The fear feels bigger than yourself, bigger than the affairs between you and Aemond. “He is there, at your bedside, a hand on your shoulder. He means no harm, but death is his nature, he cannot help it. He’s there to take you.”

“Who, Helaena? You must tell me!” You wipe away the single tear the streaks down her face and cup at her face with both hands, a gentle comfort that seems mute against her fear stricken features.

“The Stranger.”

+ extra hyde !

we're finally getting into the meat of the plot, beyond these two horn-dogs trying to bang in a world that hates to see a bad bitch thrive. from here on out, expect more drama, and mystery, and death (but who's?).

i really hope the length of the chapters makes up for the slow, once a month, roll out. the series' masterlist has been edited, with 2 new chapters added to the timeline.

a quick apology to anyone who may have felt the smut is a little lacklustre in this chapter. i tried to write a much wilder, kinkier, mouthier version of the scene and, in all honesty, it did not feel true to the context under which they at last wind up smashing. writing smut and using medieval language is surprinsingly hard (no pun intended), so this is honestly a journey we're all going on together (aka me trying to navigate not being able to use the typical language of modern sex scenes).

thank you for reading, see you next month!

[magnolia-among-the-stars]

dear august (bradley bradshaw pt. 1)

Summary: You and Bradley have been best friends since college and when he was stationed in North Island, you were thrilled that he would be back in your life. When things start to sour with Bradley's girlfriend and she breaks things off, Bradley comes to you for drunken comfort. What happens when an accidental hookup brings along an unexpected positive pregnancy test threatens the state of your friendship?

part one / part two / part three / part four / part five

Tropes: friends to lovers, unexpected pregnancy, unrequited feelings

Word Count: 1600+

The days were getting longer, and you didn’t know how much more glitter glue you could handle. The blazing heat on North Island burned hotter each day as Summer starts to approach and school days tick down. Throwing the remaining markers into the bin on the craft table in your classroom, you smooth a hand over your hair.

Your forehead was glistening with sweat on that Friday afternoon and the school had done nothing to fix the damn AC in the window, promising school would be out before the need to run them all day. This left you with a barely breathing fan, pumping room temperature air around as you finished cleaning up the classroom from your bratty and darling first graders.

A ding alerts you, the sound of your phone pinging on your desk causing you to rise from your knees and drop the copy of Goodnight Moon onto the bookshelf. Glancing at the incoming text message on the screen, a feeling bubbles up in your lower tummy at his words. It’s Bradley, messaging you too quickly after his day at base wrapped up, asking for you to come meet him at the Hard Deck.

You love your best friend, sometimes more than you are willing to admit even after three tequila shots at the military bar, but you’re also exhausted from a week of relentless rangling of children. You had spelling tests to grade, a lesson plan to get a head start on and a well-deserved nap on your cozy couch directly in front of the AC fan in your living room. The phone begins to ring loudly before you have a chance to craft a rain check text.

“You must’ve had a rough day, not even waiting for my text back,” you breath out as you answer, tucking to phone between shoulder and ear as you move to erase the whiteboard for the day. It’s a bitch when the marker settles into the glossy board.

“Come have a drink with me,” Bradley’s voice is raspy, a mix between a grumble and a plea. You can almost see him now, hand clutching the wheel of the Bronco as he heads down the scenic beach street to his cute two-story house stacked right on the sands. “I’m too tired to beg.”

“That makes two of us B,” I tell him as I finally collect the papers I need for the weekend and grab my tote. Locking the door to the classroom, I don’t bother stopping by the faculty lounge on my way out of the building. The lunch untouched from the busy day would be perfectly fine to eat Monday…I hope. “I don’t think I can muster it up tonight for you, what about Hangman?”

“You’re trying to pawn me of on Bagman?”

“Pawn feels like a strong word,” you mutter as you push the door of the building open, waving goodbye to Jeanine, the very nice secretary at the front desk. “I just…” your voice trails off as you come face to face with Bradley. He’s leaned up against the blue bronco’s hood, large frame slouched slightly as he crosses his arms over his chest. Bradley’s a glowing tanned god with his perfectly kept curls and matching mustache.

“Hi,” he smiles sheepishly, hanging up his phone and pocketing it.

“What’s happened?” you ignore his greeting, stepping toward him slowly with a look of concern etching into the worry lines on your forehead. “You never come to school.”

“I can’t just come pick up my favorite lady?” You stare at him heavily and he bends like a freshly cooked noodle out of the pot. “I think she’s going to break up with me.” His voice is gentle, his eyes avoiding yours as he glances down at his boat shoes, scuffing them against the black top. Your shoulders sink a bit, trying your best to contain the small point of glee rippling through your toes.

Her. The woman who has had your best friend in a bind for seven months. Her who played hard to get for two more months prior and wrote him only one letter on his three-month stint out at sea. Jenny, who had Bradley wrapped around her finger like she made the moon. Jenny, who wasn’t you. But you shake that thought away, play the part of dotting best friend.

“That can’t be right,” you shake your head and adjust your bag on your shoulder. “She loves you.”

“She’s pulling back Dais,” He uses your nickname, pulling on your heart strings. No, no, no, don’t do it. “Please come have a drink with me, you always make me feel better.” Don’t do it, tell him to call Javy and Jake. Tell him they’re better suited for girl troubles tonight.

“Bradley,” you start but he looks up at you and you see it. The glossy look in his bright green eyes, the tremble of his lower lip trying to maintain composure in the emptiness of the teacher’s lot. “One drink. Just one,” he knows he has you before you even get the full sentence out, knowing that you wouldn’t let him down. You never had and that’s why he came to you. He’s tugging your bag off your shoulder and ushering you into the passenger side of the Bronco.

It’s early enough at the Hard Deck when he pulls up to the front porch, his sunglasses hanging off the loose neck of his white tee shirt. You should’ve known how bad it was by the look of him. His usual Hawaiian shirt collection missing from his broad chest and he’s not wearing his dad’s watch. Bradley rushes to your side to help you slide out of your seat onto the rough pebbles. You wobble as you land on your feet, Bradley’s large hands wrapping around your shoulders for stability. He leaves them there as you walk together in step inside of the bar, his touch burning through the straps of your dress until it’s all that you can think about.

You greet Penny who is leaning over the counter restocking the napkins, waving with a small smile as she takes in the sight of the man’s arms around you tightly. The older woman cracks a smile with raised brows, and you shake your head slightly. Luck for you, she questions nothing when you take a seat on a spinning bar stool. Bradley nestles himself beside you and huffs out, “Can I get a glass of whiskey Pen?”

Shaking your head, you clear your throat and roll your eyes. “No, no,” you start, turning to look at the woman. “We’re not doing that. Can we get two coronas please?”

“No.”

“Bradley, you want me to have a drink with you?” you give the man a pointed look, so sharp that he pouts. Penny is deeply amused, watching the two of you silently. “We’re not having whiskey.” You stare up at Bradley, scanning his face and his worn scars across the skin of his neck.

“Fine, two coronas it is,” he digs dramatically in his pocket, tugging his wallet out and slinging it onto the table. “But I’m buying.”

It takes an hour before the rest of the friend group comes rolling through the swinging doors into the dimming light of the bar. Bob and Nat roll in with Mickey in tow, early goers dressed in civilian clothing and sunkissed to the gods. Bob tugs you into his side as the others place their first orders of the night with Jimmy. The patrons being to arrive to the increasingly loud bar, and someone has cranked on the jukebox as he asks about work.

“I would love to come in for another reading day before the end of the year if you would have me,” Bob tells you lightly, taking a sip of his bottled water.

“Bob, you know we don’t have to go in anymore for the year,” Bradley calls, his hand returning to your shoulder as he takes in the close distance of your face and Bob’s. It’s more for comfort of volume, the two of you being such soft-spoken individuals but Bradley doesn’t need to know that. It’s not his business.

“I know that.” Bob’s elbow comes down on the sticky surface of the bar top. “I like hanging out with the kids Rooster. Don’t you love seeing Daisy in action? She’s so good with kids.” The comment causes you to flush, cheeks warming as you thank the Weapon Systems Officer.

“That’s so sweet Bob, I’m flattered.”

“You should be, Dukes,” a thick Texan accent rings from behind you and you crane your neck to notice the bright pearly whites approaching. “Seeing you with kids actually makes me consider settling down and having a family.”

“Now that’s the biggest compliment,” a wicked grin crosses your features as you lean back to rest your head against the blond’s hard chest. Jake wraps his arms around your front to hug you tightly. “Bagman considering a family for me…what an honor.”

“Only for you Dukes,” Jake’s deep tone rumbles through his chest and reverberates in your ear. Bradley groans and you suddenly remember his presence and before you know it, he’s prying Jake’s hold away from your body.

“No touching my best friend,” he’s whining, “No family making.” With your hand in his squeezing grip, you realize who he is and why you both came here. You remember her, that has his heart twisted in her hands. That has him on the edge of his seat, begging for love and affection. The thought kills you, but you tug your fingertips from him.

“It’s time for some pool people,” Nat calls from the pool tables behind you all, waving frantically as she has finally claimed your usual space for the night.

“Bradley, you should call Jenny,” you tell him truthfully, waving Jimmy done for you and Jake. “I’m sure she’ll want to join us, and things will clear up.” Your encouragement of his relationship has him frowning, a confused expression showing itself as you tug your fingertips away. “It’ll be fine,” you promise as Jake orders your drink from behind you.

Right?

Taglist: 

@luckyladycreator2

@ceilingfann

@rosiahills22

@child-of-sunshine

@callsign-scully

@hopefulinlove

@cevans-winchester

@double-j

@blue-aconite

@callsign-hummingbird

@romanoff13-blog-BLOG

@rosiahills22

@kajjaka

@sylviaes99

@chaoticassidy

@child-of-of-the-sunshine

@memoriesat30

@seresinsweetie

@genius2050

[kydrogendragon]

Role-Play

Role-Play for Day Seven of Dreamling Week

Relationship: Dream/Hob Rating: Mature Words: 1086 Warnings: Primal Play Ao3 Link

Hob dashes through the dark forest. Trees and branches stream by as he runs, the warm summer air no doubt carrying his scent downwind for him to smell. He pants, chest laboring after the long sprints it’s taken to make it even this far into the woods. He’s thankful that the moon is full, else he would be navigating in true darkness.

Up ahead, he spots a cluster of dense trees. It’s a risk, but the area of forest he’s found himself in is spare. He’s an easy target out here. So he goes, making a dash for the possible hiding spot. His legs ache just as much as his lungs do. By the time he reaches the cluster of trees, he feels on the verge of passing out. The adrenaline in his system is probably the only thing keeping him upright at the moment. Hob tucks himself into the cranny, folding himself as small as he can while he catches his breath.

The forest is quiet, eerily so, as if it knows the danger that lurks within it. This had been Hob’s suggestion, having heard about people getting their rocks off being chased down and taken. He’d figured if there was ever a good partner to try it out with, it would be the one with shape-shifting powers and the ability to magic sand them to anywhere they wanted to go. And of course, he suspects Dream loves the idea of chasing him down and claiming Hob as his own.

So, on June 7th, with the full moon above them, Dream teleported them over to some place in the Americas where the woods were untouched by man. He told Hob to strip down to all but his shoes—of which Hob’s thankful for. His poor feet weren’t as hardened as they used to be in this century—and then told to run. And Hob did. He ran and ran and ran until his body cried out for a break and continued to run further. He’d managed one break earlier, but heard the sound of a branch snapping in the distance, so Hob ran again. And now, as his body demands a break, he rests here, nestled into the shadows of the trees and listens.

All he can hear is the gentle rustle of leaves in the wind. There’s no bird songs, no trill of insects, nothing but that eerie silence. His heart pounds in his chest, echoing up into his throat. Every part of him feels on edge, his legs tensing, ready to make a run for it if needed. He feels like a rabbit in the eyes of a fox—adrenaline and fear coursing through him, limbs prepared to jump at a moment’s notice.

There’s a crack somewhere in the forest. Hob freezes, breath caught in his throat as he strains against the silence to hear anything more. He waits, eyes staring blindly into the bark in front of him as all his energy is focused towards his ears. And still, all he hears in the rustle of leaves and his own heartbeat thumping loudly in his chest.

Then it’s like the temperature drops. Hob’s hair rises on end as the air feels wrong. The bark in front of him darkens just as the world around him does and yet, there is not a cloud in the sky. Then he hears a deep, low growl that reverberates through his body from the ground, up.

He’s here.

Hob bolts, out of the trees, away from the sound, across log and root and stone and runs and runs and runs. He dives through the trees, his breath shallow as he pushes his body harder and harder. And yet, the darkness doesn’t let up. If anything, it seems to grow. Soon, Hob can barely see in front of him. His foot catches in an arched tree root and he collides with the mossy forest floor.

He reaches out, clawing at the dirt and grass, trying to scramble to his feet when something large presses him back down into the earth. Hob stares down into the dirt, his breath a shallow, panicked thing. Dark tendrils creep into his vision as a pleased growl calls out above him. He feels hot breath against his neck.

“I’ve found you.”

Hob whimpers. He fights against the impossibly firm hold that keeps him pinned down. Then, he feels something wet and sharp against his skin. Teeth encase his neck and part of his head. Dream’s jaws in whatever form he’s taken, encase him, pressing down lightly. A warning, not quite yet a threat, but it could be.

Hob stills, closing his eyes as the teeth lift and are replaced by a long, dexterous tongue that licks up his neck and behind his ear with a flick. He grinds down against the earth, his rapidly hardening cock twitching as Dream’s own hips roll over Hob’s backside. He can feel a faint outline of Dream’s form. It’s no longer human, not completely he suspects. More Nightmare than Dream. He shivers with anticipation.

“Now you are mine, aren’t you, pet?” Dream asks, his voice deep and gravelly. Hob can only nod in response, his breath still to rapid to speak. Dream hums, the noise reverberating through Hob’s body as Dream presses back down against him. “Good. And now I get to do with my prize as I desire.”

He’s flipped over, his back pressed into the moss and dirt. Hob opens his eyes wide to see Dream towering over him, one clawed hand pinning his shoulder down. His head is closer to that of a wolf’s skull with patches of fur still clinging to it. Familiar star eyes peer down at him through the empty sockets. The rest of his body is large, a hybrid of man and beast with a spine-like tail at the end. Dark fur covers his body where the dark leathery hide or cream colored bone isn’t. And the best part, the thick length that lies between Dream’s legs. Hob grins to himself as he spots a familiar bulge at the base.

“Yes,” Hob answers breathily. “’m yours. You caught me.”

Dream growls that same, pleased and deep growl that vibrates Hob down to his core. He leans down, running his long, rough tongue up from Hob’s collar to his forehead, the saliva clinging to his skin, cool as the night breeze runs over it.

“Good,” Dream’s voice rolls over him. Teeth graze over his neck. “Spread your legs, little one.

[saltywithsarcasm]

The pairing: Penguin/Shachi

The trope: idiots in love/both don't know how to admit their feelings(but they figure it out)

Not sure if this was exactly what you wanted but they sure are idiots in this one! Sorry for the late reply, this turned out longer than expected.

The Heart Pirates get off from their submarine, stepping onto the untouched shores of the mysterious island. Shachi and Penguin exchange grins, shoving each other and race to the tree line as their captain follows leisurely behind them. The sands along the beach have an almost golden color, shimmering under the sunlight like a treasure trove. The vegetation itself looks odd, with plants of unusual shapes and colors that seem out of place. Law, ever cautious, raises a hand to halt his crew.

“Take precaution.” He warns, his voice steady but firm. “We need to make sure the island is safe before we dock here for a few nights.”

The full moon is expected to rise tonight and Law knows it will be the perfect opportunity to let Bepo turn to help ease his restlessness. As the crew prepares for the evening, there's a sense of anticipation in the air. For some, it will be their first time witnessing the transformation.

Bepo starts getting antsy as his crew sets up camp around him, his paws shuffle restlessly in the sand and his ears twitch with every sound. Shachi and Penguin glance at him with knowing smiles, understanding his concern for the night to come. The rest of the crew works efficiently, pitching tents and gathering firewood, occasionally casting curious glances at their furry crewmate. Law keeps a watchful eye on their navigator, ensuring he's comfortable and offers him to come sit with him at the fire.

Penguin nudges Shachi, nodding towards Bepo, who is visibly anxious as he paces around their captain, unable to stay still.

“Maybe we should bring him something to eat to take his mind off tonight.” Penguin whispers. Shachi nods in agreement, glancing at Bepo's restless movements and twitching ears. “Think there’s fruit on this island he might like?”

“Well, we’re supposed to be scouting for any food anyway.” Shachi smirks, giving him a shove, trying to sound serious but failing to hide his grin.

“Alright, alright! Let’s go look.” Penguin stumbles a bit and shoves Shachi back just as hard.

They both burst into laughter, shoving and jostling each other as they head off into the surrounding area.

“Bet I find something first!” Shachi taunts, darting ahead.

“Not if I get there before you!” Penguin retorts, sprinting after him. Law sits on the beach with his arms crossed, observing them as they horseplay between the trees. Their laughter rings out and he shakes his head, a small smirk playing on his lips.

“Idiots.” He mutters under his breath. A gentle hum catches his attention and he turns to see Bepo settling down beside him.

Shachi crouches low to the ground, his eyes scanning the underbrush for berries. He carefully pushes aside leaves and branches, his hands moving deftly as he picks the ripe ones and places them into a small pouch. Nearby, Penguin is busy searching for fruit in the trees. He stretches up on his toes, reaching for the higher branches, occasionally jumping to grab a particularly tempting piece of fruit. Penguin spots an unusual fruit hanging from a vine along a tree. He plucks it and turns to Shachi, holding it up for him to see.

“Hey, do you think Bepo would like this?” He asks, curiosity in his voice. The fruit is a vibrant shade of orange and its sweet aroma fills the air.

“Dude, he'd like anything you give him.” Shachi replies, a grin spreading across his face and crushes a berry between his fingers, bringing it to his nose to sniff before tasting it; The berry is a bit bitter but there's a hint of sweetness that promises potential. “Think he’s gonna spook some of the newbies tonight?”

“Yeah, I can’t wait.” Penguin hops down from the tree, quickly stuffing the fruit into his pouch then mimics a giant bear with an exaggerated growl, his arms raised high and his face contorted in a comical snarl before they both chuckle among themselves. “Glad we found an island before tonight, he really needed this.”

Shachi and Penguin have both noticed how cooped up and antsy their navigator had been lately. He seemed more restless than usual, pacing the hallways of the sub and muttering to himself; It hadn’t taken long for the two of them to decide they needed to talk to Law about it.

As they walk through the forest, the sunlight filters through the trees, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor. Shachi wraps an arm around his crewmate's shoulders, offering a comforting squeeze and glance over the dense foliage, searching for any more fruits or vegetables they can find.

“Think we’ll be able to get close to Bepo this time?” Penguin asks, mostly to himself. Shachi shrugs his shoulders. They both know how wild Bepo gets in his Sulong form, their captain usually makes them and the rest of the crew keep their distance for safety since Law is the only one Bepo allows near him in his beastly form without lashing out.

“Maybe, I’d like to feel how soft his fur gets.” Shachi imagines how soft Bepo’s fur must get in his Sulong form, always looking softer than usual and can almost feel the plush, velvety texture beneath his fingers despite the wild, untamed power Bepo exudes in that state. “But our captain hasn’t even tried to pet him when he’s like that.”

“He’d probably knock your head off.” Penguin jokes, giving Shachi a playful smack on the back of the head and his friend lunges at him.

Both rolling on the ground, wrestling as they try to pin each other down until Penguin feels the ground beneath them give way a little, making both of them freeze in place. They hear a snapping sound beneath them and just as they realize what's happening, the ground collapses before they can even react, both of them plunge down, falling into the unknown below. Their screams echo in the darkness but they're not sure if anyone heard them.

Penguin hits the ground first, the impact sending a jolt through his body and lifts his head in a haze, trying to gather his bearings, when suddenly, Shachi lands on top of him with a thud.

“Hey!”

“S-sorry, Penguin... I didn't mean to...” Shachi tries to apologize but his head is still spinning and his words come out slurred, disjointed as he struggles to focus and rolls off the other man. “…Where are we?”

Penguin shakily sits up, trying to steady himself and as his vision clears, he takes in their surroundings, realizing they must have fallen into a cavern. The dim light reveals rocky walls and a vast, open space stretching out before them.

“A c-cave, I think?” Penguin rubs his head and tries to grab his hat that had fallen off during the fall but as he does, a sharp, searing pain shoots through his body. He looks down and sees his leg twisted at an unnatural angle.

Panic sets in and he lets out a blood-curdling scream, the intensity of his pain echoing through the cavern. Shachi, startled and terrified, spins around with wide, horrified eyes. His eyes widen in horror as he realizes his friend's leg is broken and scrambles frantically to try and help him. His hands shake as he reaches out, not sure where to start, they don't have anything with them to treat a broken limb; No splints, no bandages, nothing.

“Hey, hey, it's going to be okay.” Shachi says, trying to keep his voice steady despite his own rising panic and drops to his knees beside Penguin, who is clutching at his leg. “Just breathe, alright? We'll figure this out. Just stay with me.”

“W-what do we do?!”

“I can go get Law and bring him back here-“

“No, no, no! Don’t leave me alone!” Penguin's eyes are wide with fear as he reaches for his arm just as Shachi tries to stand up, his voice trembling. “We don't know what's in this cave. I can't defend myself like this.”

“I can't carry you and climb back up-” Shachi says, kneeling back down as Penguin tugs on his arm and takes a moment to carefully feel the fracture through his pants leg, it’s definitely broken. “Alright, relax; I’m not going anywhere.” Shachi glances around the cave, his eyes darting from shadowy corners to the scattered debris on the ground, spotting a few broken branches and figures he can use them to make a makeshift splint for Penguin, at least until they get back to the polar tang. “I'll be right back.” He gives his friend a quick pat on the shoulder before hurrying off to pick up the sturdiest sticks he can find then rushes back to his side. Kneeling down, he gently rolls up his pants leg and carefully lines up the sticks on either side of his leg. Pulling out his knife, he cuts off one of his sleeves then starts wrapping it around the sticks to secure the splint. “This should hold for now.”

Penguin nods, still shivering from the adrenaline as Shachi sits down next to him and wraps an arm around his shoulders.

“T-think the others will come looking for us?” Teeth chattering, Penguin asks and looks up to the hole they fell through.

“Yeah and I’m sure our captain will give us an earful for being reckless too.” Shachi cracks a joke with forced cheerfulness as he tries to lighten the situation. The sun is setting and he can't shake the worry that their crew, likely preoccupied with Bepo, might not realize they're missing. “They’ll find us in no time.”

“Sorry…” Penguin mutters, his voice barely audible.

“Now you’re starting to sound like Bepo.” Shachi replies with a soft chuckle, trying to mask his own anxiety.

“No, I mean I’m sorry for making you stay.” Penguin says, his eyes filled with guilt as he avoids his eyes.

“Don’t be.” Shachi interrupts gently, placing a reassuring hand on Penguin's shoulder. “You’re injured and scared; That’s a normal reaction.”

“I am not scared!” Penguin snaps, elbowing him in the ribs. Instead of causing any real discomfort, it only amuses Shachi further, drawing a hearty chuckle from him. “Stop laughing at me!”

“I’m not, I swear.” Shachi gently nudges him back, when a clump of dirt falls in front of them, making them look up and sees a familiar fuzzy face peering down at them. “Bepo?”

“What are you guys doing down there?” Bepo crouches down next to the hole, his typical anxious demeanor intensifying as he notices his crew mate’s bruised leg. “Is Penguin okay?”

“We fell and he broke his leg.” Shachi calls up to him. “Is anyone with you?”

“No, I just wanted to go for a walk…” Bepo leans back as if he's going to stand up, casting a wary glance over his shoulder and after a brief moment, he looks back down at them. “I’ll go get the captain.”

“Okay, just be careful. The ground gave way-“ Bepo tries to stand but the unstable ground collapses beneath him, arms flailing and manages to catch a root sticking out from the side. “Bepo!”

Bepo dangles above them, his paws gripping the root tightly as he tries to climb back up but the root starts peeling out of the soil. With a sudden jolt, it swings him towards the wall of the cavern and he hits it hard, the impact knocking the wind out of him. With a pained gasp, he loses his grip and falls to the ground below, landing with a thud. Shachi and Penguin scramble to get up and check on Bepo but the sudden jolt makes Penguin groan in pain, clutching his broken leg. Shachi glances at him, worry in his eyes but knows he has to prioritize Bepo. He quickly rushes over to the mink while Penguin tries to manage his pain from where he sits.

“…Ow…” Bepo holds his head, whimpering in pain as Shachi checks him over for injuries. His ears are flattened against his head and his eyes are squeezed shut, trying to block out the throbbing ache. Shachi leans back with a sigh of relief, his hand resting gently on Bepo’s shoulder and thankful that nothing seems broken. He carefully helps Bepo sit up, supporting his back then turns to look at Penguin with a heavy sigh, knowing the captain will definitely lecture them but he might go easy on them because of their navigator.

Wait…

Shachi's heart skips a beat as he realizes they're stuck in a cavern with a Mink and the full moon is approaching. Penguin turns to polar bear, noticing the tension in his posture; Bepo isn't changing yet but there's a flicker of worry in his eyes and they exchange a tense glance, both understanding the urgency of the situation. They still have some time before the moon rises but Shachi can barely breathe, knowing they need to act quickly before it's too late.

“D-do you have a transponder snail on you?” Penguin asks, his voice trembling with anxiety and Bepo shakes his head, his expression growing more serious as he looks up at the hole. “How much time do we have?”

“I’m not sure.” Bepo looks skittish as he fidgets nervously with his paws and looks around the cavern, betraying his unease. Meanwhile, Shachi attempts to scale the cavern wall but the brittle rock crumbles under his weight, sending him tumbling back down. The sound of the falling debris echoes through the cavern, amplifying the tension in the air. “Our captain will come looking for us though, right?”

“Yeah, he’d probably want to keep an eye on you.” Shachi, frustrated, kicks at the dirt before walking back over to them. “You have some control over your sulong form, right?”

“Yeah.” Bepo nods, his concern easing up a bit and crawls over to Penguin to take a look at his friend’s leg. “We’ll have to cast your leg once we get back.”

“If you don’t rip us apart before then.” Penguin instantly regrets his words as he sees Bepo's eyes widen in panic and scrambles to put some distance between them, his movements frantic and uncoordinated. “Wait, no; I didn’t mean that!”

“Idiot.” Shachi smacks Penguin on the back of the head and crosses his arms, his eyes shifting up to the hole above. “I'm sure the crew is already searching for us.”

Bepo looks back and forth between them, still a bit jittery and mutters under his breath, his ears twitching with anxiety because it’s getting darker out. It's getting harder to see in the cave and hey have to squint just to make out the shapes of the rocks around them. The mink’s eyes widen with fear as the darkness envelops the cave and wants to be closer to them, to feel some sense of safety but he knows he needs to keep his distance for their sake. His body trembles slightly and he glances longingly in their direction, torn between his fear of the dark and his desire to protect them.

“I hope the find us soon.” Bepo frowns and looks up at the hole, his eyes widen in alarm as he sees the moonlight filtering through the trees. He quickly covers his eyes with his paws, trying to shield himself from looking at it directly. “Captaaaaain.”

“Just keep your eyes covered.” Shachi reaches out to help Bepo up and leads him over to sit with them, making sure the mink keeps his eyes closed. “And everything will be fine.”

Penguin presses against Bepo's furry side, feeling the soft warmth as Shachi's voice echoes through the cavern, calling out in hopes of finding help. Feeling Penguin against his side, Bepo's anxiety starts to fade and he leans back against him while Shachi holds his hands against his face, shouting with urgency. He calls out for their crew and the sound reverberates through the cavern, each shout becoming more strained.

Shachi inhales deeply, preparing to shout again but a small pebble bounces off his head, giving him pause. He looks up, startled and sees their captain looking down at them with concern.

“There you three are.”

“Captain! Watch your step!” Penguin warns out, his voice echoing through the cavern and upon hearing their captain's voice, Bepo uncovers his eyes, looking up with a wave of relief to see Law. “The ground's unstable.”

“And I suppose you all fell?” Law's brow rises as he picks up a couple of stones, weighing them in his hand before tossing them over his shoulder and uses his powers to teleport them out of the cavern. Law turns and his gaze is instantly drawn to Penguin’s broken leg and crouches down in front of him, his eyes scanning the injury meticulously as he leans in closer to assess the extent of the damage. “We need to get you back to the polar tang.” Law's eyes glance to Bepo, noticing him covering his eyes again. He looks up and sees the full moon overhead, its silvery glow illuminating the forest and creating an ethereal, almost haunting atmosphere. “Shachi, take Penguin back to the others and get his leg properly patched up.”

“What about Bepo?”

“I’ll stay with him.” Law offers a reassuring nod, gesturing for him to go with a simple wave of his hand then settles down beside their anxious navigator and his presence calms Bepo down drastically.

Shachi gives a quick nod and bends down, sliding his arms under his injured friend. With a grunt, he lifts him up as Penguin wraps his arms around Shachi's neck, holding on tightly. He adjusts his grip and starts walking back to shore, glancing back to catch of glimpse of their captain leaning against Bepo’s side.

Cute.

“Oi, Shachi.” Penguin tugs on his hair with a frown, jolting him out of his thoughts and their eyes meet, the irritation in the injured man’s gaze bringing him back to the moment. “Stop walking so fast, my leg hurts.”

“I’m sure it does but the quicker we get back, the quicker it’ll be dealt with.” Shachi does slow down his pace, trying to minimize the discomfort and glances at his broken leg. The swelling has caused the leg to appear almost twice its normal size and the bruises spread out in an uneven pattern. “We’ll dope you up for the pain, get the swelling down and get a proper cast on your leg.” Penguin couldn't argue with that because he knew Shachi was right but every jostle made his leg throb with pain. He turns his face against Shachi's shoulder, trying to hide the grimace that twisted his features with each step. “I’m trying to be careful.”

Shachi trudges along the shore, each step feeling like he's dragging a ton of bricks and as they get closer, the rest of the crew spots them and rushes over to help.

“Hang on, we've got you.” One of them says, taking the penguin from Shachi's arms and he finally lets himself drop onto the sand out of relief.

One member rushes to their supplies, grabbing the med kit and other essentials, while another kneels beside Penguin, quickly assessing the injury. Someone holds Penguin's leg steady after removing the makeshift splint while another prepares the materials, wrapping the splint tightly but carefully to immobilize his leg. As they're wrapping up Penguin's leg, a loud roar suddenly echoes through the trees. The crew pauses and looks up, recognizing the familiar sound.

“Think Law can handle him on his own?” Shachi drops down next to his buddy, playfully nudging him with a grin. They exchange knowing looks, assuming that their captain was keeping his distance from Bepo for the time being but subtly following him, staying close enough to ensure he doesn't get hurt. “I doubt he’ll hurt the captain. Even in that form.”

“Maybe Bepo will aggressively snuggle him.” Penguin rolls his eyes and gives a casual shrug, pretending to be annoyed when Shachi nuzzles his face against his and shoves him away. “He always gets super cuddly after he turns back to normal.”

“How’s your leg?”

“Manageable.” Penguin carefully removes Shachi’s hat, giving it a few brisk shakes to dislodge the sand clinging to it then places it back on his head. “Thanks for carrying me.”

“What else would I’ve done? Make you walk?” Shachi jokes and receives another shove from the man in response. “But seriously, it’s no problem; You practically weigh nothing to me.”

Penguin opens his mouth to reply to Shachi but the sound of heavy footsteps crunching through the underbrush makes him pause. He turns his head just in time to see Bepo emerging from the forest, looking massive and wild with his fur slightly ruffled. Behind the mink, Law strolls casually with his hands in his pockets and an air of calm about him. Some of the new recruits seem excited by the sight, their eyes lighting up with curiosity and exchange eager whispers while not all share the same enthusiasm; A few look a little nervous, shifting uncomfortably and casting wary glances at Bepo as he approaches the camp fire, pausing to sniff the air.

The massive mink glances over the camp until his eyes focus on Shachi and Penguin, walking towards them as the two men share uneasy looks but their captain doesn’t seem worried in the slightest. The ground vibrates beneath them as he approaches, causing them to instinctively lean back. Bepo stretches his neck forward, his nose brushing against Penguin's chest, the gentle nudge and the warmth of his breath make his heart race.

“Relax, he’s mentally aware.” Law remarks, walking alongside their furry friend and stroking his fur. “He was worried and wanted to check on you two.”

“Aw, Bepo.” Penguin reaches up to stroke his snout, feeling the gentle nudge of the mink's nose against his hand and a wide grin spreads across Penguin's face. “Oh, he’s really soft!”

Shachi reaches up to pet Bepo as well, his fingers sinking into the mink's thick, soft fur and Bepo, enjoying the attention, lowers himself to the ground to lay down in front of them. Law sits down beside Bepo, leaning comfortably against the mink's warm, furry side and takes a moment to examine his crewmate's new cast, his eyes scanning it with a critical gaze before a soft hum of satisfaction escapes his lips as he nods in approval.

“You’re going to be on light duty for a bit.” Law pulls the front of his hat down to rest his eyes but he leans forward when he senses their navigator shrinking behind him and turns his head to watch as Bepo returns to his normal size. “How are you feeling, Bepo?”

“Better but tired.” Bepo replies, rolling over until his side presses against his captain's back. Shachi and Penguin exchange amused glances, their soft snickers among themselves, their assumption of their friend being cuddly after his transformation proving to be correct. “…Hungry.”

“Oh! We found some fruit before we fell into the cave.” Shachi exclaims, rummaging through his pouch to pull out the fruit and hands them to Law, waiting for him to inspect and determine if they’re safe to eat. Once Law deems the fruit safe, he hands them over to Bepo, who accepts them gratefully. The mink’s face lights up with appreciation as he begins to eat, savoring each bite and comments how sweet the fruit is.

Penguin's lips curl into a soft smile as he subconsciously leans closer to Shachi until he’s leaning against his side and feels the other man wrap an arm around him.

AO3 ⬅️ Read the rest of my requests

[runeofgold]

(Yahoo!

For: Rennala, Queen of the Full Moon)

A young cleric, white as the very snow itself, slowly wanders into the room. Clutching her bell close to herself, she's visibly a bit disturbed by the sweetings picking their heads up and greeting her. Jolting a bit whenever one dares reach, squeaking when another tries to get her attention. There's a familiarity about this room, but a deep, dark one she dares not explore.

Everything about the sweet little girl is ghostly and frail, as though she'll fade away if she is even touched. Yet she is as tangible as silk blowing gently in a seaside breeze, or the sand as it glides through one's fingers. It's clear from a single glance she has endured much hardship - and there is more awaiting her.

Soon her head rises properly, and her rabbit red eyes look at the queen through pale white bangs. Swallowing, her head tilts to and fro like a curious pup, approaching cautiously as her free hand reaches out to show she means no harm.

"... Big..." Her voice is small, hardly above a whisper. "... Ma- aaa... Madam...?" Shrinking into herself a bit, as though expecting pain for an error she did not intend, let alone realize.

@eldenlordofdragons [Dis is Perona!]

(Aww!! Baby GORL 😭💙)

The Sweetings greet the young cleric one and all, gazing at her curiously. Why does she look like that? What's that fabric she's wearing?? They had to know! They had to touch! But it seems, all this attention was a little overwhelming for the poor little fawn, lost so bad.. She ended up here. How curious..

Rennala looks up from her egg, to find in her gaze, the very fawn that was spoken of. Hair white and pure as freshly fallen snow, eyes red and fearful, as a wild hare. She makes a hand motion, which the Sweetings understood and all payed attention to like hawks, and crawled away so this.. Meeting may be undisturbed.

They watch from the shadows, nonetheless. Curious ears, listening to what will be forgotten.

"Why, hello there.. Who might thee be?.. Thy business?.. Here, with mineself.."

Rennala tilts her head curiously, rocking a little in the cradle she shat upon, her sapphire eyes, though yet hazed with years of being heartbroken, still shine with an inquisitive gaze. That of an aged scholar, who's seen the world beyond the sky blue of day.

As the girl reaches out to her, speaking as if Rennala may harm her like she may have misspoken, despite just meeting the brokenhearted queen of Caria.. Rennala is gentle, as she comes fourth to take the girls hand.

Her palm is warm, and gentle. She, is very gentle, and slow in her movement's, and she barely even moved. She cradled the amber egg against her chest with her other arm, as she extended to hold.

"Thou is safe here.. No harm will befall, such a sweet, pure thing as oneself.. Not in a place of learning.. Tis be a safe haven, one may say.. I won't do thee any harm, rest assured.."

She's oh so delicately spoken, her palm soft and warm, holds the girls hand, in her much larger one. Seemingly unaged, untouched by time.

[toptravelfoodist]

Discover India's Top 11 Must-Visit Beaches

India's long coastline is home to some of the world's most beautiful and peaceful beaches.

Whether you're near Mumbai, Chennai, or in the far-off Andaman and Nicobar Islands, there's a perfect beach for everyone.

Beaches in and Around Mumbai

Mumbai boasts several stunning beaches like Juhu Beach, Manori Beach, and Alibaug. A bit further away, you'll find Kashid Beach, Murud Janjira, Harihareshwar Beach, Ganpatipule, and Tarkarli. To the north of Mumbai, beaches like Mandvi, Daman, Diu, Dumas Beach, and Somnath are popular spots.

Beaches near Chennai

Chennai, often called the beach town of India, is home to Marina Beach, one of the country's longest beaches. Nearby, you'll find Mahabalipuram, Tranquebar, Kovalam, Poompuhar, and Kanyakumari. Pondicherry, close to Chennai and Bangalore, is famous for its lovely beaches, attracting many tourists.

Kerala's Beaches

Kerala is known for its exotic beaches like Kovalam, Varkala, Kochi, Alappuzha, Bekal, and Kozhikode. Each offers unique experiences, from vibrant local culture to serene natural beauty.

Goa's Beaches

Goa is a top destination for beach lovers, famous for beaches like Baga, Calangute, Anjuna, and Palolem. Each beach has its unique charm, from lively nightlife to tranquil, scenic views.

The Andaman and Nicobar Islands

These islands are home to some of India's most stunning and untouched beaches. Havelock Island, with Radhanagar and Elephant Beach, offers pristine sands and clear waters, perfect for relaxation and adventure.

Other Notable Beaches

Digha (West Bengal): Known for its gentle waves and long shoreline.

Lakshadweep: Offers crystal-clear waters and white sandy beaches, perfect for snorkeling and diving.

Pondicherry: Promenade, Serenity, and Paradise beaches are perfect for a calm, relaxing day.

Tarkarli (Maharashtra): Known for its clear waters and vibrant underwater life.

Alibaug (near Mumbai): Popular for clean and serene beaches like Nagaon and Kashid.

Kovalam (Kerala): Famous for Lighthouse Beach and its stunning views.

Gokarna (Karnataka): Offers peaceful beaches like Om Beach, Kudle Beach, and Half Moon Beach.

Varkala (Kerala): Known for its stunning cliffs and golden sands.

Diu: Features beautiful beaches like Nagoa and Ghoghla.

Havelock Island (Andaman and Nicobar): Pristine beaches like Radhanagar and Elephant Beach.

Conclusion

India's beaches offer a diverse range of experiences for every type of traveler. Whether you're seeking adventure, relaxation, or breathtaking scenery, India's coastline has it all. From the lively shores of Goa to the serene beauty of the Andaman Islands, these beaches are a must-visit for any beach lover. Exploring these diverse and beautiful beaches is an unforgettable experience.

[unitednetizensofficial-blog]

India, with its diverse landscapes, offers a treasure trove of breathtaking beaches that cater to every type of beachgoer. From the lively shores of Goa to the serene beauty of the Andaman & Nicobar Islands, each destination boasts unique characteristics that make it a must-visit. In this blog, we’ll explore the top 10 best beaches in India that promise sun, sand, and unforgettable experiences.

Baga Beach, Goa:Known for its vibrant atmosphere and lively nightlife, Baga Beach in Goa is a favourite among tourists. The golden sands, coupled with a plethora of water sports and beachside shacks, create a perfect blend of relaxation and excitement. Whether you’re seeking adventure or simply want to bask in the sun, Baga Beach has it all.

Gokarna Beach, Karnataka:Nestled on the coast of Karnataka, Gokarna offers a more tranquil beach experience. Surrounded by lush greenery and rocky hills, the beaches here are known for their pristine beauty. Om Beach, Kudle Beach, and Half Moon Beach are popular choices, each with its unique charm and a laid-back vibe.

Tarkarli Beach, Maharashtra:Tarkarli Beach, located in the Konkan region of Maharashtra, is celebrated for its crystal-clear waters and pristine white sands. Ideal for water sports enthusiasts and those seeking a quieter retreat, Tarkarli Beach is renowned for its coral reefs and vibrant marine life, making it a paradise for snorkelling and scuba diving.

Radhanagar Beach, Andaman & Nicobar Islands:Awarded as one of the best beaches in Asia, Radhanagar Beach in Havelock Island is a vision of untouched beauty. The turquoise waters, ivory sands, and lush green surroundings make it an idyllic escape. The beach is perfect for long walks, sunset gazing, and swimming in the clear waters.

Minicoy Beach, Lakshadweep Islands:Located in the Lakshadweep archipelago, Minicoy Beach is a hidden gem with its swaying palm trees, coral reefs, and turquoise lagoons. The island’s remote location ensures a tranquil getaway, providing an opportunity to unwind in a peaceful and unspoiled environment.

Kovalam Beach, Kerala: Kovalam, situated along the Arabian Sea in Kerala, is a charming coastal town renowned for its crescent-shaped beaches. Lighthouse Beach, Samudra Beach, and Hawa Beach together form Kovalam Beach. The mesmerizing views of the Arabian Sea, coupled with Ayurvedic spas and yoga retreats, make Kovalam a holistic beach destination.

Auroville Beach, Tamil Nadu:Auroville Beach, near the experimental township of Auroville, offers a serene and spiritual ambience. The golden sands and gentle waves create a peaceful retreat, and visitors can explore the Auroville ashram nearby. The beach’s unique blend of tranquillity and spirituality attracts those seeking a mindful beach experience.

Palolem Beach, Goa:While Goa is renowned for its party scene, Palolem Beach provides a quieter alternative. Enclosed by towering coconut palms and colourful beach huts, Palolem is an ideal spot for relaxation. Dolphin spotting, kayaking, and enjoying a beachside yoga session are among the many activities that make Palolem a favourite among travellers.

Chandipur Beach, Odisha:Chandipur Beach in Odisha is distinct for its unusual phenomenon known as the disappearing sea. During low tide, the water recedes up to 5 kilometres. Revealing the seabed and creating a surreal landscape. This unique characteristic makes Chandipur a must-visit destination for those intrigued by nature’s wonders.

Anjuna Beach, Goa:Known for its bohemian vibe, Anjuna Beach in Goa is a haven for backpackers and free spirits. The rocky cliffs, vibrant flea markets, and beach parties create an eclectic atmosphere. Anjuna is not only a place to relax but also a cultural hub with its art scene, live music, and diverse culinary offerings.

India’s coastline is a canvas painted with diverse hues, each beach offering a unique masterpiece waiting to be explored. Whether you seek the lively energy of Goa, the tranquillity of Karnataka, or the untouched beauty of the Andaman & Nicobar Islands, India’s beaches cater to every taste and preference. Embark on a coastal journey and discover the magic that awaits on these top 10 beaches.

[darkk-academic]

Greater than Desire

[Part I] [Part II]

[Morpheus x Reader]

Summary : It starts with a question, ends with a realisation, and leaves feelings scattered in between.

Warning : None.

"What's greater than desire?"

You are walking along the shoreline with The Lord of Dreams. In his realm, The Dreaming.

The sun is dipping its feet in the sea, spilling shades of vermilion and coral, merging with blue, diluting in it. A passage between the sky and the sea.

The sand is soft against your bare feet, as the caressing waves come and go at regular intervals.

There's a symphony of silence, in tune with the gentle breeze and lapping waves.

It's your dream.

"It is not feasible to compare things such as these, for they are subjective." The rumble of Morpheus's voice joins in the melody, and curls around the silence. "To someone, a number of things might be greater than desire. While desire is all some can see."

"Then, what's greater than desire for you?"

You look over at him. And wish you hadn't.

Despite all the stars in the night sky, it's the moon that catches attention. Similarly, the thing about Morpheus is that when he stands here, in your dream, he's a contrast to everything.

His presence demands attention with a righteousness you aren't sure he's aware of.

But your eyes are, and so they surrender. You can't look anywhere but at him.

"My responsibility towards the Dreaming," he replies. With ease and simplicity.

You dig your toe in the sand, frowning. "Isn't that an obligation? Your purpose? Don't you want anything more?"

"I do not," he states, with a firm rigidity that cautions not to probe more. "Perhaps, it is not I you should be questioning, but yourself."

Brows crinkling in confusion, you peer at him with a querying gaze.

"Everything one sees is the reflection of that which lies within," Morpheus articulates. "Presumably, the question you asked is one you, yourself, are seeking the answer to."

Scrutinising you, he continues, "Tell me, little dreamer, what's greater than desire for you?"

For a second, you're left dumbstruck. His deduction whisking the ground beneath your feet—sending you into an abyss of uncertainty.

Words don't come, but vulnerability wraps around your throat.

You give your surroundings a once over, as though they might offer the answer. But all they provide is a reprieve from the burning, all-knowing stare of Morpheus.

The halfway submerged sun has turned the water tangerine, the bewitching scenery is appeasing to your being.

This is your dream and yet…

At the feel of his heated gaze lifting from your face—to give you space for rumination, perhaps?—you glance up at him.

You stifle a gasp.

Because therein lies the answer.

Morpheus's face is turned towards the sunset—The golden rays weaving into his skin, as the wind ruffles the dark mess that is his hair. The cosmos within his eyes is gleaming.

And you're stuck with the realisation that :

This is your dream and yet—yet you want him to be your dream.

That while the scenery is appeasing to your being, only he soothes your soul.

How naive of me, you think, to love someone so untouchable. To love the moon, when I'm not even a star.

Even still, your courage urges you on, as do the waves rippling at your feet. And then a reminder of something Morpheus said :

If you do not climb, you will not fall. This is true. But is it that bad to fail, that hard to fall?

That's all the encouragement you need.

"Morpheus," you say in a hush. Unwilling to disturb the secret sanctity of confession.

At once, he turns to you. Dauntless, you step closer, coming to a stop near him.

Near enough that all you feel is The Dream—not yours, but The Dream that is him.

Tilting your head up, you hold his stare. Steadying breathe. "I know what's greater than desire to me."

Curiosity breaks across his face. "And that would be?" The current of his voice pulls you under the ocean of him. You can scarcely breath.

The air has come to a standstill, all of the dreaming appears to be rapt with attention and anticipation of your answer.

"Morpheus," you repeat his name, to settle your nerves. "What's greater than desire to me is—"

"Boss!"

You startle, feet touching the ground—you hadn't even noticed that you were standing on your tiptoes leaning into Morpheus, who too was leaning into you, or maybe that's a delusion of your creation—nevertheless it matters not, for the moment is long gone.

The distance between you and him is back. A cosmos apart.

There's a flicker of something in his eyes, before he peers over his shoulder. Glancing back at you, a moment of hesitation. He brushes it off.

Tilting his head, he says, "Until next time, little dreamer."

Your eyes don't leave his retreating back.

In his absence, there dwells his whisper of :

"What's greater than desire for you?"

And inside the safety of your heart, you get to whisper back :

Love, Morpheus, love.

..................................................................................

A/N :

I really wanted to write but I didn't have any idea about the plot/imagine but then I started writing anyway. And here it is. Tbh listening to music helped.

"Everything one sees is the reflection of that which lies within." This line is actually about the law of reflection, which I thought fitting to use. Fascinating stuff.

And yes! This reference— "If you do not climb, you will not fall. This is true. But is it that bad to fail, that hard to fall?" is a quote by Neil Gaiman, from the book Fables and Reflections.

I hope you guys enjoyed this.

Thankyou! ❤

[nev3rfound]

guiding you home : b.b

after many years, bucky found the perfect gift for your birthday even if you were no longer around to see it. (1.5k) 

okay so it’s angsty - i found this on my other blog and initially intended to write fluff tonight, but ended up with this oops (warnings: character death, funeral, general sad angst) 

masterlist / permanent taglist 

- i also have an etsy shop, i just released wandavision themed tshirts if you’d like to check those out! -

(everything on my blog is my own writing. if it is shared on another page or website without being credited, it has not been approved to be shared by me. all rights reserved.)

“Go on, open it,” Bucky can’t stop the smile spreading across his face as you sit upright in bed, taking the small bag from him as you eagerly remove the tissue paper.

“You’ve outdone yourself once again, Buck.” You chuckle, motioning to the effort he has put into the packaging before you lift out a framed image.

Watching you closely, Bucky can see the light in your eyes twinkle, something he’s loved since he first met you. “What do you think?” Bucky asks after a long pause as you carefully eye the framed image in your grasp.

Averting your gaze from the photo, tears glisten in your eyes. “You really did this, for me?” Your voice cracks as Bucky leans closer, resting his hand on your cheek as he softly chuckles.

“I know how much you love them, doll. I had to get you one.” He tells you before leaning in to kiss you, never wanting to let go.

Until Bucky opens his eyes as gentle purrs sound against his neck bring him back to reality.

Forcing himself upright, Bucky glances to the bare side of the bed, still untouched. “Just a dream.” He mumbles to himself, burying his head in his hands whilst Apline jumps off. “It was just a dream.” He repeats, despite the fact it felt so real. It felt like you were there with him, like old times.

As the morning carries on, all Bucky can think about is your reaction. His dream didn’t do it justice, he couldn’t feel the warmth of your skin or the bitterness of your tears against his lips. All he wants is to hold you close, and never let you go.

“Hey, you ready to go?” Steve knocks on the ajar door, stepping through to see Bucky sat in front of your old dressing table.

Your makeup and perfume remain untouched as the dust begins to collect on the items, but your scent still lingers.

“I, I’ll be a minute.” Bucky replies in a hushed tone, not even lifting his gaze from the framed photograph of you and him from your third anniversary, stood outside of your new home with keys in hand. Both of you unaware you wouldn’t make it to Christmas when he had planned to propose.

“Okay, just, we’re all here, you know.” Steve comments with a tight-lipped smile, watching as his oldest friend silently nods before the door closes, leaving Bucky with his thoughts once more.

*

“Thank you all for coming,” Bucky starts as everyone stands with him in the beach as waves crash in the distant. “this was Y/n’s favourite place to visit, even if she complained about the amount of sand that would end up in her clothes or shoes, or moan about it in my metal arm once we got home.” He chuckles, and a series of soft laughter follows suit.

Looking past everyone Bucky smiles as the moonlight reflects against the ripples of the ocean. It was nights like these that always felt special between you both, moments where no one else mattered, whatever was said was kept between you and the sea.

“But regardless, she loved it here.” Bucky carries on, picturing you beside him, holding his hand and squeezing it tightly. “On one of our first real dates outside of the compound, Y/n told me about her love for the stars and the universe. How everything happened for a reason.” Bucky explains, looking at all the glossy eyes and sad smiles. “I told her about my past, about HYDRA and if that was part of this ‘plan.’“ Bucky chuckles, remembering how you weren’t phased like he had anticipated about the details he was ashamed to share.

You sat with Bucky on the edge of the beach, just past the rock wall, telling him it made him who he is now. And without that, who knows what would’ve happened.

“Sometimes, on rare occasions, I questioned her logic. And now, I can’t help but question it more than ever.” Bucky pauses, swallowing the lump in his throat as Sam steps forward, but Bucky raises his hand and nods, he’ll carry on for now.

Averting his gaze from everyone around him, Bucky focuses on the dark sheet of velvet above him as all the stars are out to watch and guide him through this speech in honour of you.

“Today is Y/n’s birthday, and I wanted her to have something that would be unique. She was something else, unlike anyone I had ever met and brought so much light into my life.” Bucky pauses briefly, taking a steady breath before looking back at everyone. “I wanted to find something to reflect that, so with Steve’s help, I got her a star.” Bucky’s voice trembles as he lifts his hand up, pointing up to the sky. “Just past the moon, three stars to the left, that’s Y/n.”

Whilst everyone turns their attention to the sky and attempt to pinpoint said star, Bucky wipes his eyes in a moment of solace.

“And I hope she’s found peace out there, that she’s with everyone else.” His eyes glance over to his friends, all who have lost someone in one way or another. “Even though Y/n is gone, she’ll always be beautiful, watching over us.” Bucky can’t stop his voice from cracking as Wanda passes Steve and passes him a tissue, resting her hand on his back.  

“You did great, Bucky.” Wanda mutters. “Y/n would be really proud of you.” She comments as tears fall from her eyes.

Taking a moment, Bucky inhales deeply before composing himself once more. “Y/n, she er, she’ll never be forgotten.” Bucky wants to finish his speech, for you, but his hands start to shake and everyone’s eyes on him feel like they’re piercing through his skin. “She, she’ll always be the light of my night, guiding me through.” He forces the words out as he falls to the ground, tears streaming down his cheeks as he bites his tongue, holding the sob back that wracks through his body.

Without glancing up, Bucky knows his friends and colleagues are closer to him, standing guard. “It’s okay, Buck,” Steve whispers as Bucky grips Steve’s shirt as his silent whimpers subside into quiet sobs. “you did her justice.”

“Come on, I’ll drive him home.” Sam calls out as Steve helps Bucky across the beach, not daring to look back at the sky.

*

“You think he’ll be okay on his own?” Sam questions as Steve walks out from the house that you were supposed to grow old in, noting the withering flowers that once bloomed.

“I hope so,” Steve answers truthfully. “I think it’ll just take time.”

Inside of the house, Bucky sits in the kitchen, nursing a glass of scotch despite it doing nothing besides burning his throat, it was a needed distraction. Yet all he can see in the brown liquid is the moonlight pouring through the large windows.

When you chose the house, you adored the big windows, allowing as much natural light to radiate through the floors. You hated feeling claustrophobic, and this eased that fear. After living in the compound for so many years, living in a house was grounding for you both, a place just to call yours.

Now it couldn’t be further from grounding as it felt like a taunt of what Bucky once had.

Downing the last of his scotch, Bucky throws the empty glass at the window, shattering the scotch glass into pieces.

The sound of Alpine meowing alerts Bucky, snapping him out of his anger at everything.

“Alpine, please, stop.” Bucky grumbles, but Alpine persists from upstairs.

Sighing heavily, Bucky traipses up the stairs, finding Alpine looking out from the balcony in your shared bedroom.

“Alpine?” Bucky calls out, seeing his cat situated happily on the wooden panels as he looks up at the sky as the moonlight illuminates his whiskers. “Come on in, pal.” Bucky motions as he stands in the doorway of the balcony, but Alpine meows in protest once more.

Admitting defeat, Bucky sits down beside his cat, looking up at the sky and focuses on your star.

“I know, I miss her too.” Bucky speaks up as Alpine curls up on his lap.“But she’s looking out for us, just up there.” Bucky smiles sadly as he points up to the sky, but Alpine is fast asleep.

Remaining in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Bucky takes everything in. He’s not been on the balcony since you passed, everything just hurt too much. But maybe this was part of the ‘plan’ you always talked about.

Maybe healing won’t be as painful as Bucky has pictured it being, but you’ll be there, whether he can see you or not.

“Happy birthday, Y/n.” Bucky mutters as a tear falls down his cheek as he focuses on your star, swearing he can see it twinkle like the light in your eyes, one last time.

t a g l i s t (thank you for the support!) link in my bio and at the top of this piece to add yourself☺️(if your user isn’t tagged, it’s because nothing comes up sorry!)

@biss-stuff @psychicforest  @lourightm @mywinterwolf   @justsomedreaming @stanlux17 @smokeandnailz @supermoonchildbroski @xrosegoldwolfx @courtneychicken @marvelsangels @supraveng @tommy-lee-81 @smilexcaptainx @fandom-princess-forevermore @sarge-barnes-sir @pleasantlysecretdream @decaffeinated–fangirl @howdyherron @kirby-boo @florencxs @eldahae @handmesomecoffee @hi-my-name-is-riley @dev1lbella @thanossexual @alissaginger @sambucky8 @notbrooklynsblog @nikkixostan@cosmiccaptian @adoreyou976 @sarcasticallywitty15 @multi-fandom-princess07 @16boyfriends-and-me @courtneychicken @mackevanstan80 @torchwoodoctor @pleasantlysecretdream  @yougottalovefandoms @magicalxdaydream @soccer-100000 @tenaciousperfectionunkown @talksoprettyjjx @btsonthedaily @jessyballet @katiaw2 @buckyswildflower  @lucrea @weenersoldierr​

[ikeromantic]

A Moment, No More

Written for @lazy-angel-kitten as part of my 500 follower celebration

Mitsuhide, Moments, Something Blue, Angsty!

Approx. 1400 words

Mitsuhide walked through the castle in the cool morning. Pale light gilded the crown of his hair and lit his amber eyes with a soft glow. Anyone that saw him would say he was beautiful. Anyone but the woman he had eyes for.

She was already up, her hair tucked into a bun at the back of her head. A few wisps already sought escape, curling around her delicate ears and the tender skin at the back of her neck.

His fingers sought that silken thread, and he wondered if each strand would feel as soft as he imagined it.

The chatelaine looked up, noticing him finally. A wary smile turned up the corners of her lips and crinkled the edges of her eyes. “Good morning Mitsuhide!”

“It is morning. Whether or not it is good . . .”

She laughed. “That’s exactly the kind of answer I expected from you.”

Mitsuhide felt a real smile threaten the mask he kept so firmly in place. “I am glad I could amuse you, but next time I will need to be less predictable.” He gave a little bow.

“Then I will look forward to it.” She reached over and patted his arm. Her hand was warm, her touch gentle.

He leaned into the touch, his body obeying its own natural laws, whatever his mind asked of it. “I brought you something.”

“A gift?” She looked up.

Mitsuhide held up a tiny bellflower and turned it in his fingers for her to see. Then he tucked it into her hair. The strands were as soft as he’d imagined. Better, even. And though it was a silly gesture, seeing her wearing Akechi blue made his heart glad. But not as glad as the soft smile that lit her eyes. That made her glow.

“Thank you.” Her hand fell away from his arm, though she didn’t step back. Her eyes met his and Mitsuhide felt his heart stir in his chest.

And then the spell broke, and the moment was gone as if it had never happened. Hideyoshi stepped out of the nearby door, his smile wide and satisfied. “I thought I heard your voice! Did you need help with-” He noticed Mitsuhide. The lack of distance between them.

“I was just wishing our chatelaine good morning.” Mitsuhide’s smile hurt but he’d rather die than let it go.

Hideyoshi’s brows drew together as he struggled with himself.

Mitsuhide waited to see what would win out. His mother hen side? His big brother complex? Or the budding love that he had yet to acknowledge?

“That’s unusual.” Hideyoshi’s eyes narrowed. “Did you need something?”

“No, in fact, I was just on my way out.” Mitsuhide gave them both a slight bow.

“Have a good day,” the chatelaine called.

Hideyoshi watched in contemplative silence until Mitsuhide was out of sight.

Mitsuhide could hear the chatelaine’s high, sweet voice even over the sounds of the castle staff as he made his way to the gate. Her voice followed him all day. From teahouse to merchant’s stall, to the docks. He couldn’t make out the words, just the sound. Like a distant song.

And then he spotted her. She was nearly at the end of the street. Hideyoshi was walking beside her and she had hold of his arm. Her face was turned up to his, eyes lit up with affection. Her sweet lips curved in a smile.

In that moment, Mitsuhide would have given anything - everything - to trade places with Hideyoshi. He would gladly accept damnation just to be the one she smiled like that for. Just for one moment.

He turned away. It tore at him inside. An itch, an ache, with no relief. Mitsuhide sought out the red lantern. An inn with companions to enjoy for an hour or two, hoping they could drive this from him. He sat at a private table, and the owner brought two beautiful women to serve him. They were beauties. Lips as red as blood, soft skin, eyes like dark pools a man could lose himself in.

Mitsuhide let them pour his sake and sit on his lap. They draped their perfumed arms around him and stroked his chest. They laughed and teased, and kissed his neck. But every touch only reminded him they were not her.

He paid and left. By then, it was dark out. The moon sat low in the sky, nearly full, bloated with its own importance. The stars drew his eyes up as he walked back to Azuchi. They were so distant. Tiny, insignificant things. Beautiful. Like the light in her eyes. Unreachable.

Mitsuhide suddenly felt sick. The sake, the smell of stale perfume and sweat, the lipstick smears on his chest and neck disgusted him. He wasn’t worthy of a love like hers. Not when her gentle rejection sent him crawling into the arms of a courtesan. He deserved the ache in his chest, the tight, roiling heat in his low belly.

The Azuchi castle baths were cold this time of night, and blessedly empty. Mitsuhide didn’t bother with a lantern. He filled a tub and shed his clothes. The cold water cleared his head as he sank down into it. With sand and fragrant herbs, he scrubbed his skin pink. He wanted to be clean, inside and out. But some filth couldn’t wash away so easily.

There was blood on his hands that no bath could remove. He was a man fated to live in darkness. To take on himself the tasks that better men could not do. It had never hurt so much before to acknowledge this . . . and yet. For her he wished . . .

Mitsuhide lay back in the water and closed his eyes. Burnished gold dimmed and hidden. His hair spread behind him like a soft cloud of pale silk. He tried to ease his grief, to forget it. To float, untouched by deep emotion. But a warm glow grew at the corners of his vision, banishing that inner darkness.

His eyes opened as he realized it was lantern light.

“Mitsuhide.” Her face hung over his, a study of light and shadows. Loose hair cascaded down her back, curling at her collarbone.

It was a dream made into life. And a joke. A taunt. He told himself to sit up. Say something sharp, witty. Cruel. Then she would leave and he would be alone. Again. He didn’t move, didn’t speak.

He could feel her eyes like a physical touch, the faintest trace of warmth as they slid from his face to his bare chest, his exposed belly, the delicate trace of hair that led down from his belly button. His breath trembled - and hers did too.

Fingers as soft as fine spun silk settled on his cheek, her thumb smoothing a drop of water from his skin. Her lips parted. And Mitsuhide damned all gods and demons as he sat up and kissed her. She was hot to the touch, like embracing the flame. Like holding to the sun.

For one moment he was blessed. And then she pushed away from him. Her eyes were wide with surprise. Her breath came in gasps. “You kissed me!”

He wanted very much to do it again. He could see all of her now. The thin, damp cloth of her gown clung to her naked body like a second skin. He could see every curve and valley of her body and he ached to trace paths on it with his fingertips. With his tongue.

“What did you think, little mouse, when you stumbled on me bathing? Did you enjoy the view?” He tried to purr the words, smooth and in control, but they rasped from his throat with need.

“I . . .” She looked away. Her hands curled into little fists at her sides.

“Admit it. Tell me you like what you see.” He stood, letting the water cascade down him. The droplets were cold on his now fevered skin. “Tell me, and I promise you I will show you so much more.”

“I hate you.” The words were a harsh whisper. And then she turned on her heel and ran.

Mitsuhide watched her go, the distance between them flaying his heart. There was no happy end for monsters, he thought.

A tiny blue bellflower lay trampled on the ground. Wilted, broken stemmed. Forgotten.

[angelharness]

i have managed to entirely block out the words “away from the campfire” when reading this request im so sorry anon

COMFORT BY CAMPFIRE, AND A BIT TOO MUCH LONGING 

WARNINGS: none

LAURIE STRODE

You don’t know how, but you’ve managed to feel out of place in a domain of which its inherent existence is uninhabitable, who all its occupants do not belong but remain nonetheless. 

You scan across the circle of landscape cupped by the onset of heavy fog which starts very abruptly at the tree-line and stretches on indefinitely. The light of the fire wobbles, ebbing like the banks of a lake; but you know now that it offers no warmth. 

Laurie cut her hand straight across the open flames, and though the fire snarled it did not burn her. She withdrew her hand back to reveal it was uncharred, untouched, even. When you slump by it after a trial, your face is not blasted by heat as you would assume. When you raise your palms to it, shivering, legs to your chest, they are no warmer.

Even when your lungs are scorching after sprinting nonstop, chased through disheveled corridors, your breaths come out in cold whips of air. All your tears are cool, they never burn your cheeks like they once did. 

You finally spot her among the resting survivors. Quentin sits across from her at the fire, picking at the loose button of his jacket cuff. Cheryl is laid back against the log that she’s occupied on, slumped against Laurie’s leg and sleeping. Laurie sees you approaching and tries to scoot over, but evidently doesn’t want to disturb the girl at her foot. She manages some room for you, though, and you take a seat next to her. With just a wedge of cracked wood on your end, you’re forced to shuffle closely up to her side. 

Wordlessly, you lean into her. Slowly, at first, looking at her expression to find disapproval. With none visible, you let yourself relax somewhat. Your bones burn, your muscles too. But it’s a cold burn. You think about the brilliant, orange sun, and feel your heart sink steadily like the moon at dawn. You want to see the warm, fluttering shadows of leaves in the afternoon and want to cup hot sand in your palms. All these sensations you should have cherished. Sun-kissed soil, blushing cheeks. 

Laurie’s been here for much longer than you. She’s wise, even more so than a number of the fog’s older inhabitants. You’ve only known her in your shared time in the Entity’s Realm, and in however long that spanned, she had changed so much.

She welcomed you with comfort. After your first trial, your first look into the brutal game that would become your future indefinitely, she let you grip onto her shoulders and sob, petting your head and rocking you against her. But she could never promise you a happy ending.

“It won’t be like this forever,” Kate had promised, smiling warmly, although wearily. She was sitting on her knees in front of you as you clutched your chest, the aching spot where the hook split through your flesh. The skin was not disturbed, but the memory of the pain was recent and vivid enough to construct an accurate feeling of it. She rubbed your shoulder. “We’ll get out of this, we just need to hang in there.”

Laurie stared at you two, then away at the muddy sky. She never indulged in hope, taking fate as it came, just as relentless to her here as it was before. 

She couldn’t answer when you asked her, sobbing, “how much longer of this? When does it get better?”

Her hand slides into yours, cradling your palm, her fingers cross-stitching between yours, sinking into place. It feels like, over time and with wear, your hands have shaped to fit comfortably in each other. For once since your arrival, you find a small sanctum where you belong. 

Laurie loosens up slightly. Now it is she who leans into you, the crown of her head tucked beneath your chin, head resting delicately on your chest in the hollow of your collarbone. Her short, blonde lashes flutter momentarily against the bare skin above the collar of your shirt. Despite the intimacy of the act, it comes startlingly naturally when you draw your hands through her hair, feathery, curled streaks of gold-blonde. You comb carefully with your fingers and realize her hair smells faintly of a gentle, floral perfume. It’s fitting for Laurie, you wouldn’t have associated a sweet or frilly smell to her. 

Her thumb strokes your wrist. Not a word has been spoken between you two in this encounter, but you appreciate that in Laurie. There isn’t the unspoken pressure to find something to say—comfortable silence is just as meaningful and cherished.  

You let your guard down. You shouldn’t, you know; it could be any moment that the Entity becomes restless once more and throws you into another game to entertain a mind ravenous in its pursuit to dissect terror. It doesn’t tire like you do, but you hope it wouldn’t find so much entertainment in pestering you in your drained state. It leaves you alone for the time being, at least. 

You know for your comfort your teammates are to bear the wrath of the Entity, but you try to ward away the images of blood and metal from your mind. In turn, you will pay your own due, of course—knowing this, you allow yourself this momentary relief. 

You close your eyes. The fire is bright even behind your eyelids, like a lamp behind a canvas tarp. You both lay into each other. Bitter wind sweeps low across the dead plains and the fire snarls back, crackles, then settles. Laurie lifts her head slightly to kiss your jawline. Her lips linger, soft, but stinging your skin with flush. She must’ve thought you had fallen asleep. You squeeze her hand and try to hide a smile. 

For now, just this moment, you belong, and you let yourself belong. 

“I’m glad we met,” you say. It comes out a little too loud, or perhaps it's the unabashedness of the statement that carries a weight heavier then you had anticipated, if at all. It was said without forethought, but not without feeling; you meant it wholly, from the warmness in your chest and an odd haze of longing. Maybe it’s that same haze that has you lingering on the regularly unremarkable sight of her face. You never paused, or had time, to fully register her features, but now your cheeks flare red as you study her intently. You study how the gentle light casts across her face, highlighting her cheeks, the shadows it draws across her jaw and nose. 

“Even under these circumstances,” you continue. You want to think fondly of what it would’ve been like to meet her anywhere else. Maybe you’re assigned partners for a class project and whittle away the afternoon talking about unrelated happenings in the corner couch of the campus library. Maybe, you think, she is the librarian there (she looks the part, in her wool cardigan, dress shoes, equipped with her wise expression), and you’re a frequent visitor, jotting down your number on a slip of paper, tucking it away in the pages of the novel you’re returning and praying she’s the one to find it. 

It’s easy to be swept away in the fantasies of a better, more forgiving timeline. She looks at you kindly. 

Laurie leans further into you, her lips pulling into a small smile. 

You long for naps together in the afternoon, hands moving to find the others even in the state of near sleep. You long for tea and discussion, dissecting and deconstructing books over lemon scones and pecan crumpets. You want to feel the warm grass beneath both of your feet as you hike up a slight hill in a park, looking for the best place to spread your picnic blanket and settle for a lunch of tea sandwiches. 

“Maybe things will be better,” Laurie thinks aloud. It’s the first thing she’s said that could be interpreted with that same longing, a rare expression of hope. 

It’s vague, understandably; you don’t know where you’d go from here. You’re at the bottom of a pit with endlessly towering walls, a pit without an entrance, without even the comfort of the passing sun.

It’s sad. You can barely recall what you did from day to day, even the routine that had been ironed into your brain and, essentially, became second nature—all the mundane seconds you didn’t think to cherish.

Laurie must sense your sorrow. She shifts closer to you. Cheryl stirs, mouth closing. Quentin has joined her in sleep, his knees tucked up underneath his chin, resting his head in the cradle of his arms.

You think you’ll sleep too, just for a while. Laurie has already drifted off. You kiss her forehead lightly, stealing another brief glance at her face (her expression is still elegant; it’s almost frustrating how she can look so carefully composed in every situation, seemingly without effort) then you let your own eyes close.

You’ll find new moments to cherish, somehow. 

[moeruhoshi]

I’ve already put this on my ff.net but I wanted to share it on here

There existed a legend of the undine, a powerful creature that provided the continent, Fiore, with its water supply.

The story began with a vast expanse of desert covering every inch of the land, barely a water source in sight. Water early humans were able to find, made for the center of town, small villages surrounding it. And once their source was used up, they moved to find the next one.

Soon, all tribes gathered around the last oasis, each leader convening to decide the best course of action.

They gathered all of their people, asking each and everyone if they were brave enough to wander the desert searching for the fabled undine.

There was a high risk of death from dehydration or getting lost in the delirious sun. But to save thousands of people from the brink of extinction would deem even the weakest a hero.

Silver Fullbuster offered himself for the task, the North's most notorious warrior.

The crowd roared with cheers as the leaders took him away, immediately preparing him for the turbulent journey.

An ancient map of the undine's possible location, enough drinking water for two months, rations, clothing, shelter. Silver's own camel would lead him through the trials of the hot sun.

He left that night, ignoring the cheers and hopes of the people, knowing their burden wasn't worth shouldering.

He wasn't doing this to gain status or heroism. Only a greedy man would save thousands to stoke his own ego.

His greed was personal, because of course, he wanted something in this world.

He wanted a family; a wife and a healthy little boy. But he never let himself fall into such an extreme fantasy.

How could he when the world was in so much trouble? When there was barely any water for the children to drink now? He refused to let his family struggle without a means of solution. And now, here one was. He could appease the undine, beg for their help, possibly return water to Fiore.

Once he went back, victorious, he could settle down and have the life he always dreamed of. That was the true reward in this trek.

So he kept a consistent routine; traveling at night under the moon's cool gaze and building shelter for the day's beaming sunlight.

Silver would read the map, re-reading day in and out. He memorized the landmarks on the way; massive sand dunes, clumps of palm trees, dried up oasis', gardens of cactus.

The undine rested in the northeast, the location, he found, that he'd never seen on a map before. He was quite an expert when it came to navigation, having read most maps that led his people to new water sources.

But this one led him past the highest dune, into an undiscovered portion of land. This assured him of the possibility of the undine's actual existence. He also felt a bit wary, unsure of what lay out in the mythical desert.

He hoped his sword wouldn't have to be drawn for anything but slicing his fruit.

The journey was taxing, Silver, fearing that his mind would begin to waver. Sanity was not easy to be kept by oneself, and he wished to have just one conversation with his old friends. The camel wasn't as interesting.

He hoped they were well, that the villages were, too. He hoped the water supply hadn't lessened by much, his self-made calendar almost a month in.

He neared the location, marking off each landmark that stood out to him. The palm trees, the oasis', the cacti, and finally, the series of mountainous dunes.

It wasn't long before his two months came to fruition, his water supply dangerously low.

It was enough to make it over that high peak in the distance, his goal just moments out of his grasp.

He traveled through the sun and the moon, not caring to even get a wink of sleep. He was almost there, almost there, almost...there.

Sand, sand, and more sand.

What? No, that couldn't be true.

Where was her cave, where was the blooming rainforest, the oasis?

Where were the plants and trees and water?

Where was the undine?

He gulped down the lump in his throat, calming his trembling hands as he ebbed his camel to begin its descent.

It had to be nearby; maybe it was just a bit farther than he could see.

But he didn't have enough food or water to make it past another horizon. His camel would lose its energy, and then, he would be left, stranded in the middle of nowhere, to die.

He held back his fear, taking deep breaths with his eyes shut tightly. Everything would be okay.

He repeated this in his head, holding onto the reins to avoid falling off.

Everything would be okay.

Everything would be okay.

Everything would be okay.

Everything would be...gentle, like a droplet of water on his cheek.

Everything would be...silky, like a cool banana leaf brushing against his skin.

Everything would be...comforting, like a calm wind on a hot summer's day.

Everything would be...wait...huh?

Silver opened his eyes, leading his camel through a suddenly grassy area, plants, and trees surrounding every end. He couldn't even feel the sun on his skin, the leaves providing him with excellent shade.

He shook his head, rubbed his eyes, slapped his cheeks.

No way...

He stopped abruptly, eyes bewildered at the sight of a relaxed, glistening, untouched body of water.

He hopped off the camel, quickly throwing off his clothes as he jumped into the water. He couldn't help but laugh. He actually made it.

He knew he would never have a chance to bathe like this again, taking the soaps out of his supplies to properly wash the desert off of his skin.

Somehow, he felt healthier, renewed. Almost like the water was giving him nutrients, soaking into his body and returning all of his lost hydration.

He never smiled more than he did today.

He let himself rest against the water's edge, stroking the camel's head as it drank from the pond.

A sudden snap of a twig in the leaves startled him, Silver quickly standing in fear.

Until now, he hadn't bothered to wonder if there was anything else in this place. But, of course, wildlife could exist anywhere.

A sharp squeal punctured his eardrums, a girl not much taller than himself falling out from behind a nearby tree.

She was dressed in delicate white, albeit sheer, garb, hair the color of the moon.

Silver felt his cheeks reddened as they made eye contact, his heart suddenly unable to stop beating.

He asked carefully if she was alright, the girl quickly scrambling to her feet, giving him a haphazard bow before running off into the woods.

That couldn't have been the undine, right?

He hurriedly tugged on a pair of pants, running after her without a second thought. A smile grew on his face; somehow, he was having a lot of fun right now. Maybe it was the effects of this place, but he wouldn't question it.

She came into view, her hands carrying the ends of her dress.

He called out, asking her to stop, pleading with her, apologizing for scaring her off.

She eventually came to a halt, doubling over as she caught her breath.

"I've never run so much...in my life," She wheezed, Silver laughing as he caught up to her.

"I'm sorry," He snickered, running a hand through his hair. "Do you need some water?"

"...No, I'm alright," She said, standing straight to look him in the eye.

His heart jumped at her sharp gaze, finding it absolutely mesmerizing. But then, he remembered his task, remembered everyone who was waiting for him.

Either way, something told him not to ask just yet.

"How did you find this place?"

"By accident," He shrugged, the girl blushing at his lopsided grin. "Although, I do have a map,"

"Eh? Where? Show me," She said, quickly grabbing onto his arm. Both blushed at the sudden touch, Silver suddenly realizing that he wasn't wearing a shirt.

He led her back to his things without question, pulling the scroll from the camel's back.

"See," He pointed at the blank space. "This told me that I'd find this place here,"

"All this time, they had a map," Her lip trembled as she mumbled, staring at the expanse. "Why did no one come if there was a map?!"

Silver reeled at her sudden outburst, watching water drip from her arms and legs, forming a pool at her feet.

"Why..."

He struggled to speak up, not knowing exactly what to say. But he recognized that sad tone on her voice, one he'd come accustomed to in his own mind. She was lonely.

"No one thought this place was real," He said honestly. "It was a story for young children. Not a message to come find you,"

She sniffled as he reached out to rub her back, the two awkwardly meeting eyes again.

"I-I see... I'm sorry...I get very emotional at times,"

"That's okay," He shook his head, clearing his throat as he thought of something else to say.

"So...you have a name?"

"Mika...my name is Mika."

Silver then spent his days with Mika, wondering how he could ask her to provide water to the world. But he couldn't ask a lonely girl, barely his own age, to do such a thing. They just met; how could he make it her responsibility? She was abandoned by the world, left to take care of it without a second thought.

Unbeknownst to Silver, however, the world already began to change. The water seemed to grow from nowhere, the oasis back home never even falling an inch.

Old, dried up sources began to refill, and plants began to grow out of the ground. It was a true miracle, for every few hours equaled to about three months in the real world.

His presence alone filled the undine with a newfound emotion, one that stirred her to unconsciously plenish the Earth.

She showed him every plant and animal that existed in her domain, how she took care of them all these years.

He showed her how to wield a sword because that was the only thing he knew how to do.

She would watch him practice, trying not to stare so hard at his bare chest.

Mika didn't understand the deep welling in her chest that made her leak out of her ears at times. Silver was steadily filling a hole in her heart, one she didn't realize was so empty.

He was straightforward in most ways, knowing full well he'd fallen in love.

He went off and fell in love, unable to accept that he hadn't helped anyone by doing so.

He couldn't bear the weight of selfish guilt, wondering if he should just get it over with and ask the undine for help.

She sensed his anxiety, her own building as her thoughts began to wander. He wasn't from around here; what would happen if there came a day he wanted to leave? How could she go back to existing all by herself?

"You look quite somber," Mika said as she approached Silver from behind, sitting next to him as he stared into the reflection of the pond. "Anything I can help with?"

"I just miss my home," He sighed, tossing a pebble into the water. "I wonder if they're all okay,"

"I could show you?" She hummed, bending herself to enter his field of vision.

"How?" He stared at her as she waved a hand over the water, an image blurring into view. He saw his friends, the villages waving as they began to part ways. They were returning to their rightful homes, all with enough water to last the whole trip. He could see the plant life that never existed before, the clouds in the usually empty sky. He could see their vanished cracked lips, their joy as they helped themselves to the oasis water that didn't even lose an inch.

He looked at her with wide eyes, quickly understanding the situation. She craved for company, never having any before he stepped foot in here. And the world magically began to fix itself, all because her lonesome self was requited.

Silver no longer felt the need to hold back, grabbing onto Mika's shoulders. He pushed her down before she could refuse him, kissing her with his held back feelings.

The undine rightfully sprung a leak, unable to grasp the situation entirely.

This day would mark the first rainstorm to ever cross the land.

She kissed him back, finding herself more comfortable when he whispered between their lips.

"I love you,"

He finally had the family he always wished for, a wife and a healthy little boy.

They named him Gray, his sharp eyes a bit gloomy but bright and full of wonder.

He was an undine, like his mother. The day of his birth had unwittingly created what the world would come to know as oceans.

Silver lived without knowing what became of the world, its expansion, evolution. It was past its days of cloth tents and makeshift floors, buildings and castles built, wars fought and won, kingdoms conquered. The legend of the undine soon became a legend again, Silver's name lost in the history books.

He didn't need anything more than Mika and Gray in his life.

But Gray, well, Gray tirelessly craved something. He couldn't understand what; maybe this was just how an undine lived. His father was a human, so he couldn't understand well.

However, Mika repeatedly told him what it meant to find love. It was everything to an undine, a second close to their life's primary purpose. It was more than familial love, a bond that Gray could only ever have with one person.

The one person he met by falling through a pond.

Juvia liked to play by the water every day, skipping rocks and kicking her feet in the shallow end.

She was an only child; her parent's often too busy to pay her any attention.

The water created a reflection she spoke to, mistakenly learning the habit of talking in the third person.

Juvia this, Juvia that...her parents would never let her make a debut in high society with such an odd way of talking.

One day as she sat by the pond, the young girl was started by a sharp shout, one that was...falling from below?

She threw herself back and out of the way as a boy popped out of the water, gravity bringing him down on the ground.

He grunted, rubbing his nose as he stood up.

"What the..." He pouted as he looked around, soon locking eyes with the girl behind him.

"Who..." Juvia began to say, startled as he quickly jumped back in the water.

"Be careful! You could drown!" She shouted, rushing back to the water's edge. But the surface was still, and the boy was gone as if he'd never existed.

Gray did exist and quickly wished he hadn't. His chest, his heart...it felt like it would beat its way out onto the ground. What was this? What did she do to him? Why does he feel so...mushy?

He ignored such a creepy feeling, going back to the quiet life he lived with his parents, unable to get her image out of his head.

Years passed before they would meet again, on the eve of Juvia's eighteenth birthday. Her parents threw a ball, introducing her to all sorts of people from across Fiore. But she didn't really care to fake a smile all evening.

She escaped to her safe haven, sitting beside the pond once again.

She couldn't forget that strange boy with the droopy eyes, even after all these years. He was wonderfully precious to her, like a fairy. She wondered if they'd ever meet again.

"It's rude to leave a party without even having one dance, no?" She turned around, rolling her eyes as she saw Lyon.

"I don't care much for dances," She sighed, frowning as he crouched down beside her.

"I'd rather if you learned to be more well behaved," He frowned, tightly gripping her chin with his forefinger and thumb. "My fiancee has to have manners."

"I'll do well to remember that," She glared at him as he stood up, turning to walk back inside.

"I'll see you in a few minutes,"

Her rage always escalated when that creep was around, never even able to care about him for a second. He didn't like her anyway since their relationship was arranged for their parent's benefit. She caught him multiple times cavorting with his own maid that he seemed to adore ten times more.

She looked into the pond, sighing again. She wanted to be with that boy from her memories, wondering just what could lie underneath this shallow surface.

Maybe she could go through, too? She never thought to try it before. And drowning was always better than a miserable life with Lyon.

Juvia waded into the water, her large ballgown helping to drag her to the bottom.

Please, please, please, let me see him again.

She closed her eyes and held her breath, struggling when she needed to exhale.

Juvia forced herself to the surface, gasping for air as she reached the top.

Opening her eyes, she met the shocked gaze of a boy almost her age, those same droopy eyes staring at her with ripe panic.

"It's... It's you!" Her smile stretched widely at the boy before her, his blush increasing with each passing second.

"Could you...!" He roared and slapped the water at her. "I'm taking a bath!"

"Oh..." Juvia quickly turned around, covering her eyes. "My goodness, I'm so sorry!"

"Uh-huh, just don't turn around, I mean it!" He growled, the splash of the water letting her know he got out.

"Let me get your hand," Juvia blushed as she turned to see him holding out his hand, wearing nothing but a loose pair of trousers. She'd never seen a man shirtless like this before. It was...she couldn't think of the word.

"Thank you," She swallowed her nerves as they stood before one another.

"Do you need some help getting back?" He quirked a brow, looking over her shoulder. "That gate should've been closed, but I can push you back through it, so you get home,"

"N-No!" He took a step back as she shouted. "N-No, I don't want to go back there, please don't send me away,"

"Fine then," He huffed with an annoyed hue on his cheeks. "You can stay, but we'll have to ask my parents,"

"Okay," She quietly followed behind him as he began to walk, the soaked train dragging against the forest floor.

"May I ask your name?"

"Gray," He threw her a look over his shoulder, walking with his hands held up behind his head. "Yours?"

"I'm Juvia,"

"Juvia," He mumbled, unconsciously smiling at the way it flowed on his tongue.

[mycatshuman]

Wrapped Up In A Romcom

Virgil Has A Fall

I'm sorry that I haven't really been posting. I think my mental health hasn't been too good. If you could let me know what you think, it'd be a great motivator to get me to work on this fic and my others more. You don't have to but I'd appreciate it.

A big thanks to @lehuka123 for reading this you're great.

Next | More

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Virgil had been interested in history since he was a young child. One of the things that stood out to him often was his fascination with ancient Egypt and their mummies. Of course, King Tut was one of his favorites. He was absolutely spellbound by Tutankhamun. The mysterious boy king and his mostly untouched tomb full of wonderful treasures drew in Virgil's attention like a moth to a flame. It was unlike most things at that age. 

Just as King Tut kept his attention, so did the mummies. Virgil still remembers a book his grandmother had gifted him that came with a poster on the mummification process. He found it very interesting how they went about preserving their dead. 

Perhaps his fascination with mummies began with the Mummy movies. Or maybe he just got the interest in it from his mom and grandmother. Most likely, it was a bit of both. And as he grew older, he found himself devouring history with joy. Books, movies, tv shows, documentaries, nearly anything he could get his hands on. There was something so enticing about the cultures and the people who had lived before him. It was certainly no surprise to the people who knew Virgil when he went to college for a degree in archeology after high school. 

Soon enough, Virgil was off on a trip to Africa for his first archeological dig in the sands of Egypt. He was very nervous and very excited. Although, he didn't have high expectations on his chances of finding anything "breaking news" worthy.

After all, it would be his first dig and it could often take weeks to find anything. By the time he was to return home, he might not find but a third of an ancient jug. Whatever Virgil expected from his trip, it was most certainly not what he got. 

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

It had been a long, hot day in the sun as Virgil shifted through sand and worked to discover ancient artifacts buried in the sands near the foundation of an ancient Egyptian home. He had shifted through sand for hours sweating his ass off only to find a few pieces of what he theorized to be an ancient plate. 

Still, he was very proud of himself for his find. An ancient plate was still a piece of history after all. 

Virgil stayed up long after the other archeologists and workers went to bed to just- take everything in. It was almost hard for him to believe that he was here. In Egypt. He could only imagine how it must have looked back in the time of the mighty pharaohs. It made him feel jittery inside. Like he had swallowed a whole bathtub full of pop rocks and they were all popping simultaneously in his stomach. He had too much energy for him to lay down and go to bed. But he had to get to bed soon. He would be heading into the city tomorrow to buy some more supplies for the camp. All those people would drain all the energy he had. And it was not going to be good for his social anxiety. 

So he decided to take a small walk to settle his nerves and expellmost of his energy, but not before making sure he had his emergency pack. His emergency pack was filled with three flashlights, ten packs of batteries, twenty lighters, five bottles of water, two ropes, a phone, a radio, 10 flares, a charger cord, a first aid kit, and four rechargeable battery packs for his phone. He also made sure to grab his phone. That was the one thing he didn't keep in his emergency pack. He just made sure to take it because it would be easier on his anxiety. Once Virgil checked to make sure he had everything in his pack, he set off on his late night walk. 

He walked through the sands for about an hour. The night's bright full moon hanging in the sky above him helpfully lighting his way. It was peaceful. Nice and calming. When Virgil finally felt the gentle fingers of sleep pulling at him, he turned to go back...only to be pulled down into the sand as gravity pulled it into an empty space underneath the sands. Virgil screamed as he fell and landed hard on stone. He stopped screaming with a grunt. The sand still trickled down around him but much less now than it had been at first. Virgil rubbed his back as he glanced around at the ominous darkness around him. A small circle of light came from the hole about ten feet above him from where he had fallen through, lighting a small area around him. He shakily fumbled around for his backpack and pulled out a flashlight and flicked it on.

Virgil swept the flashlight around to gain his bearings and find a way out of the situation he seemed to find himself in. "Oh great, I don't see another way up." He sighed. He aimed the light around and inspected the space around him. "Seems to be a passageway way," he hummed to himself, barely keeping himself from panicking. It would be no good for him if he panicked now. A glance behind showed a dead end. He let out a huff. "I guess I'll have to go this way." He stood up and winced as pain shot up his left leg. A look down showed that his ankle was swelling. "Must have sprained it." Virgil tentatively began limping forward, keeping his flashlight swinging from side to side to keep an eye out for anything dangerous. 

Soon, he came to a doorway and gazed in only for his jaw to drop in amazement. "Oh my god! This is an antechamber!" All around him stood various treasures such as large statues, couches, and beds all decorated with gold and precious stones. Virgil's eyes were wide in amazement as he stared around at all of the stunning artifacts before him. Virgil moved deeper into the room and found two more doorways as he tried to catch glimpses of the paintings on the walls. One of the doors lead straight ahead and the other to the right. After taking a moment to decide, he went to the right and entered the other room. 

What he saw had him freezing in his tracks. There, before him stood an ornate golden sarcophagus. He had found the burial chamber. The walls were painted in beautiful colors that depicted the life of the person placed here. Virgil could already tell this was someone of importance if all the treasure was any indication. The outstanding craftsmanship of the sarcophagus only confirmed that suspicion. Virgil stumbled forward, awestruck by the image before him. Tentatively, he ran a gentle hand along the sarcophagus. He directed his flashlight at the cartouche on the lid and translated the hieroglyphs. "King Roman…" he whispered softly. His fingers delicately traced over the hieroglyphs.  "Hello, King Roman," he said gently. "I can't wait for your people to hear about you. That'll be one more piece of the puzzle in their heritage." Virgil moved further down the sarcophagus and inspected the rest of the lid. He frowned as he came across what looked to be a spell or curse of sorts. He leaned forward and translated out loud. "Shall my resting place be disturbed on a full moon by a young male, may my last wish be granted." Virgil shivered and took a step back from the sarcophagus.

"Okay, I think it's time for me to leave." He turned to leave and find another exit only to freeze when a loud noise sounded from behind him. Then he heard sliding. Quickly, he spun around to find the lid of the sarcophagus moving. Virgil stared wide eyed as the lid was shoved off and the mummy within sat up and turned to face him. He watched with disbelief as the mummy's hand rose up and began to unwrap the bandages from their head as if they were freshly placed. Slowly, a handsome face revealed itself from beneath the cloth. Gorgeous brown eyes, like rich soil that you knew would sprout beautiful new life, stared back at him. The archaeologist's jaw dropped as the other before him smirked. 

"Well, you certainly don't disappoint."

🔺️🔺️🔺️🔺️🔺️🔺️🔺️🔺️🔺️🔺️🔺️🔺️🔺️🔺️🔺️🔺️🔺️

Taglist: @misery-killed-me @superwholocked-for-life @mirror2thespirit @aroundofapplesauce @lyditist @little-euro-girl @unicornofdarknessstuff @odette-ssbu @ray-does-stuff

Maybe you could let me know if this is worth it to continue posting?

[painttoolyamanaka]

The Moon's Acapella

[1,525 words]

Hamura Ōtsutsuki/Female!Reader

tw// slight mentions of past injury and abusive Clan parents (nothing too heavy though)

The surface of the land was dusty, almost shimmering as you slipped out of your house, a leather-bound bag tucked under your ribs. What you were doing wasn’t forbidden, but it was looked down upon and shamed so severly it might as well have been the death penalty. And in some cases it was. You didn’t care for the judgement, nor did you want it to be revealed for the fear of your life. 

The moon itself shimmered with beauty and yet there was something so deep and aching when you touched the surface. You knew the stories, the legends of the demon in the moon and the moon itself wilted to rock. The consequence of speaking up about it. You’d learned better, and even when the eyes of the village faded away, your parent’s glares burned into your back. Your big mouth had almost led to the disgrace of your already struggling branch of the clan. The pinkie missing from your left hand was an unpleasant reminder. 

But even then you loved the Moon and everything about it.

It was more than a raging monster. It was actually quite ethereal if you listened to its songs. You fed it occasional meals of chakra and let its wisps of a joyful embrace coat you. The moon demon was just as trapped as you were. You would never let it feel alone, the very nature of yourself forbade it.

In the outskirts of town, there was a grande palace, slanted into the wispy dirt. Nobody visited it except you, always left untouched and dust-ridden. The sand around it was brutal and sucked things in easily. The castle was too big to see sucked in even though slowly it broke. Cracks spiderwebbed up the marble sides, just barely reaching the towers that peaked into the sky, almost pointing towards the swirling stars.

With a single bound you floated over the sinkhole and landed on the tilting steps, already an expert. It only took one good pull to heave open the door and you hurried in.

The corridor was severely cracked down the middle, leaving half the room intact and the other half slanted. Silver sand seeped through the cracks and left the room in an eerie state, complete with the tall marble pillars and gentle light from the moon. You took a breath, letting the tension seep out of your bones and left your clan jacket on one of the pieces of furniture. This was a safe place. This was a somber yet joyful place, one of the only places where you were truly free. You were by no means a princess nor a queen but your white dress reflected the moon so right, so perfectly that sometimes you could believe the beauty that your mother praised you for.

You placed the satchel on the table and brought out a candle for the procession. It had taken a bit to find out what the Moon liked, but the songs never guided you astray.

The click of the lighter was like a switched flip for the Moon, energy brimming at the surface as you lit the single candle. It smelt of spring water and moondust, calming your head and soothing the Moon Goddess. The goddess’s pulse slowly thrummed, creating a melody. And you sang.

Your voice echoed through the chambers, soft and mature as you vocalized the Moon’s story. It was like you were possessed, head spinning until you felt light and barely registering the scooping up of the candle, the absence of your own footsteps, and the pale eyes that followed you.

When the Moon thrummed, your voice wobbled and when it screamed, your voice pitched as you let it sing its song through you. You could see the notes playing in front of your eyes as you sang for it.

The procession led down the hallways and through the parts of the abandoned castle that you memorized many times before until the thrumming faded and the piece finished up. A few notes from you, as an acknowledgement of the song you couldn’t even begin to understand.

You looked up at the massive double doors and placed your hands on them, ready to continue with the procession. Then, a pale hand wrapped around yours. It was so light you could barely believe it, but then you felt the almost familiar chakra signature. So similar to—

A devastating wail of pain ripped through the surface of the Moon as if it was struck and you let out a harsh cry, jerking yourself away from the hand. The Moon wailed and wailed and you stumbled back, terror sucking the warmth and peacefulness from you in an instant.

You were found. You were as good as dead. The punishment wouldn’t be a finger this time, it would be your head, it would be your head.

“Calm down!”

You blinked and turned to the presence.

It was a man. You’d never seen him before, tall with two horns protruding from his skull and long light blue hair. His eyes were pale and full of an emotion that you couldn’t make sense of. His pale eyes were flashing with confusion and anger, a small vein visible from where he stood.

“What were you singing?”

You took a breath to compose yourself, “...it doesn’t have a name yet.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not my piece to name.” You stood up straighter, brushing off your dress. A flicker of curiosity passed his face but then the mental walls were back up again. Intriguing.

“Again, what do you mean?”

“I wasn’t singing for my own pleasure, I was singing for the Moon Goddess. I felt her spirit and I let her use my vocals to express herself, as I do.”

“As you do?”

“Every night for months.” You stepped forward, looking him in the eye. He froze.

“It’s you.”

“That was already established, no?”

He ignored your comment in favour of staring you down, “You’ve been tampering with the Moon.”

“That is not remotely what I’ve done.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m honouring the soul of the goddess inside the moon.”

“And why is that?”

“Because the dead deserve to be honoured. The Moon is alive, I’ve known this for so long. And my knowledge took a toll upon myself.” You held up the stump where your pinkie was, “If you all are so superior to the Moon Goddess why do you spit upon her name like she doesn’t hear you. Why do you hush those that hear her and speak for her? She may have once been kind, before her tale turned tragic but all I hear are endlessly demonized tales. I condemn her and her crimes but nobody deserves eternal bastardization like the colonies have done to her. She cries and she expresses joy just as a human. Her soul is trapped. If there is none to honour the human in her, I will do it myself.”

“...of course.” A soft, almost melancholy smile melted onto his features, “I can see it now.”

“What do you mean?” It was your turn to ask.

“The determination and raw strength. She, the Moon Goddess, would admire that.”

“And who are you to say this?”

“I am her son.” The Moon went quiet for a moment before a soft warble broke out, sad and angered and loving and everything in between. He looked at the ground, as if he was apprehensive, “...Even though she may not hold the same affections for me, I am her chakra, blood, and bone.”

“...and what is your name?”

“Hamura. Hamura Ōtsutsuki.”

The founder. You paused to stop yourself from letting out a small gasp. He simply smiled.

“And you are?”

“Y/N.”

He took your hand and brought it gently up to his lips.

“You have a wonderful voice dear Y/N. For a moment there, I believed you were the Moon Goddess herself.”

“You don’t call your own Mother by her title?”

“I don’t think she’d enjoy it if I did.”

“So you leave her to be slandered by your people?”

“It wasn’t me who started the rumors or the legends. They’re been there for centuries.”

You huffed and held tight to his wrist, “That is no excuse. Come, you’re going to finish the ritual with me.”

“I don’t want to pray to my own Mother.”

“It’s not a worshipping service Moonprince, it’s an altar of remembrance.”

“Oh.”

You felt a smile cross your own face as his hand tightened in yours, the soft thrum of his palm surprisingly pleasant against yours as you pushed open the doors, an altar waiting for you.

“It is… small.”

“It’s enough.”

You sat down and gestured for him to do the same. This room was empty, the altar placed in the middle of the space. Thin, translucent curtains let moonlight drape across the tiles as you kneeled on the mat. It was only meant for one person, so when Hamura sat he pressed against you.

The Moon Goddess thrummed lightly, cautiously and almost like a language that you couldn’t comprehend, only understand.

“Will you teach me?”

“Of course I will.”

[ask-demon-princess-astarte]

13 (Butterfly kisses against the other’s cheeks) would be cute for the kiss prompts! For Azirina!

💛 @vilkas

Thank you for sending this. It actually gave me a chance to come up with a headcannon for Khajiit.

It's pretty simple, where Khajiit, especially those that live in the desert areas of Elsweyr, have long eyelashes. Similar to camels and other such animals, to protect their eyes from any debris.

Do enjoy.

He had seen her face so many times, but he always seemed to find something new to adore about it when he looked upon her. Just the other day, it had been her eyelashes. They were long, matching the colour of the stripes in her grey fur so, unless you were close, you wouldn't notice them. 

 And close he was, pressing the damp cloth against her forehead as she panted. A sickness had claimed her, fever spiking as she lay in their bed. He frowned, helping her sit up as she began to cough. She always seemed so strong, so untouchable. To see her like this, so weak, pulled at his heart. 

 "Far….kas….." Her voice was hoarse, as if she had shouted repeatedly. 

 "I'm here love. I'm here." He said, patting the damp cloth against her face. She felt clammy, her fur clinging to her in large clumps. He growled, leaning over to get the healing potion a healer of the temple had given him. None of them would actually touch her though. They feared what would happen.

 "We cannot touch her. Not after the acolyte nearly died." The head priestess had insisted when he carried her in, fear clutching his heart as she vomited again, small specks of blood visible. 

 "You have to help her!" He had yelled. 

 "Not with the risk to ourselves!" She had roared back. "That poison in her system is too potent, too dangerous to have magic anywhere near her!" 

 "But she'll die! There must be something you can do!" He had cried in desperation, feeling her trembling against his back. 

 "Here." She had replied, pushing a bag of healing potions into his arms. "Give her these and keep her cool until her fever breaks." She had said before chasing them out of the temple.

 "Far…..kas…...so…..cold…." She panted as sweat dripped from her shivering frame. 

 "It's just the fever, love. Don't worry. I'm here." He said, leaning over her face as he tried to help her cool down. She was burning up, as if she was made of fire. As he moved, he saw her eyes flutter open, eyes unfocused and dim. They fixed on him for a moment, gaining a brief moment of clarity in the lucidity that held her. 

"My moon." She murmured, her hands finding his neck. She didn't want to pass on this sickness, feeling it battle the poison left by the mark on her shoulder. A war was going on within her body, and neither side was willing to surrender. A kiss would keep her mind clear rather than lucid. But to kiss him would put him at risk. 

 Instead, Farkas paused as he felt those long eyelashes brush against his cheek. Faintly, in the back of his mind, he vaguely recalled her explaining why her eyelashes were so long.

 "This one lived in the desert, yes?" She had reminded him. "Khajiit who live on the deserts have longer eyelashes to protect their eyes from the sand." She explained. "They block the grains of sand blown up on the wind." 

 "So….that's why your eyelashes are so long." He nodded, watching her smile at him. As she did, she blinked, the movement of those long lashes framing her eyes catching his attention.

 Each blink was slow, the kiss delicate and gentle. He closed his eyes as she slowly fell back down onto the bed, panting to try to cool herself down. He resumed patting her with the cloth to cool her fever. 

 "Don't worry, love. We'll beat this. We always do."