#the way he's still speaking to her like a father and has to coax her into this

[pasdetrois]

Sook-hee... why are you shaking? Pathetic. Don't be scared. Don't be scared. Strike me. Kill me! That's when... it really begins. The real pain. Like the day I killed you.

The Villainess (2017) dir. Jung Byung-gil

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

the small bundle covered in blankets felt heavy in kaiser’s hands. kaiser was by no means weak in; but when the previously crying baby was coaxed by your exhausted voice to sleep, millions of doubts weighed down on kaiser—even heavier than the weight of his father’s hands on kaiser’s neck when he was a child.

“i think she’s fond of you. she must have heard those conversations you had with her when she was still in my stomach.”

your small, almost inaudible voice brought your husband out of his trance. the soft blonde hair peeking out of the pale blue beanie—the hair most definitely being inherited from kaiser—were like golden rays of sun. kaiser looked down at you, sitting down on the bed you were currently lying down. kaiser moved his gaze to his daughter, who slept peacefully.

“i don’t know,” he swallowed, a tattooed hand gently caressing his daughter’s cheek. “am i…really cut out to be a father? what if i become just like him? what if i accidentally hurt her just like that piece of scum did with me? what if she hates me? what if—“

your eyes soften, remembering the days in your childhood with kaiser, when he was always playing with the stray dogs while soot and bruises, and sometimes even blood, ornamented his body. you’ll never forget the days when you were both 14, when he finally told you; his father’s treatment of him, his father’s constant drinking, how his mother left him, and how his goal was just…to be loved.

and that’s when you realized: he had no home—no an emotional one, at least. a boy who was never taught manners or how to survive or how to properly speak, a boy who was never taught what was good for him and what was bad for him. and he never even went to school either until bastard münchen taught classes.

you reached forward to reach his hand, kaiser once against moving his glance to you. “michael, you won’t. i know you won’t. you’re not him, michael. you’re you. and unlike when you were growing up, i won’t leave you or our daughter. ever.” you brought his tattooed hand up to your lips. “it’ll be hard, but im sure it will all turn out okay, michael.”

and suddenly kaiser feels a sting, tears beginning to pool at the brim of his eyes as his chest tightens. damn it, he didn’t even cry during your delivery…but when the two most important women—no, people, in his life are right in front of him, one of them looking at him like he’s the most precious treasure in the world, how could he not be vulnerable?

kaiser takes your hands and placed it on his chest—right where his heart is. he runs his thumb over the cool surface of your wedding ring on your finger, his daughter seemingly beginning to wake up, though still quiet.

“thank you for being in my life. i love you.”

———

to anyone who says “ooc” “kaiser would never do this” etc,

lemme just remind you that kaiser has stated MULTIPLE TIMES throughout the bastard münchen vs PXG match that his goal was just to be loved. another thing is that in kaiser’s official character profile (from the egoist bible), his type is described as “someone who’s beautiful, smart, and full of love”

(if anyone says “omg ness is literally his type” in the comments then im actually going to scream because i hate kainess with a passion. it’s so toxic and kaiser literally sees ness as a dog and ness’ so-called “feelings” for kaiser is just a result of manipulation. plus, ness doesn’t actually match kaiser’s type. ness is smart, yes, but ness has never been stated to be good looking in any way shape or form. in fact, judging from ness’ backstory, he might even be canonically ugly. plus, ness doesn’t ACTUALLY love kaiser. again, it’s just “feelings” that began to form from manipulation.)

[ozzgin]

Request/Idea-

Male Yandere Lawyer x Female Embroider Reader (a lady who works as a tailor is fine too)

Imagine a man falling head over heels for that newly employed lady who hand embroiders beautiful handkerchiefs in a luxury shop he visits to get his custom suits! And he just trying to coax her into dating him, marrying him, and becoming his stay at home wife (and mother of his children eventually) 🥰🤭

Age difference? I need some DILF Daddy energy more in my life (but don’t make him an actual father…yet)

P.S. I adore your OCs and writing. And your artwork is way too fucking good! You’re art is just *chef’s kiss* infuckingcredible

-👘

Ooh, you know what this reminds me of? I have a yaoi volume from Scarlet Beriko, “Queen and the tailor”, about an interior designer that visits a legendary tailor whose suits will supposedly help you achieve success. The tailor turns out to be a scary looking, blunt man but nonetheless extremely talented. I liked the premise a lot, so it’s definitely interesting to try out a different perspective.

In this case I have the image of a patient, soft-spoken reader and a hurried, short tempered lawyer. Comically different but in a way that eventually works out, you know? Also thank you for the kind words!

Yandere!Lawyer x Embroiderer!Reader Headcanons

Featuring a Reader that is blissfully unaware the lawyer she just stared dating has their entire life together already sorted out.

Content: female reader, age gap, older yandere, obsessive behavior

Your eyes begin to hurt mildly, so you look out the window and blink repeatedly, trying to refresh your poor sight. Such detailed works always strain you terribly, but you love seeing the finished result. Others must, too, given your handkerchiefs are often sold out the very same day. Right before your needle pierces the silk canvas anew, the door opens with a burst and you jolt. An older man in a suit, arguing loudly over the phone. He’s drumming his fingers over the counter, eyes darting around in search for an attendant. You know the type quite well, so you hurry over with the hoop still in your hand. “Might I help you with anything?” You mouth discreetly. He turns to you, stares for a couple of seconds, and promptly ends his call.

Out of all the places, he certainly didn’t expect regretting his rusty, unpolished flirting skills in a luxury tailor shop. Yet here he is now, clumsily mumbling something about his new suit he’s come to pick up and wondering how to connect that with your number. The name’s the easy part, as it’s neatly and conveniently printed out on the little badge pinned to your collar. Everything else, not so much. You excuse yourself and return moments later with his order. Shit. You tilt your head, confused by the delayed response, worrying whether you forgot something. Next time. He’ll figure it out for sure next time he comes here.

If there’s one good thing about his career, it’s that his eyes have been trained to spot every detail. For example the embroidery hoop you gently held while speaking to him, so he knows exactly what his next custom order will be. Truth be told, he didn’t anticipate your popularity and long waiting times, but a calculated raised tone with a sprinkle of intimidation has convinced the employee to assign him to you as earliest priority. Whether he can flirt remains to be seen, but arguing with others? Child’s play.

“Thank you for coming again today.” You bow slightly and extend the gift bag. “Although, I must say…I’ve never seen you using these before. What has caused your sudden interest in handkerchiefs?” Rather bold of you to begin such conversations, but your curiosity is too great. No matter how hard you try, you can’t imagine why a blunt, nonchalant man like him would abruptly become passionate about embroidery. A lover? You smile faintly at the idea. Whoever it is, they’ve taken quite the challenge upon themselves. The lawyer frowns at the inquiry. It seems you’re just as observant as him. Maybe this shall be the pretext he can finally cling onto. So he presents it in the factual truth you’d hear in a courthouse: it’s his excuse to see you. You raise your eyebrows in surprise. Well now, isn’t it just silly? He could’ve simply asked. Buying countless expensive handmade items instead of plainly confessing his intentions…He stumbles, flustered. The same man whose ruthless reputation has even reached your humble ears is anxiously awaiting your response with a deep blush on his face.

The childlike innocence doesn’t last long. You’ve agreed to date him and that’s great, but he’s a man with little time that has known exactly what he wants for many years. When he laid his eyes on you he didn’t imagine cheesy coffee dates as you discuss your favorite color and cautiously breach the topic of intimacy. What’s the point? He’s already certain he’ll spend the rest of his life with you. Skip the unnecessary steps. On the other hand, you’re not as cooperative as he’d wish. Truly, the tangible proof that opposites attract. You’re always calm and take your time with everything. It’s almost frustrating how easygoing you are. When asked when you’re moving in with him, you just smiled and wondered out loud what could be wrong with your small studio above the shop. Marriage? Good question, you never thought about it.

Oh, the irony. Last time a client was being particularly difficult, your lawyer boyfriend pulled him out by the collar under the mortified stares of the other attendants and shoppers. The exact attitude he himself would’ve shown before, yet this time it’s different. Of course it is, it involves you. His thin patience runs out if it’s you. That’s all there is to it. Can you blame a man for following his heart? They say you should always chase your dreams; he prefers hunting them down efficiently, and the shotgun is pointed in your direction. His sweet, exquisite prey he can never get enough of.

Finally you agree to move in with him. Your hesitation was maddening and he’d started coming up with downright psychotic alternatives to convince you, such as your studio burning down after a vicious attack of some unknown hooligans. So it was rather wise of you not to push someone that knows the law like the back of his hand, even if you aren’t aware of it yet. He enthusiastically guides you around your new forever home, omitting unimportant details. The spare office he emptied for a future nursery? You’ll get to that later.

He can’t wait to spoil you. See, that’s the advantage of dating an older man. He’s gotten his life sorted out a long time ago. All that was left was finding you. You just need to be a darling and behave. He knows you will. After all, you’re his talented little embroideress that won’t have to worry about anything else ever again.

[tooclevertobehappy]

Hidden in plain sight Part.5

Trigger warning : angst

Clara had been lying in bed for hours, replaying every moment in her head. The way Alexia’s eyebrows had scrunched up in annoyance. How Ingrid had held her hand so gently like she might shatter if she let go. How Mapi had stayed by her side, no matter what she did or said.

She had lost control. Cried. Screamed until the doctors had no choice but to sedate her. Then they had left her alone, as if that would help. Since waking, she had spent every conscious moment trying to figure out how to escape the situation awaiting her.

Early in the morning, she’d already “talked” to the police and child protective services. Or at least, they had tried to talk to her. Clara refused to blame her father. No matter how much evidence they’d shoved in her face, she denied it all. Over and over again, she gave them explanations for her injuries. Excuses she’d practiced for years. If she buried it deep enough, maybe they would just let her go back to her life.

When they told her that her father had been arrested the day before, Clara got angry. Furious, even. He was being held pending trial, and no matter what she said, they were intent on convicting him of abuse. Abuse? He hadn’t done anything wrong.

“He’s the only one who stayed,” she whispered to the officers, her voice trembling. “He only disciplined me the way he saw fit. He said so. I made my mom leave us. He told me. We only have each other now. It has to stay that way.”

They had tried to explain that what he had done was wrong, that she hadn’t been the reason for her mom’s departure, that abuse was never justified, but it fell on deaf ears, Clara had already disconnected herself from the moment, retreating into her thoughts where she could control the narrative.

They are trying to paint her as a victim when she wasn’t, she wasn’t, she wasn’t, she refuses to be called as such, she’s just a daughter trying to do right by her dad, but they won’t let her see him, or even just talk to him no matter how hard she begged.

Since then, she had stayed in bed, the steady beeping of the machines in the room her only company. She barely blinked when nurses came in to check on her. They tried to talk to her, coaxing her to speak, but she remained blank-faced, refusing to respond or even turn her head in their direction.

She heard them whisper about her. The little abused girl in room 504. How her “monster” dad had treated her. How she seemed “brainwashed.” The words burrowed under her skin. She wanted to get up and scream at them, to demand how they dared to speak ill of her father, who had only done what was right. To make them stop treating her like some helpless child who couldn’t understand what had been done to her.

But she didn’t have the strength. She felt exhausted in ways she hadn’t before. She longed for sleep that wouldn’t come. No matter how still she lay or how long she kept her eyes closed, sleep evaded her. A cruel twist of fate.

Everything hurt, more than just her injuries, it felt like every inch of her skin had been rubbed raw and the smallest of touch felt like electricity running through her. She found herself nostalgic of the sedated state she’d been in before, floating in nothingness, where her darkest thoughts couldn’t reach her.

She’d felt at peace then, no expectations, no one to try and convince her of things she knew were wrong, no one to yell at her, to look at her with pity. No appearances to keep up with, she could just… be.

She didn’t react when the door opened again, assuming that another nurse had come to gawk at the abused kid in her wing, she kept her eyes directed at the same corner of the room she’d been staring at for hours.

But the person who entered sat in the chair next to her bed, she could hear their steady breathing over the hum of her heart monitor, could smell whiffs of a perfume she knew but couldn’t place. Curiosity won over her desire to be left alone, she turned her head, meeting Mapi’s eyes.

Clara raised an eyebrow at the defender sitting there, Mapi looked quite different from last night, gone was the tense woman, she sat there like this was just another day, like they weren’t staring at each other from the confine of a hospital room.

“No Ingrid, no Alexia?” she asked, tone light, but her eyes still darted to the door to her room, half-expecting one of them to barge in.

“No, just me Nena.” confirmed Mapi, keeping her eyes on Clara.

“Why?” Clara wondered aloud, she rarely saw Mapi without her other half, and the captain usually insisted on being part of all important conversations, like this one would undeniably be.

Mapi smiled softly at her, her hand coming to rest next to hers on the bed, close enough to feel her presence but careful not to touch. Clara stayed silent, but she appreciated the gesture, her eyes looking down at their hands before coming back up to look at her.

“I thought it’d be better for them not to be here today.” she said before adding “Alexia’s a fixer, and this, no matter how much she wishes, she can’t fix, and Ingrid, well.” She took a small pause smiling at the thought of her loving girlfriend “Well, Ingrid just wants to protect you, but you won’t let her yet, so that just leaves me.”

Clara hummed pensively, eyes darting between the door and their hands laying on her bed.

“Why are you here then?” she asks, raising her head to stare at Mapi, eyebrows scrunched in confusion. “Why aren’t you with Ingrid?”

“I came to talk to you.” answers Mapi.

There it is.

“About what?” she asks trying but failing at looking indifferent, they both know that this conversation won’t be any easier than the one from the night before, but Mapi hopes that the absence of the other two women will ease it.

Mapi’s smiling at her, her eyes softening, the same way she looks at Irene’s son when he has hurt himself and came to her, and Clara is torn between falling into the offered comfort and rejecting it all together.

“About you, about what happened if you wish, but more importantly about what you’ll do now” she answers, her hand coming up to lay on top of Clara’s.

It’s a small gesture, but somehow it terrifies her, she feels stuck in her bed, unable to leave it, to escape the room, the conversation she doesn’t want to have. She wishes she could run, but she just lays here.

“What?” shes croaks out.

“With your dad arrested, you can’t go home alone,” Mapi said. Her voice was calm and even, like she was explaining something simple, but Clara could feel the words breaking her apart. “Even if your 18th birthday is coming up, the law still considers you a minor for a few more months.”

She’d forgotten about that. Of course, with her dad gone, it’d be just her. Alone. The word echoed in her head, hollow and cold. She knew what would happen next, foster care. She’d heard the stories, seen the quiet, broken kids who came back from it. Some never came back at all. She couldn’t go. She wouldn’t. She just wanted her dad.

Mapi watched her carefully, her steady gaze picking up every shift in Clara’s expression, every flicker of emotion she couldn’t quite hide. She saw the moment Clara tensed, her small hand slipping out from under hers and retreating to grip the comforter. Her fingers twisted into the fabric with such force that her knuckles turned white.

Mapi’s chest tightened at the sight, but she stayed calm. She knew better than to push too hard, too fast. Lest last night situation happened all over again.

“Ingrid and I would like for you to come to our house.” Mapi tells her “When you’re better and they release you of course” she adds.

Clara’s eyes darted toward her, suspicion flickering in their depths. “Why?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She shook her head slightly, like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Why would you want me to come to your house?”

Mapi let out a small noise, confusion and hurt mingling in her expression. “What do you mean, why?” she asked, her brows furrowing.

“Why do you want me there?” Clara pressed, her tone sharp despite the softness of her voice. She looked at Mapi like the suggestion was some kind of trick, something too good to be true.

“Because we care about you!” Mapi said, her voice rising slightly before she caught herself. She leaned forward, her hand twitching toward Clara’s before pulling back. “Because we love you, and we want to help you,” she continued, her voice quieter now, almost pleading. “If you’ll let us.”

She wants to believe Mapi, she really does, but she can’t.

“I want to go back to my dad!” she insists.

Mapi’s smile was soft but sad, the kind that made Clara’s heart ache even more “I know you do Nena” she said gently “but you can’t, they won’t allow you to.”

Clara clenched her fists, willing the tears to stay put, but it was no use. Hot streaks rolled down her cheeks, her breaths hitching in uneven bursts. She tried to speak, to fight back, but all that came out was a strangled sound as she choked on the sobs she’d been holding back.

“I just want him Mapi” she finally managed to cry out between gasps “He’s my dad, please you have to understand, he’s all I have!”

Mapi hesitated, her arms half-raised as if unsure whether to reach out. Before she could decide, Clara made the choice for her, throwing herself into Mapi’s embrace with such force it startled them both. Her arms locked tightly around Mapi’s back, clinging like she might leave if she let go.

Mapi froze momentarily, caught off guard, but then her instincts took over. She wrapped her arms around Clara, holding her securely as though shielding her from the world. One hand rested on Clara’s head, her fingers moving gently through her hair. She shifted, sliding onto the bed to pull Clara into her lap, lifting her with ease.

“I’ve got you.” Mapi murmured softly, her voice steady and low, the way you might comfort a child waking from a nightmare. “I’ve got you, Nena.”

Clara didn’t answer. She buried her face into Mapi’s shoulder, letting the sobs come freely now. The weight of everything she’d held in for so long poured out, leaving her trembling in Mapi’s arms.

The room was silent except for Clara’s muffled sobs and the rhythmic sound of Mapi’s hand moving gently through her hair. Mapi didn’t rush her, didn’t try to fill the silence with words. She just held her, letting her cry it out, anchoring her in the storm.

After what felt like an eternity, Clara’s sobs began to quiet, her breaths still hitching but less erratic now. She didn’t let go, though. Her grip on Mapi’s shirt stayed firm, as if she feared everything might fall apart the moment she loosened her hold.

When she finally pulled her head back, her face was streaked with tears, her eyes red and puffy. She sniffled, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Sorry,” she mumbled, her voice hoarse.

Mapi shook her head immediately. “No, Nena, don’t apologize.” She reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Clara’s ear. “You’ve been holding too much inside. You needed to let it out.”

Clara’s lips quivered, but she bit down on them, trying to regain some semblance of control. “I don’t know what to do,” she admitted in a whisper, her voice trembling. “Everything feels… broken.”

Mapi’s heart ached at the words, but she met Clara’s gaze, her own steady and warm. “I know it feels like that now,” she said softly, “but you don’t have to figure it all out on your own. That’s why Ingrid and I want you to stay with us. So we can help you piece it back together, step by step.”

Clara looked down at her hands, her fingers still fidgeting with the comforter. “I don’t want to be a burden,” she murmured.

“You won’t be,” Mapi replied firmly. “You’re not, you’ve never been one.” She placed a hand over Clara’s, stilling her restless movements. “You’re family to us, Clara. That’s what family does, we take care of each other.”

Clara swallowed hard, her throat tight. The word “family” felt foreign, almost too big to grasp. It wasn’t something she was used to, not in the way Mapi seemed to mean it.

“Do you really mean that?” she asked, her voice small, her doubt clear.

Mapi nodded without hesitation. “I do,” she said. “And so does Ingrid. We both care about you more than you know.” She paused, giving Clara’s hand a gentle squeeze. “But it’s up to you, Nena. We’re not going to force you. If you don’t want to stay with us, we’ll find another way.”

Clara’s breath hitched again, though this time it wasn’t from tears. It was from the weight of the choice being placed in her hands.

“I just…” She hesitated, her voice faltering. “I don’t know if I can trust it. Trust you.”

Mapi’s expression softened, and she leaned in slightly, her voice low and steady. “That’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to trust everything right now. We’ll show you, not just tell you. One day at a time.”

Clara stared at her, searching her face for any sign of insincerity, any crack in the warmth she was offering. But there was nothing there but patience and care.

And for the first time, the faintest flicker of hope sparked in her chest.

The flicker was fragile, threatening to extinguish with the slightest breeze, but it was there, a warmth she hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever. Clara took a shaky breath, her gaze shifting back to her hands tangled in the comforter. She didn’t respond immediately, her thoughts too loud, too jumbled to form words.

Mapi didn’t push. She stayed quiet, her hand still resting over Clara’s, offering her presence without demanding anything in return. Clara wasn’t used to this, someone waiting for her, someone letting her take her time. The silence wasn’t suffocating for once, it was a space where she could breathe, even if it was uneven and hesitant.

Finally, Clara lifted her eyes, meeting Mapi’s steady gaze. “What if I mess everything up?” she asked, her voice so soft it was almost a whisper. “What if you regret it?”

Mapi smiled gently, her eyes warm with understanding. “Then we’ll figure it out together,” she said simply. “Clara, you don’t have to be perfect. None of us are. You don’t have to prove anything to us, we’re here because we care, not because we expect you to be something you’re not.”

Clara blinked, her throat tightening again. The words were unfamiliar, like hearing a melody she’d forgotten long ago. She opened her mouth to respond but hesitated, the weight of everything she wanted to say too much to put into words.

Instead, she nodded, just once, her movements small and uncertain. It wasn’t a yes, not fully, but it wasn’t a no either. It was a step, however tentative, toward something she wasn’t sure she could name yet.

Mapi seemed to sense the significance of the gesture. Her smile widened slightly, a spark of relief crossing her features, but she didn’t make a big deal out of it. “That’s all I ask,” she said softly. “One step at a time, Nena.”

Clara let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her shoulders sagging as if some of the weight she’d been carrying had lifted, even just a little. “Okay,” she whispered, the word barely audible but enough to crack through the walls she’d built around herself.

Mapi gave her hand one last gentle squeeze before pulling her back against her, letting Clara reclaim her space laying on her chest. “Whenever you’re ready,” she said, her tone as light as it was reassuring. “No rush. I’ll be here.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Clara believed her.

[jaimeslanisters]

the pawn in every lover's game (part fifteen)

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!Reader

When you’re ten, your father sends you to King’s Landing to befriend a princess and woo a prince. A lioness growing up amongst dragons is a dangerous thing indeed.

crossposted on ao3 masterlist word count: 10k notes: spite is genuinely the greatest motivator. i had plans to make this longer but i genuinely felt i would die if i didn't post right now so! enjoy (:

The dance ends all too soon. You wish it had lasted longer. You wish it had never started to begin with. You hate every passing second and you can’t pull yourself away. There’s an ache, deep in your chest, as you watch Aegon and Helaena finish. There’s a final note that the bards play, one final mournful strum of the harp, and the two of them unfurl from one another, the space growing between the two of them as they pull away. At the last moment, Aegon captures Helaena’s hand, bowing his head as he brings it to his lips. Helaena closes her eyes, her free hand coming up to clutch at her chest, and, in the multicolor glow of the candles, it looks like a hazy memory, like something you’ve dreamed of and have only just remembered.

It looks like a song.

Next to you, Floris sucks in air sharply, completely enraptured by the show in front of her, and you’re struck with the memory of your cousins whispering and giggling about their dance during the opening feast. The Targaryens are beautiful - you know this as surely as you know that you are a Lannister with all that that entails - but their allure goes beyond that. It’s intoxicating. It’s overwhelming.

There’s almost a sense of relief in knowing that you aren’t the only one to be pulled in by them.

Aegon releases Helaena from his hold and, together, the two of them walk back to the royal table, a careful space between the two of them. As they pass, all the nobles rise to their feet and you join them, your hand shooting out to support Floris as she stumbles slightly on her way up. She tilts into you, seemingly content with you supporting her weight, but you don’t pay her any mind, your gaze locked onto the newlyweds.

Aegon looks straight ahead, fixated, but Helaena spares you a glance and she smiles, her whole visage melting into something softer and sweeter. You smile back even though it feels wrong on your face, your smile stretched out too thin, but she doesn’t begrudge you for it. You wish she would. You wish she would push back at you for your inability to swallow this pain easily because that would mean that she was pushing back on something. You could bear that burden - you could bear anything for her - but she would never. She doesn’t need it regardless. You need it. You crave her anger at you like you crave absolution.

The two of them walk together to the dais at the front and, once they reach the shadow of the Iron Throne, they turn to each other. Aegon bows low at the waist while Helaena curtseys, nearly brushing the stone floor with her knees, officially signaling the end of the first dance and opening the floor for everyone else. A cheer breaks from the waiting nobles and, when the pair of them rise again, the waiting crowd breaks and moves to a dance floor, a moving wave that’s unstoppable. At your side, the silent Baela breaks away from you, pushing through the crowd toward where you last saw one of her Valeryon cousins. A part of you wants to follow behind her, see if you can’t coax her into speaking again, but the rest of you just wants to find Helaena and Aemond.

You turn to look up at the dais, in time to see Aemond rise from his seat, his eyes locked on you and you heave a sigh of relief as he nods when he notices his gaze, motioning for you to stay still so he can come find you.

Floris teeters closer to you, reaching up on her tiptoes to speak in your ear, stumbling closer by mistake so that her lips brush your earlobe in a move that has you shivering. She wobbles dangerously and your arm shoots out to gently grab her around the waist so she has some semblance of support. You belatedly realize that this is the closest you’ve ever been with someone who wasn’t a member of your family or Helaena and Aemond. “Is your prince coming to dance?” She aims to whisper but instead she practically yells in your ear, oblivious to your open wince.

You pull away from her, smiling in spite of your discomfort. “Are your sisters nearby?” You ask in lieu of responding, hoping that you could dump her on one of the other Four Storms and make her someone else’s problem. You’d feel bad about pushing her away except it’s hard to even conjure up the desire to. You want to spend the night in the company of Aemond and Helaena, not minding a girl you’ve just met - a girl who is seemingly completely uninterested in detaching herself from you.

She straightens up, craning her neck to try and scan the audience. She suddenly points in excitement, shouting “Maris!” in absolute glee, and you follow her pointing finger only to teeter back in shock.

Maris Baratheon is a tall, skinny girl with pale skin and a sea of freckles across her face. Her pitch-black hair is pulled tight against her scalp and, where Floris is soft and sweet, she is severe and sharp. She looks like a storm personified, thunderous and bold, a Baratheon through and through.

And she’s standing right in front of you, frowning at her youngest sister wagging her finger just in front of her nose.

“My lady,” you rush out, your curtsey coming out more like a short bob with the way that Floris leans her entire weight on you. “My apologies for not noticing you. I wa-”

“Have you no shame?” Maris hisses, plainly ignoring you in favor of narrowing her stormy blue eyes at her younger sister. “Mother didn’t let you come just for you to embarrass yourself in front of the royal family.”

Floris frowns tempestuously and it slowly dawns on you that, in spite of appearances, she may be just as stormy as her sisters. “I don’t see the princes or the princesses around.”

“Aye and what is she?” Maris shoots back and you startle to realize that she’s turned her dark gaze on you. You open your mouth to insist that you are no princess or anything resembling royalty but the elder Baratheon girl doesn’t even offer you the chance to. “You should have minded yourself. Controlled yourself.”

Floris turns her nose up, rolling her eyes. “Lady Lannister wasn’t bothered.”

Maris huffs. “You idiot. You essentially held her hostage. She couldn’t escape you!”

“Maybe it’s hard for you but I can manage to befriend people without offending them at every step!”

“This isn’t about me! This is about yo-”

“Oh is it? Are you s-”

“Yes! For Gods’ sake, you always d-”

The two Baratheons start screeching at each other, their words overlapping until you’re sure they’re speaking as one, leaning closer and closer in until you’re trapped between the two of them, pressed tight in the middle, and you start to wonder if storm is too small of a word to describe the pair of them. They’re hissing and vicious and you know they must be seconds away from throwing punches and trying to land blows and you start to pray that you’ll be able to slip away in the chaos when an all too familiar voice cuts through the din.

“If I could,” Aemond starts, hands tucked behind his back as he stares down at the trio of you with barely concealed amusement. “I’d like to steal away Lady Lannister if she’s available.”

There’s a beat of silence where you try to express your gratitude with your eyes and Floris begins making a sound like a captured mouse before Maris snorts, distinctly unladylike even as she bows her head in greeting. “I’m surprised you’re asking, my prince. I doubt you offered Victor Florent the same choice.”

You laugh, startled and too caught off guard to keep it in, while Floris’s squeaks take a particularly high pitch. Aemond’s smile turns sharp and he hums noncommittally, tilting his head as he peers down at Maris Baratheon. To her credit, the lady doesn’t quail or shrink away, merely turning her nose up.

“This is why Mother wants to send her to the Silent Sisters,” Floris hisses to you, her voice, again, far too loud to be counted as a whisper.

At that, Maris visibly flinches and her face flashes with annoyance - whether it’s at herself, her mother, or Floris you’re not sure - but she backs down, bowing her head once more. It’s unfitting for her, you think. Self-pity doesn’t suit her - it sits wrong on her features - and you feel a quick flash of pity. The Silent Sisters was a harsh punishment - only the Night’s Watch could compare and even then, at least those men were permitted to talk and had more than enough freedom to break their other vows up in the frigid North, far from even the Starks’ eyes.

You glance at Aemond and, when he notices your watchful gaze, he flicks his eyes upward in exasperation before fixing his stare back on Maris. “The Lady Lannister was offered no choice when Victor Florent presented her with his crown. I simply returned the favor.”

Maris doesn’t respond, simply nodding her head in agreement, her expression the same smooth mask, but Floris lets out a soft ‘oh!’, sounding as delighted as if Aemond had just personally handed her a bouquet of the prettiest flowers. You flick your gaze up towards her and she’s gazing at him, starry-eyed and flushed, and you feel a sharp lance of annoyance shoot through you.

Has she forgotten you’re the one thing keeping her standing?

“Well,” you trill as pleasantly as you can, straightening up and tightening your hold on her waist to hoist her up with you. She moves readily enough, making no complaint when you squeeze her, and you find with no small degree of displeasure that she’s taller than you, tall enough that she’s level with Aemond’s eye. “I really must accompany the prince. I-”

“Oh,” Floris chirps, grinning widely when you look up at her. “I’m sure you’re eagerly awaiting the first dance!”

You’re most definitely not. Aemond has not danced since before Driftmark, back when he and Aegon had been your and Helaena’s partners in your dancing lessons. He’d never been fond of it though he had never complained - not like Aegon who seemingly could not whine enough about being forced into lessons even if he had enjoyed more than Helaena and nearly more than you. You’re not planning on telling the Baratheon girls that but, before you get the chance to come up with some excuse for not joining in on the imminent first dance, Aemond steps forward, grabbing hold of your elbow and gently pulling you from Floris’s grasp. Maris moves up to steady her, swearing at her sister as she does, utterly immune to the way Floris flops on her affectionately like a dog cuddling up to its master.

“The first dance is starting soon,” Aemond says in lieu of explaining and you hide a smile as you tuck his hand close to you, curling your arm around his.

Maris hums, clearly disinterested in your reasons for leaving and also clearly pinching her sister with one of her hands hidden from view if the way Floris twists away from her is any indicator. “I thank you for watching my wayward sister, my lady.”

You nod, flashing her a pleasant smile. “It was no problem.” It had been. “It was a pleasure to meet your sister.” It hadn’t been. Not towards the end, at least. Not with the annoyance and jealousy coiling in your chest like a snake preparing to strike out and bite.

Floris leans out of her sister’s grasp, beaming up at you and Aemond. She hasn’t even approached sobering up - the longer she’s been without her drink, the more her last drink seems to sink into her. “I hope to speak to you soon, Lady Lannister. It’s been so lovely speaking with you,” she grins toothily, looking more girly than ever, and you force a smile, bowing your head in gratitude.

She turns her pretty smile on Aemond, her flushed cheeks turning even more pink to your watching eyes. “Prince Aemond,” she breathes out, her big gray eyes wide. She looks starstruck and sweet, a perfect gentle lady. “If you’re not too tired after your dance… No one has claimed any dances from me…” Her hand reaches up, hesitantly and slowly, as if she’s going to reach over and grab his sleeve and your vision flashes red.

You sharply exhale, all eyes snapping to you. “My lady,” you say, letting concern seep into your voice. “Would you be alright on the dance floor? I would hate for your sister to have to hold you up during a dance with the prince.”

Floris blinks at you, her cheeks burning an even brighter red.

Aemond hums next to you and you can feel the rumble of his chest against your arm, his amusement nearly radiating off of him.

You reach out to her, keeping your arm looped around Aemond’s but using your free hand to brush her own arm that’s wrapped around her sister’s. “Perhaps some water would suit you well, my lady, rather than a dance.”

Maris laughs, the sound more like a bark than anything, and she eyes you, defensiveness sharpening her gaze. “You’re rather bold in your assessment, my lady.”

You smile, squeezing Floris’s bicep before letting go. “If I am in the presence of storms, I must be bold to weather it. It’s just friendly advice, Lady Maris. I’d hate for your sister to shame herself.” More than she already has, at least.

The elder Baratheon girl gives you a tight smile. She knows you’re right and that she can’t refute it. Be it Storm’s End or King’s Landing, the rules are all the same. Ladies do not ask for dances from Targaryen princes. Ladies do not cling to strangers they’ve just met, let alone hang on them through a royal feast. Ladies do not drink themselves to the point of being unable to stand unassisted.

A harsher person would point this out in front of a bigger crowd than just her sister. A cruel person would spread it. You’re being helpful. You’re being generous.

Even Floris’s wounded deer performance can’t sway you to more than mild pity.

You glance over your shoulder, eyes scanning the crowd until you find your target. Your cousin, predictably, is surrounded by fawning ladies and laughing lords, his grin wide and endlessly charming. “Once you’ve found your legs, I’ll see if I can’t persuade my cousin, Ser Tygett, to come and offer you your first dance. He would be honored to be dancing on the arm of a beautiful maiden such as yourself.” You smile at her as gently as possible.

“He won the archery event,” Floris says after a moment, her voice soft. She doesn’t look at you, eyes glued to her feet. She wobbles damningly and Maris makes an annoyed noise. “I-I… You’re right, my lady. Thank you for… for saving me from embarrassment.”

You nod. “Of course. The capital can be hazardous for young ladies unused to such a large court. I only aim to help you, Lady Floris.”

Floris nods again and Maris scoffs lightly. Your eyes snap to her and you half expect her to be glaring at you. You’ve embarrassed her sister - in front of royalty nonetheless. You’d be fuming if anyone had mocked your sisters in front of you like you had her. But she’s not looking at you at all.

“Seems I’ll have company with me when mother ships me off to the Silent Sisters,” Maris says, not even bothering to drop her voice to a whisper as she stares down at her sister. Floris flinches and looks up, her gray eyes blazing, and you know you’re seconds away from witnessing another row.

Aemond, once again, saves you from that particular indignity. “Enjoy the feast, my ladies.”

He pulls you away and you give them a final smile, one that you’re sure they won’t see - not with the way they’re glaring at each other.

Aemond leads you around the edges of the floor, carefully skirting the groups of noblemen cloistered together, all of them eagerly gossiping and debating each other about the merits of the ladies. Most of the floor is already occupied by couples standing across from each other in two neat rows, ladies separated from the lords, all in preparation for the first dance. Aemond stops just short of entering the actual floor and he looks down at you, a question plain on his face.

“First the tourney and now dancing,” you muse out loud, smiling when he looks skyward. “Please don’t tell me you’re about to ask Ser Criston to knight you as well. I’m not sure I’d be prepared for your family’s reaction.”

Aemond hums in agreement. “I had planned to have this first dance with you, my lady, but it is a mixer dance. I’m not sure I can guarantee the safety of any partners I’d have after you.”

You sniff. “I’m perfectly civil. Your partners would remain untouched.”

He laughs out loud, quick and sharp, and you huff. “I must admit, I’m rather tempted to walk right back and ask Lady Floris for a dance if only to see how you’d tear into her.”

“I’m afraid Floris Baratheon would not be my only victim if you did that,” you say, frowning up at him.

His eye flashes, a distinct hunger sneaking into his features. “Would you sink your teeth into me, my lady? Would you dig your nails in and tear me apart?”

You want to, consequences damned. You imagine biting him, scratching him, burrowing as deep into him as he had into you. You want it all. You want to possess him completely. You are his and he is yours. He had torn his mangled scar up and put your sapphire in it, had filled it with you. What else would he let you take? What else would he let you claim?

You wonder how people can bear this desire - surely you’re not the only one. It’s more than carnal. It’s all-consuming. It’s absolution. It creeps around constantly, haunting every thought. Surely you can’t be the only one who has ever felt this complete burning.

“Perhaps I will, my prince,” you murmur, meeting his eye, wishing he didn’t have the eyepatch on so you could see him completely. “I may not be a dragon but a lion still has claws.”

He smiles, a sharp edge to his expression. He’s hungry. He’s starving. “I’ve known that truth about you since I first met you. Only being a Targaryen saved me from your wrath when you spilled that water over yourself.

The memory flashes in your mind and you think you can almost feel the phantom pain of the needle going through your finger, feel the cool water soaking the front of your gown. You had snarled at him. Briefly but it had been there. The moment had passed so fast that even you had barely registered it. Anyone else would have let the moment pass, counted it as a quick flash of emotion that meant nothing else.

Not Aemond.

He had seen the truth of it. Try as you might, pretend all you will, but there’s no hiding the truth of it - you’re a Lannister. You’re a Lannister to your bones with all the ambition, all the cunning, all the greed that it entails. You’re a lady, yes. Gods know that you’ve dedicated yourself to your etiquettes, to your embroidery and your songs. You did it not just because you had to but because you wanted to. You were a lady but it did not mean that that blunted your edges. It did not make you soft or gentle.

You had told him that truth in his bedroom in Driftmart, in a whispered promise over a gift, but he had already known. He had known from the very first moment he had seen you.

A slow grin spreads on your face. “It saved you the initial moment,” you reply. “Then it was because it was you. Do you remember when you snapped at me after the Dragonpit? I asked you a silly question about the Baratheons and you had just come back from the Dragonpit, from Prince Aegon and the Str… and your nephews.”

Not even your treasonous near mishap stops the downward curling of Aemond’s mouth. “I wasn’t at my… best after the Dragonpit in those days.”

You laugh, more cheery about it now than you had been back then. “I can recall, my prince. You called me a nosy bitch. I wanted to strike you across the face for it. I nearly did too.”

“I apologized,” Aemond grouses, sounding like a little boy again in his annoyance and embarrassment. It’s a far cry from the starved man he had just been and you laugh for the sheer ridiculousness of it.

“I know,” you reply, smiling. “That’s what I was trying to say; I was prepared to apologize to you. Not because you were a Targaryen but because you were Aemond. I didn’t care that you were a prince in that moment. I just cared that you were my friend and I didn’t want to hurt you like you had me.”

Aemond stays silent for a moment, studying you closely. His eye trails across your face, searching deep into you. He’s looking for any sign of deception, any tiny crack in your honesty, but he won’t find it. Not with you. Not with him.

Eventually, he sighs, looking away. “I was terrified I had pushed you away that day,” he murmurs, softly as if he doesn’t mean for you to hear. “I was convinced you were about to demand your return to Casterly Rock and it would have been all my fault. Helaena would hate me for losing her her closest companion. My mother would skin me for losing Lannister support.”

“Were alliances the only thing that kept you in check?” You ask, tilting your head at him, exaggerating a confused expression.

He scoffs lightly, more out of exasperation than annoyance. “No. I didn’t care that you were a lady of House Lannister in that moment. I cared that you were you. My… My friend.”

Distantly, you register the first dance beginning and a small part of you regrets that the two of you hadn’t gotten to join, even if it had meant that you would have had to watch him with other ladies of the court. The rest of you, however, is focused on Aemond, on his words.

You laugh after a second, softly. “So we both spent that night thinking the same thing. Capable of hurting most everyone except each other.”

Aemond hums. “You were the first person I had ever apologized to - outside of the apologies my mother would drag out of me whenever my brothers and I fought or on the rare occasions Helaena and I would argue. The only person I ever apologized to because I wanted to.”

“Don’t worry, it came out very naturally. Not practiced or rehearsed at all,” you reply, grinning when he shoots you a droll look, only the tiniest of movements at the corner of his mouth letting you know he’s amused by your teasing. “Come. I’m sure Floris is beyond herself now that she’s realized we didn’t leave her to go dance the first dance. Let’s find Helaena before she can come to demand her turn.”

“You’ll have to find your cousin as well,” he reminds, following easily enough when you tug on his arm to lead him up to the raised dais where his sister stands, pressed up arm to arm with Aegon, as their mother speaks to the pair of them. “I may have escaped a turn with that particular storm but you did sacrifice Ser Tygett in my place.”

You wince. “He’s not going to want her to be his first dance in case she thinks this is a show of his interest. I’ll have to dance with him for that particular favor,” you say, slightly wishing you hadn’t made that promise. You enjoy dancing but you find you have little interest in it if your partner isn’t the man you’re leading through the crowd right now.

He glances down at you. “I’d ask to have your first dance then, my lady, before you ask him.”

A surprised smile breaks through as you look up at him. “You meant it then? You do mean to dance tonight?”

He nods, looking as serious as he had when he entered the tourney grounds, as if he hasn’t spent this week turning all the expectations you had of him on his head. “Perhaps not a mixer dance so we can ensure that every lady wakes up in the capital tomorrow with their hands still attached but I do intend to have your first dance if you mean to take a turn with other partners.”

“Other partners?” You ask, blinking, realizing belatedly that dancing with him would open you up to dancing requests from men who weren’t him. “So the ladies of King’s Landing can keep their hands but the lords will get to have breakfast with Victor Florent tomorrow?”

He snorts softly. “More that the men of King’s Landing are at least aware of what could happen and will endeavor to make sure the same does not happen to them. I’m afraid the ladies are, as of now at least, ignorant of the true danger.”

“The true danger?” You ask, laughingly, as the two of you reach the foot of the throne, right before the steps of the dais. “I can’t swing a sword, my prince, nor do I have a dragon to send after my enemies.”

“Don’t you?” He tilts his head, smiling when your cheeks flare with heat, as you join the small circle of his family.

Helaena notices you first, always attuned to you, and she smiles at you brightly when she sees that you’re still arm-in-arm with Aemond. Aegon, predictably, already has a goblet of wine in his hand and, judging from the way that he’s downing it as quickly as possible, deaf to his mother’s scolding, he’s not planning on leaving this wedding feast close to anything resembling sobriety.

“I’ve done my part Mother,” Aegon grumbles, his lips stained a deep red from his drink. “You can’t ask for more from me. Not tonight.”

Alicent sighs, wringing her hands together. She seems blind to you, completely oblivious to your presence. She’s focused on Aegon for now. “I just ask you don’t shame yourself. Please just control your habits for this feast at least.”

“I’ve already done what you asked,” he grumbles before he spots you. His eyes brighten and he gets that all too familiar grin on his face, the one that promises trouble. “Here’s your true crowning achievement in your matchmaking skills. Perhaps you should concern yourself about Aemond’s marriage bed instead of mine.”

You don’t react, simply meeting his gaze steadily, but Aemond tenses next to you.

“Enough,” Aemond rumbles and Aegon barks out a laugh.

“Enough? Enough?” He hisses. “It isn’t enough. It’ll never be enough for Mother.”

“Aegon,” Alicent hisses, her eyes flashing with an anger you’re unused to seeing on the Queen. It makes her look so much younger. A sister arguing with her brother than a mother of four. “Finish your drink then. Drink your heart out. Do as you always have for tonight then. But you will do what you must tomorrow. For the rest of your life, you will do your duty.”

“And what is that Mother?” Aegon says, his voice soft.

She looks at him, disappointment warring with grief on her face. “What is necessary, Aegon.”

There is a moment suspended, where they stare at each other, blind to the rest of the room. The music fades, the chatter of the room ceases. All that matters is the two of them.

You think Alicent wants to say more. You think Aegon wants to fight. They’re both hurting for it. They both want to make the other bend to their will, make the other understand, but there’s an insurmountable chasm separating the two of them. Nothing could bridge it - not unless one of them caves to the other and that could never happen. You think neither of them would even want it.

Alicent breaks first, sighing as she looks down at her hands, her fingers clasped tightly, her thumb digging into the cuticle of her other thumb. “Enjoy the feast. All of you.” Her voice fades slightly, cracking on the final word.

You bow your head, murmuring your thanks, but your voice is the only one that answers. When you straighten up, Helaena is looking down at the floor, looking lost in her own mind, while Aemond watches his mother. She gives him a wan smile before she brushes past, her perfumed scent lingering in the air as she moves into the crowd, melting into it.

There’s silence. Even in the loud, busy room, there’s silence in the shadow of the Iron Throne.

Then Aegon scoffs. “Of course. Of course.”

He sounds angry and you look up, your hackles rising as you want to snap back in defense of Alicent.

But he has tears in his eyes. He’s angry. He’s spitting. If you spoke, he’d find a target for his rage, someone to pin all of this anger and rage on. He’d say unspeakably cruel things.

But he has tears in his eyes.

Your fury dies in your throat.

It feels pointless.

He doesn’t linger. He leaves quickly, pushing through the crowd, the crowd parting around like a ship through water. All of you watch him go, the air thick with unspoken grief.

Helaena breaks the quiet first. “The broken emerald ring,” she murmurs. “The ruby shattered.”

You look over at her but she’s already shaking her head, knocking her head clear of the words she had just said. She meets your gaze and smiles. “The feast went well.”

You pause for a moment, registering her words, before nodding, trying your best to smile. “Your announcement went perfectly. I’m sure there’s already smallfolk singing your praises outside the keep.”

She makes a face and your smile turns more genuine. “I mean it Helaena.” You slip from Aemond’s grasp to get closer to her, wishing that you could reach out to her to pull her close. “How are you feeling?”

Helaena doesn’t say anything for a while, looking down at her fidgeting hands before looking up and meeting your eyes. She doesn’t smile but she nods her head. “I feel the same. Things have changed but… Not everything has.”

You nod. “You’ll remain here at least. With your brothers and your mother.”

“With you too,” She reminds, a smile finally flickering on her face.

You nod again, stronger, confident. “With me too.”

She gives you a final fond look before she turns her attention to Aemond. She looks at him, her eyes openly roving over his face and body. She’s looking for something, you think, but you don’t know what. You know Helaena as well as you know yourself. She’s so tied up into your own sense of self that you don’t think that, if you ever felt even the slightest desire to, you could ever cut her away from you. Her roots are deep in you, curling tight around your heart and soul.

But her mind can be as secretive as her prophecies.

“The iron crown,” Helaena says as she looks at her brother, her eyes bright. “The throneless king.”

Aemond doesn’t say anything but when you look over at him, he’s tilted his head up, gazing down at his sister with satisfaction glowing in his eyes.

He covets the crown. How could he not? He could have listened to his father and gone to Dragonstone to try for one of Syrax’s hatchlings or taken one of her eggs. Instead, he had claimed the largest dragon in the world - the Queen of All Dragons. He had lost his eye for that prize, had forever damaged his standing in the view of his father. His ambition knew no bounds and could not be satisfied in remaining as only a second son. Only his love for his family, the loyalty to his brother, kept his fanged desire caged behind his teeth. But he couldn’t keep it down. Not forever. Not in moments like this. It would always bubble to the surface, always threaten to break free.

You watch him, tracing the proud jut of his chin, the tilt of his head, and his overconfident pride.

He should wear a crown. He suits one - far more than Aegon.

You suit a crown. If you were born less than two centuries earlier, you would have had one. If Aemond had been born first, perhaps you would have still gotten one.

You quash the desire as soon as it rises up in you. If Aemond had been born first, he would have married Helaena more likely than not. Even now, if something were to happen to Aegon, the question of what to do with Helaena’s marriage would arise. If they were to have children, the matter would only complicate.

You were willing to do a lot of things. You were willing to bloody your hands, willing to burn bridges and move your family about like they were nothing more than pawns in this game you were playing. You were willing to do much.

But you’re not willing to sacrifice Helaena. You’re not willing to risk anything that would bring her harm.

There’s no use wishing and longing for a crown that just wasn’t your’s. That could never be yours. Perhaps if you played your cards right, a daughter of yours could one day grow to wear one on her head. Your grandson could one day sit the Iron Throne.

But not you. Not if there was Helaena and if you had it your way, you’d rip your plans to absolute shreds if you could ensure that she would remain safe through it all.

You swallow thickly, looking down at your hands. Even the thought feels treasonous, feels like a betrayal.

The soft call of your name pulls you out of your thoughts and when you look up, both Targaryen siblings are looking at you, their eyes both gleaming in the same way underneath the multicolored candlelight. An apology bubbles up in your throat and it’s only at the last second that you remember to apologize for what would make sense rather than what you really want to apologize for.

“Sorry,” you say, laughing slightly. “My mind left me. What were we discussing?”

Helaena is gracious even if Aemond narrows his eye. “I was asking if the two of you really mean to go dance or if you’re going to spend all night hiding with me.”

You frown slightly. “If you want me to hide with you.”

She snorts, so unladylike that you can’t help but to smile. “Absolutely not. If you hide with me, Mother will notice that you haven’t taken to the floor with Aemond which means she’ll notice I haven’t taken to the floor and she’ll make it her mission to make sure I dance with at least a few lords.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t force you,” you try to defend her, your resolve weaker than it would have been before - now that you’ve witnessed her demands of Aegon. Still, it seems impossible that she would ever ask the same out of Helaena. Helaena was her only daughter, her only girl. She was sweeter and softer with Helaena.

Helaena nods her head, his smile only flickering a little. “Still, I wouldn’t want to push my chances.”

You watch for a beat longer, wishing that there was something you could say or do to make it easier, but eventually, you heave a sigh and nod.

“You needn’t look like you’re marching to your doom,” Aemond murmurs under his breath as he comes to stand next to you, offering you his arm once more.

You ignore him for a moment, giving Helaena one final look, letting her know that if she needs you, she need only call and you’ll come to her side but she waves you off. You focus your attention back on Aemond only to see him eying you with a small smirk.

“I should refuse you the dance,” you warn. “You only asked so you could beat my cousin to my first dance.”

He laughs. “Would it please you if I declared my intentions again - In front of all? What prize would you like this time? Another crown?”

“Perhaps the head of another Florent,” you reply, catching sight of the familiar shade of blue on the other side of the crowd, only visible as the two of you still stand on the dais. Erren Florent stands alone once more, dark and moody around the edges of the room. His son and good daughter stand by his side, subdued but preoccupied in speaking to well wishers as they approach. He speaks to no one, choosing to only stare at the pair of you.

Aemond hums. “My mother was almost a Florent. She told me earlier this week that the Hightowers once debated betrothing Grandfather to a Florent lady. They eventually decided on Lady Alerie Redwyne and she was convinced that was why the Florents chose to insult us by their repeated badgering of you and their less than subtle animosity towards us.”

You blink, letting the information settle in, before peering up at him. “So in another life, Victor Florent may have been a cousin or something of sorts. You’d have been a kinslayer.”

“There’s one in every line,” he replies, his eye glinting knowingly. He’s referencing the library, your debate about King Brandon and the night’s king all those years ago, but your mind races to the carriage ride here with your father and uncle and what you had said about his own uncle and sister. There were kinslayers in every line.

What would one more be?

You smile at him, suddenly pleased by the turn of his conversation. “The next dance will be a waltz,” you remind him. “It’d be terribly bold if our first dance was a waltz.”

“Bolder than crowning you?” He asks and your smile only grows.

“No,” you agree. “Not bolder than that.”

He begins leading you down to the dance floor and, when the two of you arrive, the mixer dance ends. Some of the floor dissipates but the majority of the crowd stays, people finding their partners and a free space for the two of them to claim on the borders of the floor. Some people slink on, grabbing partners as they go, and you and Aemond do as well, heading for a spot close to the center.

People greet the two of you as you pass and you smile and greet them all back, playing the kindly lady to Aemond’s aloof prince. You spot your father in the crowd, Lady Tyrell on his arm. You can spot Ser Edwyn Sand, a charming smile locked on his face as he leads a blushing lady of House Crakehall onto the floor. You can even see Baela towards the back of the room, laughing with someone who can only be one of her Velaryon cousins.

The two of you slow to a stop, settling in a spot next to an unsmiling Stormlands lord and his quiet wife. You turn to face Aemond, him copying your movements, and two of you wait for the rest of the room for the bards to begin their songs.

It takes a moment or two, most of it filled with the soft sounds of people chattering or the repetitive click-clack of peoples’ heels on the smooth stone floor.

But then the soft twang of the harp filters through the air, over the low brass of the pipes, and you curtsey deep to the ground, in unison with the other ladies in the room, as Aemond bows in response.

He reaches for you first and you respond in kind, lifting your arm high to settle on his shoulder while he grips your waist tight. The two of you spin slowly, the skirt of your dress flaring through the air, but the dance picks up, your feet never once taking a pause as the memories of your old lessons start reawakening.

At first, no one in the room speaks, as if there’s a spell cast over all demanding silence, but eventually the splatters of the conversations break out in the watching audience, spreading slowly and surely to the dancers in motion.

“You’ll have to forgive me, my prince, if I miss a few steps. It’s been years since I’ve actually studied the dances,” you start, more to open conversation than to actually apologize.

Aemond snorts. “I’m sure you danced your fair share back in Casterly Rock during the feasts for your brother’s birth.”

You immediately shake your head. “The feasts were a mite different there than they’ve been here. Tyshara and I mostly preoccupied ourselves with ensuring everything was going smoothly as our mother entered her confinement. I didn’t have much time for dancing. More to the point, I think the lords were rather scared to approach me after a time.”

He looks down at you as he dips you low and your heart flutters a bit in your chest without your permission. When he pulls you up, he pulls you closer than he ought but you don’t have it in you to push him away. “How so? Had they heard there was a Targaryen awaiting your return in King’s Landing?”

“I doubt it though I’m sure some suspected,” you reply, holding down a laugh. “No, they were all rather put off by me after I castigated two lordlings from House Clegane and Tarbeck for mocking my sister.”

“They mocked her?” He asks, raising an elegant brow. “Were they allowed to leave with their tongues?”

“I’m not your kingly father,” you mockingly scold. “I’m a Lannister. I wanted to toss them in with the lions my family keeps in the bowels of the Rock so they could see if they found their joke as funny as they did.”

“What was the joke?” He asks as he spins you out.

When he pulls you back, you take a half moment to catch your breath again, suddenly gratefully that Aemond was meant to be leading this dance since you’ve forgotten how you’re supposed to move relative to the rest of the floor. Thankfully, he has not or, more likely, all his years in the yard have taught how to read his opponents’ body language and he was just naturally inclined to move in response.

“They called her Cerelle the Almost Heir,” you say once the pair of you have settled in the new movement of the crowd. “I’d applaud the rhyme if it wasn’t for the fact that that name was meant to hide the fact that any of their houses would count themselves lucky to have Cerelle as their heir. She spent her entire life preparing for that possibility. Every waking moment was spent getting ready for the chance that she might become Lady of the Rock. Little Loren kept her from that but, if she was to be Lady Lannister, the true Lady Lannister, she would have been the fiercest in our history.”

“Did she want to be the Lady of the Rock?” Aemond asks after a moment and your eyes dart up to his. “Does she regret having it taken away from her?”

You know what he really wants to ask.

Does your sister sympathize with Rhaenyra Targaryen? Does she, like the Princess, resent the younger brother born to take it all away from her?

You had asked yourself that very question in the lead up to your brother’s birth. When the two of you, along with all your sisters, would make the trek to the golden sept in your home and kneel on the floor, letting the incense burn your noses and eyes, as you had all prayed fervently for a boy to be born, did a part of her pray for another little sister?

When she had cried in the birthing chamber, when she had whispered to you about buying a thick cloak for her journey north, were her tears ones of joy or loss?

How would you feel, you had dared wonder in the sanctity of your mind, if what had been yours was ripped from your hands by a mere babe? A baby that you had in equal parts prayed for and dreaded?

How would you feel if you were the Almost Heir?

You release a sigh, faintly aware of Aemond awaiting your response, faintly aware of the music reaching its crescendo. “She knew what would happen to us if Loren had been a girl,” you say in lieu of answering his question. “Our bannermen were already lying in wait to push their sons onto Cerelle in hopes that their boys would get to be the next Lord of the Rock, Warden of the West. House Lannister survived it once in our history, when Queen Leila was the only child born to King Gerold III. Our vassals’ hunger has only grown in size and ambition since.”

Aemond hums in response. “As hungry as they may be, their ambition is outpaced by the one inherent in Lannisters. Your sister herself recovered the title lost. She might not be Lady of the Rock but she is Lady of Winterfell now.”

It’ll sound natural eventually, you reason to yourself. Soon, the name Cerelle Stark will be as familiar to you as Cerelle Lannister is. Decades in the future, she will have spent more time with her married name than she ever had with her maiden one.

But it is not now and, in this moment with only Aemond patiently waiting for you, you do not have to pretend.

“I should have been there,” you murmur, voice soft as to not be overhead though you doubt anyone is listening and, if they are, they can hardly hear you over the constant hum of the crowd. “It was my idea. My plan. And I sent her there alone.”

“You were that invested in a trade contract with the Starks?” Aemond asks, with only the faintest hint of humor in his tone telling you that he knows damn well that the earlier lie that you maintained, the current lie you’re maintaining in the court, was just that. A lie.

A lie you want to dispel - at least with him.

“I was that invested in soldiers,” you reply softly. “In blood alliances. In oaths. Lord Cregan Stark is my good brother now. He has a line to the Lannisters as steady as the Rock. Which means he has a line to the Targaryens. He has an investment.”

The humor leaves Aemond’s face quickly and he looks at you as seriously as he had in the sanctified Dragonpit. “There’s never been a Stark who has forgotten a vow,” he murmurs, a hint of warning entering his voice. Not a warning of anger or rage but rather a reminder. It was for naught, he tries to remind you. You’ve lost your sister for no prize at all.

You smile again, confidence laced through it. “What’s an old vow to a wife’s warm embrace? What’s an old promise to a blood tie to the next ruler of the Seven Kingdoms? Lord Cregan is loyal, yes, but he’s pragmatic. He understands that for his people to survive, he needs to do what he must. His father’s vow was to the princess but he swore no vow. His vow is to the rightful heir and the rightful heir is supported by the house that helped him to his claim, the house that his lady wife is of.”

Aemond doesn’t say anything, looking at you over, only leading you through the dance out of sheer memory.

“You said earlier that you couldn’t swing a sword,” Aemond finally says as the dance slows to a stop, as he bows to you again and you curtsey in response. This time, his voice is firm and loud, loud enough for people to overhear. He wants them to hear this. “A sword would not be a strong enough weapon for you, my lady. You yourself are fiercer than any knight, more dangerous than any battalion.”

You don’t have time to bask in his compliment - not when another voice chimes in.

“Yes, the Lady Lannister is fierce. Fiercer than most know,” Erren Florent says, a cold smile plastered onto his face when your eyes jump to his.

Aemond and you rise up, the prince stepping in front of you slightly so you’re tucked behind his body, but Erren Florent’s smile does not flicker.

If you thought his soft countenance was a cover before, it is a grotesque death mask now. His gray eyes are bright but empty, utterly soulless as he keeps his smile firmly on his face. His skin stretches tight around his skull, as pale as any corpse now. If you hadn’t met him before his son’s death, you would swear that he was no human. No, you’d say, no human can look like that - as if they’ve peeled someone else’s face off and are wearing it as a mask, as if their own body is not your own.

Aemond is tense but he can afford to be tense. His weapon is a sword. His weapon is the largest dragon alive.

The only tool you have at your disposal now is your courtesy.

You smile brightly at him, as sweet as any lady could ever be, pushing down Aemond’s arm slightly so you can peer around him more easily. “My lord,” you greet, bowing your head, keeping your grip on the Targaryen firm. You’re here, you’re safe, you want to remind but you can’t, not with Lord Florent watching you with his dead eyes, waiting for any chink in your armor. “I meant to meet with you but time got away from me. As the Maiden in the wedding party, I was kept well occupied until this feast. I wish to pass along House Lannister’s, as well as my own, condolences. The loss of Ser Victor was a tragic one, one that will be surely felt in the City Watch for years to come.”

Erren bows his head, keeping his head down even as Aemond echoes your words, passing along the Crown’s sympathies. When he looks up, the first hint of emotion has broken through his closed expression.

Cold rage dances in his eyes.

“It’s a loss I will feel until the Stranger comes to claim me,” he says, his voice soft like a whisper. “A loss that will haunt my every waking moment.”

There’s nothing you can say to that. No words you could conjure that would make that blow any easier, would make him hate you any less.

You don’t want to. You don’t want to soften the blow. You want him to feel every moment of his grief. You hope that the pain of his loss will remind him of what his son had forgotten.

You are a Lannister, a daughter of the Rock. Your blood is old, the blood of kings. Even without Aemond, you are above a Florent even if their line stretches back as far as your own. A lion could not be caged by a fox, no matter how hard it might try. A lion could be caged by no one.

Not even a dragon.

“I pray you will find comfort, my lord,” you finally say, stepping out from behind Aemond, walking closer to Erren Florent. The old lord does not step back to accommodate you, letting you get within arm's length of you.

If he wanted to, he could reach out and strangle you here. He could pull a knife out and push it deep in your heart and not even Aemond would be able to stop it. If he wished it, Erren Florent could kill you as easily as you draw breath and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

But he can’t and that pain must be equal to the loss of the son. To have the reason for Victor's death, the true reason and not just the means through which it was delivered, so close at hand and being unable and unwilling to do anything.

How hateful a scene. How horrid.

You step closer, a smile dancing on your lips.

“May you find peace, my lord,” you murmur, your words intended for only you and him.

“May I find justice,” he snarls back, his mask slipping even further, his face twisting in his vengeance. His hot breath washes over your face, burning and awful, and you can taste the sharp smell of wine on your tongue.

Aemond steps closer, his chest pressing against your back, but you don’t move, not even to accommodate his touch. You stand in front of Erren Florent, smiling as innocent as a lamb.

“Justice, my lord? You found it. Your son earned it. The debt is paid,” you say, voice serene and calm. “But if you wish to seek further satisfaction, you are welcome to it. I could hardly deny it.”

You step closer, your expression never slipping.

Your smile grows, hunger sharpens it. “I pray you do, in fact. I pray you aim for more than your station affords you, just as your son did.”

“Why? So your prince might drive a sword through my throat?” Erren growls, all pretense of civility gone from his face.

You lean closer. “So that I might.”

There’s a moment where the two of you stare each other down, when the rest of the room including Aemond fades and it's just the two of you in the room together.

All he wants is to wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. He wants to break your neck. He wants to smash your head against the stone floor, crack it open like an egg and spill your brains out for all to gawk at.

Try it, you want to whisper. Try it and let me loose the hounds of war. Let me rip your house out by root and stem and seed. Let me wear your carnage and gore as a crown. Let no one utter the name Florent as anything but a warning. Try it and let me pay the debt.

The moment passes. The opportunity fades.

His anger festers. Your hunger grows.

He steps back, his mask sliding back into face.

“My lady,” Erren says, bowing his head.

“My lord,” you reply, dropping into a curtsey.

He leaves as quickly as he had come. You watch him go, slithering through the crowd towards the large doors of the throne room.

“I was his purpose,” you say softly but Aemond is close enough that he hears you.

“You are his purpose,” his voice is low and harsh and fierce and you turn to look at him, your skirt moving around you in a flurry. His eye is locked on you, concern sharpening his features into a fury. “He only lives now to seek his satisfaction. He won’t rest until he has your head mounted on his wall. ”

“It is a nice head, I’ll grant him that,” you laugh, your heart still pounding fast in your chest. “But it is mine and I have never been one to share.”

Aemond takes in a sharp breath, closing his eye. When he opens it, his worry is tempered by growing anger.

“You should carry a dagger,” he murmurs, his voice low, his tone leaving no space for disagreement. “I am your sword, I will always rise to defend you, but I cannot be everywhere at once. There are places that I cannot follow, places he will go to seek his vengeance.”

Your smile drops slightly. “I don’t know how to wield one. I’m more likely to stab myself than do anyone any real harm.”

His hand reaches out to touch your face, only pausing in mid air when he remembers himself. He drops his hand, clenching it into a fist at his side.

He’s angry, his brow furrowed tight with an anxiety you haven’t seen since Driftmark, since he was helpless and defenseless.

Your hands itch with the desire to smooth out the tightness in his face and you wish you were alone with a fierceness that threatens to tear you in half.

“I’ll show you,” he insists, his eye flickering all over you as if he’s already imagining what you would look like if Erren Florent had his way with you, as if he can already see imaginary wounds littering your body and even the mere thought of them is too much for him to bear. “I will show you and you will keep yourself safe when I cannot. You say you’re not one to share - I’m not either. I won’t be forced to suffer the loss of you. I’ve killed one Florent for you. I’ll kill another. I’ll keep slaughtering them until I’ve bled their house dry and even then, I won’t stop until all threats are gone, until you are safe in this new world that I will build for you.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. “And if there’s no end to the enemies you’ll make?”

“Then I won’t stop. I won’t stop until it’s just you and me left.”

You stare at him but nothing in his face flickers, nothing flashes. He is serious. He means what he says and you feel the weight of his devotion come crashing down on you. It is the heaviest thing you have ever felt. It knows no bounds and it crushes you completely, consuming every last bit of you and leaving room for nothing else.

And you relish it.

You’re not alone in your all-encompassing thoughts. Your hunger, your aching, raw desire, has its match, its partner, in him.

The enormity of it steals your breath from you, filling your lungs.

You’re not alone. It is complete ecstasy. It is utter bliss.

He stares at you, anger and worry fading away into anxiety, when he sees you’re not responding. Try as he might, hide as he will, but he cannot escape the little boy he once was, the boy desperate to be seen, the little boy desperate to be accepted, to be taken in.

“You are mine,” you say, the words leaving your mouth as easily as air enters your lungs. He sways towards you when he hears the weight of your voice, the adoration, the worship. “You are mine and I am yours.”

His eye grows wide and he stares down at you, his mouth dropping open slightly, looking as if you couldn’t have affected him more than if you had hit him over the head with a wooden beam, and you smile finally, feeling tears prick in the back of your eyes.

You had imagined saying it differently. You had imagined the library, had imagined being alone with none to disturb you.

But somehow, you can’t imagine it any different than this, any better than a stolen moment at the edge of a dance floor.

You reach out and grab his clenched fist, wrapping your hand around it as you bring it up to your mouth, pressing a gentle kiss on his knuckles.

“With this kiss,” you say, feeling almost delirious in your desire to do this. To prove yourself. To say something that can match his endless devotion. “I pledge my love. I pledge my life. I pledge my strength.”

It’s not enough. It won’t be enough. Not until you die in service of him.

But you need it. Oh gods, but you need it.

You drop his hand when you hear Daeron’s voice call, when you hear Alicent say his name right after.

You drop his hand and you smile at him, swallowing the thick tears down.

And he smiles back.

[bunicate]

omgeee mimi you hafta to mister yang hes such a icky and pervy old man! 💗💗 >w< every time you wear a tiny skirt he gets sooooooo sooo hard hes supposed to be your father figure but he wants to see your tiny cute pussy hehe 💗💗 he would cheat on his wife if he had one to be with a cutie younger girl (>/////<) 💗💗 !!!!!

- 🍄

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ 𐙚 ₊˚ warnings ꒱ྀི daddy kink. age gap. me not making any sense below cuz I’m deeply in luv with weltie.

mister yang believed himself to be an irredeemable man. he’s taking advantage of your pure young heart . . he knows he’s a father figure of some sort and his desire to protect you birthed something much more forbidden. instead, welt found himself conjuring up thoughts of your naked body — images floating around like clouds in his mind. 

pretty, doe eyes, plump trembling lips, the soft timbre of your voice, and your thighs revealed from your tiny skirts all tugged on his heartstrings. you were young enough to be his daughter and you behaved like it too. stubborn, smart, a little bit shy, and thoughtful just like how he’d want her to be, and that furthered his shame. 

he painfully remembers such thoughts even when sheathing his cock between the apex of your thighs. even as he uses the flesh until his seed paints the outside of your skin. even while he slaps his fat tip on your clit—rubbing his length all over your sloppy pussy, until you’re begging for your beloved daddie to put it in. 

welt knows better than to chase after such young women, specifically ones that idolize him paternally but you make it difficult to keep away. he is not immune to your naivety, your eagerness to please, and that tiny little cunt he can spend hours fucking. your moans, so innocent and docile can send waves of burning pleasure straight to his cock. 

especially when you whine out “mr. yang” and he has to coax you into calling him daddie instead. 

“I think we are way past the point of you speaking to me so professionally, wouldn’t you agree ?”

he’s reserved, even when fisting your skirt and pumping your limp body up and down his leaky cock. welt draws patterns on your skin, his sanity slowly weakens with each drag of his hips despite appearing the opposite.

he’s been good at being avoidant around you. he’s been able to refrain from touching, only settling on looking but now that you're finally underneath him, petite cunt gaping, his control is no longer within reach. 

“daddy —dada” you hiccup in between shallow breaths. the force of his thrusts robbing the air you breathe and you are forced to dig your nails on the wooden desk to keep yourself steady. every probe of his tip rubs your insides stroking the warmth inside of you to flames.

“that’s much better, sweetie . . “ his thumb rubs the sides of your lips collecting the drool escaping.

“how beautiful .” he dips his finger in your mouth and presses down on your tongue. your lips pulled together, puckering around the digit obediently as you begin to suckle. 

“daddy is so proud of you. look how good you are for me.” he angles himself to fuck you deeper, your breast jumping with every jerk of hips 

“hnn— too much—!” you babble with his appendage still buried in your mouth. your tight cunt puffed and creamed from his cock as you grew restless. welt didn’t slow down, he huffs into the side of your neck, 

“It’s okay, i got you. relax for me.”

his other hand reached down to play with your sodden clit. 

“papa isn’t done with you yet, I have a pretty pussy to fill.” 

welt babbles. he’s a man with infinite wisdom. he’s so mature and so articulate. he has to express how fascinating you are. was this the body of a younger woman? so soft to the touch, so wet and tight ?

he has an analytical mind, it is only natural that your daddie takes his time to caress and suck every inch of you. and he’s unintentionally foul-mouthed. he has a habit of talking too much and describing every detail . he pulls his cock out from between your walls and all he can talk about how amazing it is to see your hole gape from his cock. he’s enamored by your chubby lips being split apart to welcome him. 

“your pussy appears to be swollen. . . It seems like it was my doing,” and you can even detect something shy of cockiness in his inflection.

welt zeroes in on every twitch every squelch and he has to describe in vivid detail. even the drip of your cunt from the sound of his deep voice . . he’s so <33

[inkstainedheartbeats]

Part two of this. There may be one more part.

Slight content warning for vague but there child abuse

———————————-

Eddie doesn’t chase after Steve. To say what he does after he sits there blinking as the love of his life, his mate in all but bite, races out of their home would imply some sort of romantic grace. Nothing in what he does is graceful. The Beta bounces off walls, trips over shoes and fights for an agonizingly long time with the door knob. It’s the most nerve wracking thing Eddie has ever done, including but not limited to giving the lich king himself the middle finger before bashing his skull in with the Upside Down version of his warlock. He doesn’t even stop to apologize to Mrs Kendrick, the sweetest neighbor Eddie has ever had, when he nearly flattens her in his mad dash.

He’s not sure if he’s relieved or terrified when he sees that Steve hasn’t left. That this frantic, terrible energy caught in his throat and gut won’t be released on the road. He slips into the passenger seat, whines low and mournful at the smell of sadness, of that broken snow globe smell that is thick as a hot box fog.

“Stevie, baby, sweetheart?”

Steve’s hands are still shaking. Brown eyes clenched closed. Eddie’s done this. Brought Steve to this point. He’s lucky Robin or Erica isn’t here. That Max and Eleven are clear across town. That Lucas and Will and Dustin are gods knows where enjoying the summer.

He reaches out, stops when Steve flinches away from him. Brings back his hand to his lap.

“I’m scared shitless, Stevie. Absolutely fucking terrified.”

Leather seats crinkle.

“That’s why I said what I did. And it’s not because of you. Well some of it is,” he’s trying not to ramble. Twisting his rings and talking. Wayne says that ooen communication is the key to any relationship. Eddie’s never been too good at that outside of sex.

“I had a shitty dad, and I know you had one too. I know you’re so goddamn confident that you can have those six nuggets and not become him. I know you know that loving your kid is unconditional. You do it for eight of them now.”

And it was eight. Because despite Holly managing to avoid the sheer terror that was Vecna round two she still fell into Steve’s orbit. Still wound up wrapping the gentle Alpha that is Steve around her finger. He loves his munchkins so goddamn much and they aren’t even his. It drives the traditionalist stereotypers up a wall and Eddie loves it. He loves how effortless Steve loves.

“But I’m not. He’s always in my head, Steve. When our pups do something, when Henderson says something. He’ll speak up. I think for a moment of the punishments that would have earned me. And I can see myself doing them. See myself turning on you when you try to stop me just like my mom.”

His mother was a mousy, sickly Beta woman that didn’t know what she was getting into marrying his angry Beta father.

“I don’t want to be him.”

Steve tentatively reaches out. Grabs one of Eddie’s hands.

“I’m not you know.”

“What?”

“Confident I won’t be like him. Like my dad. I’m terrified every time I look in the mirror that I’ll be like him. That I’ll be worse.”

He’s brought Eddie’s hand up to his face. He’s nuzzling it in a way that would make Frank Munson absolutely furious.

“I’m scared of so many things, Eds. But you turning out anything like your father isn’t one of them.”

Somehow, Eddie manages to coax Steve out of the car. To agree to calling in sick. It’s not fixed. Not yet. But they’re working on it and that’s what matters.

———————————-

Hoping this works

Tagging:

@xxbottlecapx

Now has a part three

[gingermintpepper]

“Pallas Athena,” he greets softly. There is no affection in his voice, barely any intonation save for stiff, long-practiced neutrality. He continues wringing the water from his hair like she’s not intruding upon the sanctity of his purification ritual, “Have you already had your fill of victory?” 

His calmness is… off-putting. Unnatural. Like the stillness of the sky before a horrible storm. She’s grown accustomed to his icy silences, the dark looks thrown when their father isn’t watching, the barely restrained disgust when he’s forced to hear her speak of her tactics and methods for obtaining unquestioned victory. She knows Apollo isn’t weak-stomached - of all their kin, he is perhaps the most practiced in death - but he is not a warrior. He finds no glory in death-bringing, no meaning in the intricacy of war-work. For him, it is a job, a task that must be completed for the continued equilibrium of the mortal world. It means he can still be hurt by war’s savagery. And he had been hurt. Repeatedly. She had personally seen to it. No matter how good he was at his work, Phoebus Apollo was still an emotional creature. Not weak-stomached perhaps, but still soft. Tender. 

“I’ve something important to discuss.” 

He’s languid when he unpins the remaining length of his hair. It falls in heavy, swirling waves, rich gold which threatens to drag upon the ground if he hadn’t deftly grabbed the ends and tied them round his thigh. “I know you have little concept of ceremony but this is a bit ridiculous don’t you think?”

His dark hand reaches for one of the vases of oil stacked neatly on a little jut of rock that acts as a ledge. Athena intercepts him, standing a little taller to convey her graveness. “It’s very important. I only need a moment of your time.” 

She expects him to sigh, to cross his arms petulantly over his thin chest and complain that the war is over and so is her access to him every hour of every day. She expects to have to remind him that the battle isn’t finished ‘til the Acheans have vacated Trojan soil, to coax him from the little solitary cave of mourning he’s obviously built himself so he can see his job to its total completion. 

Instead, she gets another look. Calm. Dark. Horrible.

Apollo does not sigh, but it is a very near thing. “A moment and nothing more.” 

“The Acheans will begin their preparations to return soon,” she takes hold of the vase and carefully passes it to him. It smells saccharine, like rosewater or something similar. Like perfume to hide the stench of death. “I need your word that you will not hinder them on their journeys.” 

Their fingers brush as Apollo accepts her offering. It’s always odd the way his warmth radiates past all logical barriers. Athena can feel the chill of the water alongside the heat of his fingertips. Somehow, it is the cold that lingers despite all his warmth. “I do not make impossible promises, Athena. I want Neoptolemus,” he says. She stops as though struck. “The rest will have my blessing if they but ask.” 

“Phoebus— “

His eyes are like congealed blood when he looks at her, dark and tar-like upon an altar’s surface. “I want Neoptolemus. And I will have him.” 

How similar his tone has become to Father’s in these long years acting as his mouthpiece! Though his words are soft, the finality in his voice brooks no argument. How easy it is for her heart to soar at the prospect of a fight. Her warrior’s mien shutters all her feelings away like she’d never taken her helmet off. Her clawed finger pokes harshly into his chest, he’s marble hard under her touch. “You already had Achilles. You’ve no right to his son.” 

She regrets the words the moment they leave her lips. A stupid mistake; a feint when she should have dodged altogether. 

Apollo’s face goes slack and still. Serene, one would say, if they were a fool who had never before seen the shape of his wrath. He stands to his full height, broad shouldered, the flickering ends of his hair the only signifier of his displeasure, “Who said a thing about Achilles?” She huffs but does not answer, unsure of where his anger lies if not at the foot of Pelides. “Polites. Eurypylus. Priam. Helenus’ jailor. Andromache’s conqueror. If it weren’t Odysseus’ lot, Neoptolemus would have thrown Scamandrius from the tops of the balcony himself. What other reasons do I need?”

[beautification-tales]

The Confession

A Corruption Tale

Debra entered the confessional booth. She bit her nail nervously waiting for the priest to open his window. She was used to the routine of confessing her sins but this time it was different. She heard the father slide open the cover. The wooden designs still remained allowing for her to be somewhat hidden from being seen, yet the darkness beyond was suffocating.

“Forgive me father for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession.” Debra's voice trembled, echoing slightly in the enclosed space. She paused, gathering her thoughts. She swallowed and took a deep breath.

“What troubles you, my child?” The priest's voice was warm, a gentle coaxing that usually brought her comfort. But today, it did little to ease the tightness in her chest. She clasped her hands together as she trembled slightly before finally speaking. “I have a classmate that I… have had sinful thoughts of.”

Her eyes remained fixed on the floor, unable to meet the unseen priest's gaze. The words felt like molten lead as they spilled from her lips. “The thoughts have been extremely explicit and uhh erotic in nature.” She paused, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.

Father Thomas leaned slightly forward, his brow furrowed with concern. “Tell me more, Debra. What is it about this classmate that tempts you so?” His voice remained calm, a beacon of understanding in the shadowed booth. Debra felt her body become warm as she thought about the man once again. “Father, I am so ashamed but it’s his body. I lust after him.” She took another deep breath. “I imagine us together in ways that are not holy. I’ve seen him at the gym, his muscles flexing, sweat glistening on his skin, and I can’t help but wonder how it would feel to touch him, to kiss him.”

The priest’s silence was palpable. Debra felt her heart hammering in her chest, the echoes resonating through the small space. She waited for his judgment, her mind racing with fear and desire. “Continue, my child,” he finally said, his voice a whisper of calm in the sea of her anxiety.

“One night in my bed I thought about him. I imagined kissing him and him touching me.” Debra’s voice grew softer, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment. She could feel the heat radiating from her body, and she was sure the priest could hear her racing heart. She took a moment to gather her thoughts, trying to put into words the tumultuous storm of desire that raged within her. “I dreamt of his hands sliding under my clothes, of his mouth on my neck, and... and...” she trailed off, unable to go further.

Father Thomas leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “It’s natural to have these thoughts, Debra, the trouble is fighting the urge to act on them.” He paused, allowing his words to sink in. “But father… I did act on them.” Debra’s voice was barely a whisper now, and she felt her heart drop into the pit of her stomach.

“The dream was so… vivid and my body felt like it was on fire. As the fantasy continued… I realized that I was touching myself.” Debra’s voice was barely a murmur, the words escaping through clenched teeth as if they were physically painful to speak. She could feel the priest’s gaze on her, even though she couldn’t see his face through the screen.

Father Thomas’s expression remained unchanged, his voice a calm and steady presence in the darkness. “Do you truly feel guilt for doing such a thing?” He leaned in slightly, his voice a whisper that seemed to wrap around her confession like a warm embrace. She could hear him inhale deeply as if a new aroma had filled the booth.

Debra nodded, her eyes filling with tears. "Yes, Father. I feel...dirty." The confession was like a weight lifted from her shoulders, but the fear of divine retribution remained, a leaden presence in her gut. She waited for his condemnation, the fire and brimstone that she knew she deserved.

“How did it feel during? Did you enjoy it?” Father Thomas’s question was unexpected, but it hung in the air, demanding an answer. Debra felt a flicker of confusion. Was he supposed to ask that? But she was too far gone to hold back now.

“Yes Father, I enjoyed it,” Debra admitted, her voice trembling. The admission was like a dam breaking, releasing a flood of emotions she had been trying to suppress. She felt a mix of relief and terror, the dichotomy of confession. The tingle she had felt that night had returned as she bit her lip.

“Did you orgasm?” Father Thomas’s voice was firm but not judgmental. His question was matter-of-fact, a clinical inquiry into the depth of her transgression. “I… I don’t know… I think I did. Father, why does that matter?” Debra’s voice was shaky, her eyes pleading through the darkened screen for some kind of reprieve.

“Because every orgasm will make you more addicted to the feeling. Do you feel it now? The tingling in your pussy?” Father Thomas’s voice grew deeper, more intense. Debra felt a warm flush spread through her body, her heart racing as she nodded. “Yes, Father… What’s wrong with me?”

“You are a slut my child. You need to be taught the error of your ways before you go down the path of sin and temptation further,” Father Thomas’s voice grew darker, his tone harsher. Debra’s eyes widened, her breath coming in short gasps as she felt a sudden jolt of fear mingled with a strange excitement. The priest’s unexpected words were like a forbidden fruit, tempting and terrifying all at once.

“Touch yourself and let me watch. Show me how you indulged in your sinful desires that night,” Father Thomas instructed, his voice a command that Debra found impossible to resist. Her trembling hands slowly slid down her stomach, under her skirt, and found the damp fabric of her panties. The coolness of the confessional booth contrasted with the heat that was building within her.

Her fingers hovered for a moment, the fabric feeling foreign against her sensitive skin. She glanced at the screen, the priest’s eyes seemingly boring into her soul through the darkness. She bit her lip and obeyed, sliding her panties aside. The sudden exposure sent a shiver down her spine. The confessional was a sanctified space, and here she was, committing a sin that was more intimate than any she had ever confessed.

“How does it feel?” Father Thomas’s question was laced with a hint of curiosity, his voice low and gruff. Debra’s hand trembled as she touched herself, her fingertips grazing the soft folds of her sex. She felt a wave of wetness, and her body responded to her own touch, betraying her own moral convictions.

“It feels so good! How can it feel so good?” Debra’s voice was filled with a mix of anguish and arousal. Her hand grew bolder, her fingers dipping into her wetness and exploring the sensitive landscape of her own desire. The priest’s words seemed to hang in the air, a seductive incantation that she couldn’t resist.

“Yes Ungh be a bad girl for me!” Father Thomas’s words grew harsher, his breathing labored as he listened to Debra whimpering. She couldn’t hold it back as she let a moan escape her lips. She heard a slapping noise and groan coming from the other side of the confessional booth.

Debra moaned louder as she realized that Father Thomas was pleasuring himself. The sound of his hand moving rapidly against his erection was unmistakable, and the thought of the holy man indulging in his own desires because of her was intoxicating. She felt a thrill of power, her own hand moving faster as she listened to his heavy breathing. The wood of the confessional booth creaked as she shifted in her seat, the sound mingling with the wetness of her own touch.

“Father! I want your cum! Cum for me!” The words slipped from Debra’s mouth, a seductive invocation that seemed to fill the confessional with an almost tangible heat. She didn’t know where this wantonness was coming from, but it felt so liberating, so wrong in all the right ways. Her fingers danced over her clit, the pleasure building like a crescendo.

She heard him roar as his hand stilled, the sound of his release muffled by the barrier between them. Her own climax hit her like a bolt of lightning, the sensation ripping through her body as she bucked against her hand. She panted, the aftershocks of pleasure washing over her like a wave.

The aroma of her fluids and his seed filled her nostrils. Debra felt energized and powerful. Her body still trembled with the aftermath of her orgasm. She didn’t know what to expect next. Would Father Thomas reprimand her? Or would he continue to indulge her? The silence was deafening.

“Unh… what did you do to me?” Father Thomas’s voice was shaky, his breathing heavy. Debra felt a thrill of power, her hand still resting on her wetness. “You controlled me like some witch! Your sinfulness has corrupted even a man of God!” He slammed his fist on the wooden barrier between them, making Debra jump.

Debra ran out of the confessional, her heart racing and her cheeks burning with a mix of guilt and arousal. She didn’t look back as she rushed through the quiet church, the echoes of her footsteps and the priest’s gasps of pleasure still ringing in her ears. The cool evening air hit her like a slap in the face as she burst through the doors, gasping for breath.

“What have I done?” Debra asked herself.

Back inside the church Father Thomas was still talking to the other side of the booth. His attention was so focused on the voice that was commanding him during the session with Debra. “Answer me! What are you?” He commanded.

The mysterious woman laughed from behind the wood lattice of her booth. “Oh Thomas, you should be thanking me. All of that pent up desire within you hmmm it was delicious. But don’t worry you’re not my target.”

[two-white-butterflies]

coaxed you into paradise - c. 16

Description: The life of Saera Targaryen told in four acts. She was her father's forgotten daughter, cast aside as she looked nothing like her mother. Her younger days were spent beside her uncle. Years following her marriage with Ser Harwin Strong, she catches him in an affair with her older sister. She returns to seek solace in the arms of her uncle, that she's loved all her life.

(Coaxed You Into Paradise and High Infidelity Rewrite.)

masterlist for this series

Chapter Sixteen: Nine Turns of the Moon

A dragon cannot be burned by the actions of sheep. Saera knew that the babe inside her was a dragon - a pure dragon of no lesser blood. He placed a hand on her swollen belly, whispering imaginary things as he leaned to talk to her stomach. “What are you speaking of, Daemon?” she teased, combing through his hair - he pressed kisses on her stomach. 

“How beautiful his muña is.” he grinned, rising from his leaning position. It’s been a while since Saera has heard that word. Muña. Beautiful but painful. “His?” She raised her eyebrows, and he kept his hand around her belly. “It is a boy,” he stated matter-of-factly. 

“I don’t think so,” she hummed - meeting his eyes. Her uncle was a tender creature around children, they seemed to be drawn to him - but he swears that he hates them. “It is a girl - Alyssa, that’s her name.” she confirmed with a knowing smile. A mother’s instinct was never wrong. 

“ - and if it is a boy?” he inquired, curious about the names that she’d choose. “We’ll name it after you and my brother, Daegon.” she smiled. He leaned closer to press a kiss on her temple, the candles illuminated her visage. “I pray that it is a boy,” he chuckled hearing that it would be named after him. 

“You are vain, kepus.” she teased, his hands trailed down to the sides of her stomach - threatening to tickle her. She pressed his face closer, “ - but you’re mine.” she defended, not wanting to be attacked. 

“All yours,” he whispered - burying his face on her chest. 

—

She didn’t think that she’d have to tell Harwin. He wasn’t the real father - but her children were going to carry his house’s legacy. 

He deserved to know. 

It was tackless trying to find her husband in the maze known as the red keep. He wasn’t in his usual spots and neither was her sister. Her brain told her that they were engaging in inappropriate acts once more, but her heart told her to keep looking. 

Her heart was always right. 

Ser Harwin opens the door to his wife’s chambers, still covered in the cloaks from the night before. A small smile entered his face at the sight of his radiant beloved, “Saera.” He smiled, placing his sword on her table. “Harwin, I have news.” she stood up, prepared for his reaction. 

There wouldn’t be a doubt in his heart that the children were his. Mysaria finished him off in a different way - although she had doubts that he’d remember as he was drunk (in his own choice.) 

“I went to the Maester,” she began while pouring him a goblet of wine. “Nothing bad, I hope.” he hums, accepting the glass of wine. 

“I am with a child.” she smiled - not quite reaching her eyes. He presses a kiss on her forehead, eyes shining with joy. “That is brilliant, my wife!” he cheered, placing a hand on her stomach. “You have given me the greatest gift of all.” he laughed while opening his arms for a hug. 

— 

The first months of her pregnancy were filled with stress and anxiety. Her uncle, Daemon, began to petition for his post in the gold-cloaks to be brought back. The men supported him - and gods be damned if Saera didn’t. She wanted to fight for his claim, but he commanded her to stay back. 

He was humble in all categories - never wishing for her to choose a side. 

“We cannot allow debauchery to return to our lands, the wanton days of execution are behind us!” Lancel wagered, pressing daggers upon the Rogue Prince’s back. Saera watched from a hidden passage, praying to the gods that her uncle be brought back to his former glory. 

“Since Prince Daemon’s disappearance - our reputation has been brought into question.” a knight opens his mouth to defend the prince. It’s been two-years into Harwin’s reign and the realm was in chaos. 

“Questioned how? Are the gold cloaks no longer vagabonds?” Lancel teased with an undertone, seeing that the King was about to take their side. “The gold cloaks are no longer formidable, my lord.” Ser Aran pipes, standing up without his gold-cloak uniform. “ - we are ashamed to even wear our uniforms.” he adds, narrowing his eyes. 

Ser Harwin raises both his eyebrows. He wasn’t aware that his men were having these feelings. 

“All of these problems can be fixed - not by reimposing Prince Daemon, but by informing Ser Harwin of these notions.” Lyonel explains, careful to not anger the Rogue Prince. The kingdom did not need him - they preferred his son over anything. Harwin was charming and quick witted, they didn’t want a cold-blooded murderer in charge of the city watch. 

“I agree, Lord Lyonel - Ser Harwin is capable of making these adjustments on his own.” Lancel agrees. Ser Otto whispers something in the ears of the King, prompting him to make a decision. 

“I concur, Ser Harwin will remain as Commander of the City Watch.” Viserys finishes, not bothering to spare his brother a stare. Half of the room erupted into a chorus of disagreement - most of them coming from the gold-cloaks that Harwin sought to command. 

—

“There’s nothing for me here.” Daemon chuckled, playing with the ring on his finger that matched Saera’s necklace. “I was never fond the Capital.” he began, staring at Saera’s figure. “I’ll leave for Dragonstone in a few hours.” he added, waiting for her reaction. 

“I’m coming with you,” she responded - placing a protective hand over her belly. It was her new habit - aside from playing with her necklace. “Harwin will never let you.” he breathed, staring at the dragon in front of him. 

“He’ll be happy when I’m gone - he’ll have more time with Rhaenyra and Jace.” she reasoned, placing a hand on Melarys’ snout. 

—

She was five moons pregnant, though her stomach bulged far bigger than that. The midwives from Essos claimed that there could be two babes inside of her - the thought of that made her smile. 

“Did the library entertain you while I was gone?” Daemon inquired, placing a delicate hand on her stomach. He was out riding - searching for fruits to feed her. “Not as much as you entertain me,” she chuckles, taking the fruit basket off his hands. There was a variety of fruits for her to eat - grapes, apples and even clementines. 

He was about to press a kiss on her cheek, but she moved away. 

“Please take a bath first, you smell of dragon.” she complained, her nose was even more delicate now that she was pregnant. The only dragon’s scent that she could tolerate was Melarys, but her dragon liked being groomed. 

“Of course, princess.” he obeyed, but he made sure to mess with her hair before leaving. 

—

He loved wrapping his arms around her and feeling the bulge on her belly. She was his - and her body knew that. “The midwives say that I might be having twins.” she reported, feeling his breath on her nape. 

“A prince and a princess,” he whispers, a small chuckle exits her mouth. “Daemon the Dreamer.” she joked, watching the flames flicker in front of her. She’s enjoyed staying in Dragonstone with him. Pretending that the outer world didn’t exist - and that they were able to love each other freely - but she knew that they would have to leave soon. 

Their days in Dragonstone would be over. 

“Have you ever thought of marrying me?” he inquired, hesitant to receive her reply. “I cannot have two husbands.” she responded, and that meant that she did think about it. “Aegon had two-wives, Rhaenys and Visenya, and he is known to be the greatest Targaryen King.” Daemon argued, planting a seed in her mind that they could be together. 

She turned her body to face him, burying her face on his neck. “Everyday I pray to the gods that I’m married to you - and not to him.” she cried, feeling his warmth fuel her desire. “I don’t know why we do this to ourselves.” she breathed, feeling his hand rub circles on her back. 

—

The pregnancy has doomed her incapable of riding her dragon. The babes were delicate and kicking around in different places. Her stomach was huge, but Daemon promises that she’s never been more beautiful. “Any day now,” she hummed, watching him eat a few lemoncakes. 

“I can’t wait to meet them.” Daemon smiled, staring deep into her eyes. He’s fallen deeply - he’d die for her and the babes in her belly. “Me too - I hope that they have your eyes.” she states, earning a chuckle from her uncle. 

“We have the same eyes, my dragon.” he defended with a light chuckle. 

“Your eyes are prettier and darker.” she answered, feeling him walk closer to her sitting figure. “I love you,” he mumbled, pressing a lazy kiss on her lips. “I love you too.” she replied, resting her head on his. 

next chapter>

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(comment to be tagged)

[honeybeebytheseaa]

My Grandkid HC’s

ISABELA

Lesbian. I’m sorry I just can’t see her being into guys it just doesn’t work in my brain.

Also trans of the gender (mtf)

Since she’s dropped her perfect persona, Isabela has been pulling pranks, ESPECIALLY on known little shit head Camilo. He doesn’t know whether to be proud or extremely annoyed.

Can’t cook or bake she’ll set the kitchen aflame

Always walks barefoot on the grass

Has names for most of her plants, especially the cacti

Doesn’t really involve herself in farmers work unless there is an emergency.

Developed a skill for gardening without her gift, and continues to do so even once she’s gotten it back. There’s something special about watching plants grow over time.

She still makes bouquets for events, but they’ve lost their conservative look for something more ‘Isabela’

Unlike most of her family she doesn’t mind bugs (unless they are in her room)

Very high pain tolerance. Likely due to smiling all day and cacti thorns.

She still likes pastel colors but they aren’t high on her list of favorite colors, so she opts for darker colors when choosing cloths.

She used to bite people as a kid

Has conflicting feelings on animals because on one hand yeah they are cute on the other she has to shoo them away from eating her plants every other week

Has a large man eating plant named ‘Rosita’

Sometimes she’ll take whatever is in Mirabel’s hand, put it on a high shelf she cannot reach, and walk away.

Can actually be scarier then Luisa believe it or not

SNORES SO LOUDLY the only person who can handle it is her gf

Not big on physical affection and often uses gift giving as her way of showing love (platonically and romantically)

DOLORES

Incredible musician who could basically play any instrument you hand her

She sings lullabies to the younger family members

Personally I imagine her as the only straight grandkid but obvi she is supportive of lgbtq+ since half her family is apart of it

She wouldn’t come out of her room when she first got her gift, but her parents and a very supportive Isabela eventually coaxed her out

She has headphones painted red and gold by Mirabel

autism (vine boom sound effect)

As much as she loves Isabela and appreciates all of Luisa’s hardwork; out of her cousins her and Mira get along the best.

Speaking of that Isabela and Dolores’s relationship, much like Camilo and Mirabel’s, soured as the pressure to uphold the family name increased. Before the magic disappeared they basically ignored each other, but began to reconcile during the rebuild and became close again.

Her room is sound proof (I know people say otherwise idc she needs a BREAK) but during the night she’ll sometimes open her window since it’s much quieter

I do believe she has SOME control over her gift, and in order to hear very far she has to hold a hand against her ear. When she isn’t, things are amplified but not unbearable. She’s kinda just gotten used to it.

Dolores love language is, unsurprisingly, words of affirmation.

If she gets stressed and doesn’t have access to her headphones, she’ll listen for the nearest family members voice (Ex: her fathers laugh, her mothers ranting, Camilo’s jokes, Antonio communicating with his animals)

Gets in on Isabela’s pranks now and again. She is mostly polite but has a devious side, especially with her cousins and siblings.

LUISA

I still adhere to the concept Luisa has some sort of ‘calm’ room. Wether it be an amusement park or a sauna she deserves to have somewhere to destress

Has a pile of stuffed animals, each with different names

She actually does enjoy doing chores and being active, but struggles to find a stopping point and not overwork herself

She’s more then just brawn, and was always a sharp academic when she was in school

Women enjoyer women enjoyer

VERY physically affectionate she’s giving everyone hugs and crushing their bones

Her and Camilo get along very well after Casita’s rebuild. She likes his energy and ability to let loose, and Camilo respects all the work she does around the Encanto. They mesh well.

When she first got her gift she accidentally broke her dads hand

Her father used to teach her piano, though she sorta fell out of it the older she got. Since casita’s rebuild she’s picked it back up as a hobby.

A big animal person, second to Antonio. She likes patting the donkeys on the head if she gets the chance

Has a hard time sitting down to eat because she’s always getting ready to move

If you give her anything she’ll begin sobbing and thanking you (birthdays and Christmas are rough)

She puts the younger kids if air jail if she has to

She originally struggled to control her gift, and that made her scared to touch anyone in fear she’d hurt them. But Pepa helped Luisa find ways to control the strength as she had to learn with her weather

After she lost her gift she kept trying to move the church as a force of habit

Reads a lot of fantasy novels

Helps Antonio wrangle his animals

CAMILO

(This will be more brief as I have a whole post of HC’s for this mf)

Gay and trans can’t change my mind

Despite always being hungry he cannot stomach fish. Some other seafoods are fine but the smell of fish makes him ill.

Won’t say this out loud: he is kinda legitimately afraid of Isabela ever since he’s become the target of her pranks. No one knows true fear until you realize you are caught in a Isabela prank.

Camilo’s love language is a lot of things, but quality time is high up on his list as he likes living in the moment.

Is a very good artist but gets embarrassed when people try to look at his work

Despite being a stick he is surprisingly strong.

Him and Mirabel used to be close but sort lost that connection the older they got, and even began to fight and butt heads. I like to think they do eventually become close, but it takes a lot of conversation and time.

adhd and autism (vine boom sound effect)

used to bite people as a kid

He likes reading plays and will space out for hours thinking how something translates on a stage

Sometimes he stands in front of a mirror and goes ‘why why why why why why why w

MIRABEL

The silly!!!

Like Isabela: gift giving is her way of showing affection. She loves hand crafting gifts.

This is depressing but when she didn’t get her gift she drew a door on her wall hoping the magic would make it real

Once no one would wake up so she poured water on Camilo’s head and he screamed so loud it woke everyone else up

Mirabel looks extremely innocent but will literally try to stab anyone who bothers her with her sewing needle

She used to write simple picture books for Antonio when they roomed together

She DEF got her own room during the rebuild. Like imagine saving the miracle and your family is just like “anyway go back to the baby room lol” they wouldn’t do that to her

Bisexual icon love to see it

Has zero rizz I’m sorry queen but like she’s a girl failure by heart

Is a bit of old woman and can’t stay up too late without getting tired but in turn wakes up extremely early.

Not the best academic but obviously still very smart.

She’s an empath so if you begin crying she’ll start crying too she can’t help it

Is blinder than a bat if you take her glasses away she cannot see SHIT

ANTONIO

Don’t have too much on him since he is still a baby but I have a few!

His favorite animal is the jaguar! Hence the plushie and his closeness to Parce

He likes matching animals to people, and even has a few animals named after his family.

Animals often tend to just kinda… follow him. If he goes for a walk he might came back with some new friends.

I do think he’s a vegetarian. Maybe not a vegan but eating meat is not easy for him.

He doesn’t always go to his parents if he has nightmares, and will rotate between Dolores, Mirabel, and Camilo.

Kicks in his sleep

[just-some-random-blogger]

Ok, but what about Morpheus with a Angel Child?

A Lesson Of Tongues

Dream of the Endless & Angel!Reader

Summary: "You're saying it wrong, father." Dream makes a sound, "I was there when the language was mad-" "Then why are you saying it wrong?"

Word Count: >800

Warnings: fem!reader because i love girl dad!dream, im right!reader, youre wrong!dream, fluff, slice of life, typos, etc.

A/N: In my head, this child is the daughter of my pairing in 'Harbinger Of The Dusk' and 'holy' but you don't have to read it to understand this fic also LOL IM IMAGINING THIS GIF IS HIM JUST BEING SO DONE WITH HIS DAUGHTER HELP ASHFHAS HAHHAH also also the eyeliner T_T Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @sloanexx @deniixlovezelda @shadow-pancake9

A small child with dark curls and shining skin walked through the halls of the library. She was wearing a dress that belonged to her mother, simply because she could, for mother was not present at the moment.

Her hair bounced on her shoulders and the way too big clothing, with way too long sleeves and way too long skirt, dragged across the floor as she carried a large book in her arms. Well, she could barely carry it.

She struggles to put the leather bound tome on the table, but after much fuss, she finally manages, finding a sudden strength in her grip. She sniffles as she grabs her dangling clothes and lifts them as she climbs up a chair. The chair she wanted to sit on was one that quite high off the ground, which was why she favored it. It made her feel like the princess she was. She struggles to get up, but after a while, finds again her strength and manages.

Once she sits down and turns to the book on the table, she catches sight of something important, someone important.

Uh-oh.

The King of the Dreaming stares at her with crossed arms. It was actually because of his power that the girl was able to place her book upon the table and to climb the chair without falling off. He would not say this though, so she would forever think it was by her own strength that she accomplished these things.

"Father," she mutters softly and slowly.

Dream nods, "daughter."

Suddenly, the feel of her mother's dress was burning her skin... or what it her father's gaze that was doing that?

"What are you wearing?" Dream asks.

The girl blinks, "hmm... a dress."

"Evidently," Dream uncrosses his arms, "who does it belong to?"

Dream knows angels cannot lie, or at least it goes against their nature to. But then again, she was only half angel. He tilts his head, awaiting a confession that still has not yet arrived. But then again, her Endless half would not make her deceptive either.

The girl decides to keep her silence.

A clever tactic, but not clever enough.

"I asked you a question," Dream presses, leaning on the table.

She decides to ignore him. She drags the book in front of her and opens it, "I don't wanna say."

Dream stills upon hearing the girl's words. Ridicule? In his own home?

He thinks if Desire were here, they'd laugh and love on the girl, encouraging her ways. He purses his lips tightly. Half Endless indeed.

The king decides to circle over to her, thinking his looming presence would coax out a what he wanted. It does not. She is rather undeterred.

Let's see how undeterred she'll be once he tells on her mother.

He finds himself examining the book she picked out. With but a glance, Dream immediately recognizes the script. It was a book about angles, written in the language of angels.

The girl goes through the book without sparing too much time. He gathers she is more interested in the pictures rather than the words.

She stops at a page that displays a picture of a glorious being, the Star of the Night, the child's mother. She smiles at it, rubbing the face of the illustration. Dream finds himself smiling as well.

In his fondness, the Endless begins to dictate the words on the paper. He speaks of the accounts the author made about the angel, his lover, and the girl turns to him upon hearing his words.

Dream continues to read the script, thinking his daughter was enjoying it. But then she waves her hands desperately and shakes her head.

"That's wrong!" she says.

Dream's words go dry.

The girl leans onto the table and points at the text, reiterating the words her father just spoke, though her finger was on the wrong side of the page. Upon speaking her people's language, she turns to Dream and says, "now you."

Dream is at a disbelief. Was this girl really correcting him?

The Prince of Stories narrates the words again, making more effort to sound more exact.

The angel girl is severely disappointed yet again.

"That's not how!" she says. She repeats the phrase he just said.

He cuts her off, "I assure you, child, I know how to speak the speech of your mother."

The girl disagrees and stands on the chair. Dream immediately reaches out for her, hands coming to her small back, securing her in place. He adjusts the drooping shoulder of her ill-fitting dress. Her soft hands come to his bony face. She repeats the words for him. Dream sighs.

The girl's father mimics her again, yet still she is not pleased.

"You're saying it wrong, father."

Dream makes a sound, "I was there when the language was mad-"

"Then why are you saying it wrong?"

Dream grunts and leans his forehead on his daughter, "you think yourself so wise little girl?"

The girl giggles at his attempts to intimidate her, registering his actions as affectionate gestures, which was why she threw her arms around him. Quite quickly she latches onto Dream and finds no more interest in the lesson she was giving him, "fly! Fly!"

Dare she demand things from the king after such insults?

"Fatherrrrrr!"

He sighs.

"At once, my love," he mutters and flies around the library.

[cebwrites]

Trafalgar Family Headcanons

a/n: atrocious that the only results i get for "trafalgar law family" in tumblr's gif seach is only doffy stuff and the donqi (donkey, ha) pirates, not a single one of their bio family well, this'll have to do, since post-flevance pre-swallow island rosi is the only family law has to speak of...

they/he law, no reader cw: angst, homophobic/transphobic microaggressions, implied(?) religious trauma but there's nothing in detail, just law really failing to fit in with the other church boys for whatever reason word count: 1.3k

The passion for medicine started for Law's father when his father was drafted to war, just before Amber Lead was truly profitable but powers on top were already vying heavily for it, and ended up passing on the way home to his family - Law's father never ended up being a front like medic like intended, but his research was still invaluable to his peers in the field and he ended up helping in the expansion and flourishing of the hospital that would eventually become his grave

Law's mother was a classically trained dancer before she went into medicine; feeling the burnout of one career path but throwing herself headlong into another high-powered job before second guesses and frankly, reason, could knock her off-course

Diving into an occupation that seemed to be almost directly antithetical if not completely random to escape the monotony of her previous path in life, falling in love with a man on this new, exciting route and building a life with him - Law retains not-so vivid memories of how their mother stressed the importance of building a safety net for themself in the future, of stability, but they'd always remember the soft tone her voice when she spoke of just going for it, jumping into doing this with their father

Law didn't inherit his mom's merit in whimsy it seems, but they definitely picked up her anxiety about the little things, how she'd fuss over the smallest details in her plans to make sure everything went perfectly; Law feels a twinge deep in their chest whenever they catch themself fiddling with the edges of paper within their notebooks, trying to focus a cacophony of thoughts into something workable just like their mother

Their mother never talked much about her upbringing, or the people in her life before she took this plunge with their father, but what Law's mom did share with her children was her love for music - maybe a little misguided in signing them up for classes instead of just, letting them enjoy it for what it is, but Lami always seemed eager to pull out her violin for relatives and though Law still never socialized much, being able to play the piano did give them a slight "cool" factor that drew other kids to their side if not only to ask Law if they knew how to play this, that, or the other

But on the other hand, the kids got to see just how happy their parents were to dance in the comfort of their kitchen or living room when their songs played on the radio, pulling a reluctant Law and giggling Lami along with them to the beat; eventually everyone would lay in a cuddle pile on the floor or on the couch, breathless from laughter and a day off from school well-spent

Once, while Rosi was basking in the sun on the rare occasion where he and Law didn't have to run from bigoted doctors or duck behind marines' line of sight, where they both had a brief, precious moment to just breathe - Corazon found himself at a loss for what to do when Law started dissolving into tears (very reluctantly and trying to hide it the whole time, mind) when a certain song played on the radio

It took hours of coaxing to finally get the kid to talk, but after Law finally did spill the reason for his upset, Corazon could only hold them in the comfort of his coat while he smoothed over their tiny back with his hand the size of Law's head, an ache long dulled in Rosinante's own heart starting to throb numbly again

Law's grandmother was a devout woman, becoming especially pious after the death of her husband even though her prayers of bringing him home safe were never answered, she doubled down on her beliefs and blamed herself for not praying hard enough, not devoting herself enough to The Lord

She'd round up the family every Sunday for mass and make sure everyone was freshly dressed, on their best behavior for The Lord's house - Law didn't doubt that their grandmother did love them, but they could never shake the feeling that she valued appearances to the community more than what their family actually felt about these rituals

They went because they had to, it was what they always did and breaking tradition would be a "slippery slope" to god knows what as other members of the parish would say - plus, Law's father, for as long as Law had been alive up until that point, had been weak against their grandmother

Apparently it was because he was a particularly rowdy kid, always causing trouble for their grandmother even after his father passed, and the wakeup call Law's dad got was bad enough to swing him in the complete opposite direction - he loved his kids, sure, but he was strict, and when it came to grandma? Whatever she said, goes, out of the guilt Law's father never addressed with his mother, sweeping every bad thing under the rug like they always did to keep moving forward

So to mass every weekend they went

Mom and dad were used to the pleasantries, mingling with other adults over the provided lunch afterwards and Lami got to play with the friends she easily made on day one, family friends; yet Law never quite found the right clique to assimilate into - either they were too macabre with descriptions of last week's anatomy class where they dissected live frogs, or nobody found their rambles about commemorative coins all that interesting

Their mom urged Law to approach other kids about the Sora comics he liked so much, but given the reception to all their other interests, Law kept this special interest very much personal - they occasionally toss and turn at night thinking of how those comics probably would be their in with them, but then again, it's not like any of that would matter in the end - whether those snotty church kids accepted them or not, Flevance was always destined to end up in flames

Wholly ignored by it's supposed savior that swathes of people offered their reverence to every single week, every day in the case of their grandmother, no one had come to save a single person in the White City

In any modern setting I'd imagine them as Colombian with much of the same choices being made here - Law isn't particularly close with their folks, and if you asked them about their dad their first thought would go to Corazon; it's strained over the years for a myriad of things but the ones lined up above paint the clearest picture

They talk to Lami on and off, Law's still pleasant enough with their sister to hang out ever other month - they shut down any talk of possibly meeting up with mom and dad to sort things out, however - on the off chance that Law does have to meet with their parents, it's about as tense as you an imagine it, especially if extended family is involved

Law can handle prodding about their studies and bullshit an answer about where they intend to take his career in life, but they absolutely dread the questions about girlfriends and the however many hours of misgendering they can come to expect before he can go home and have to recharge for about a week - Corazon and their childhood friend group are more or less the only people in an out of their house at that time, but others may be allowed over towards the end of their cocooning session

Lami tries to advocate for them with when they have to field nosy relatives, Law appreciates her for that, but she can only do so much having to deal with her own onslaught of invasive questions about her personal life, she'd tell him; Law recognizes the familiar icy curl in their chest whenever she does - they're all just trying to get by in their own ways, no one has time to coddle them; they get much of the same feeling from their mother, who does try to extend an olive branch every now and again, but mostly silence from his father when the topic comes up

Law - doesn't make it a habit of keeping in touch with their folks

[helaelaemond]

50 Helaemond Kisses

day 13 - discreetely

Helaena and Aemond share some words in the training yard on the day of the Driftmark question. Aemond lashes out a little on her, but the anger does not last long.

Words: 934

"Be calm."

Aemond stretches his arms in front of him and tilts his head from side to side. "I am calm."

She smiles faintly, and takes his hand. "Aemond.'

He pulls his touch out of hers and bounces on his toes before crossing the yard to the table where weapons are laid out for his pleasure. The twin war hammers take his interest today, and he picks them up and twirls them to loosen his wrists. At a safe distance, Helaena watches him. There is a tightness in his jaw, malice in his eye, tension in his brow. Last night, he had let her help melt it all away, but with the sun came the anger. The worry.

As quickly as he had picked the weapons, he discards them. He presses his hands on the table and bends over and lets out a deep sigh. She comes to his side and rests a hand between his shoulders. "It's alright."

"Don't."

"Aemond."

He glances at her. "Don't."

Her expression is soft. "There is nothing to worry about, of that, I am sure."

"You have no way of knowing," he answered sharply, quietly. There is anger in him. He pulls away from her.

Across the yard, Ser Criston watches them as he waits for his squire to remove his armour. Helaena notices his keen eyes, and it makes her wince. He sees much and more.

But that does not stop her from going to her brother. He has turned his attention to the wall of shields. Some with dragons, some with towers, some dotted in flames, some utterly plain. It is a plain one that he pulls onto his arm and swings around experimentally to loosen his shoulder. Her heart aches to see the pain he is in, the way he buries it under anger because anger is easier to handle. For him, at least. When he throws the shield off in frustration, she is at his side again.

"Aemond, please."

The softness in her voice makes him still his movements, and he finally looks at her, really looks at her. "What is it?"

"It has been a long time since we saw them. There is nothing to fear."

In her bed last night, they had talked long into the darkness about everything. It took some coaxing, but the words had finally come to him and it was only Helaena that heard them. His worries. His concerns. The hatred for Rhaenyra's sons, for Rhaenyra, for their father. How he had been a boy, just a boy, and they had done that to him and no one had protected him or loved him or-

She loved him until the dawn. They're both tired now, of course, but it is worth it. Still. Much of the peace has melted like mist.

"I do not fear them," he replied stiffly.

"You fear the pain they caused."

"Helaena-"

"Don't call me that." He doesn't call her that. He calls her sister. He calls her Lae. Only does he use her proper name when he wants to put distance between them. It's cruel, really.

"'Tis but your name."

"Not to you." She meets his fierce gaze without pride, without hesitation.

Silence hangs between them. His jaw is tight, his violet eye aflame. He towers over her, and his lip twitches as if he's going to say something. But nothing coems.

"Please," she murmurs after the tension can last no longer. "Be calm today. Do not let anger rule you."

"What would you have rule me?" Aemond replies, irritation laced in his voice. "Love?"

The venom in his voice makes her turn on her heel and stride across the yard. He doesn't want to listen to her, he doesn't care for her steadiness now, the willing ear he lent last night is gone and-

"Sister, wait!" In a shadowy alcove, Aemond catches up with her and grasps her wrist to make her stop. She tries to pull away, but he is stronger than her. "Forgive me. That was unkind."

Helaena looks up at him sadly. "It was."

"Forgive me." He glances around. They are hidden; no one will see them. And so he raises his hand to her cheek and brushes his knuckles over her soft skin. "You speak the truth, I think."

"Aemond..."

"I will do my best," he promises quietly. "For you."

She shakes her head. "For yourself."

Leaning down, Aemond presses his forehead against Helaena's. "No. For you."

She sighs, and opens her mouth to protest, but his kiss silences her. Tender lips capture hers, and calloused fingers hold her jaw. It's sweet and gentle and brief.

Too brief. Always too brief.

"I will be good." He smiles, and bumps their noses together. "I swear."

"Aemond."

"Lae. I'm sorry. I will make you proud today."

The sound of footsteps interrupts them, and they break apart just in time for Cole to appear around the edge of the alcove. "Prince. Princess." He nods his head to them, and observes the careful distance between them. They are the mirror of each other - straight spines, hands behind their backs, cheeks flushed red.

"Cole." Hardness has returned to Aemond's voice.

"Are you ready to train, my prince?"

Aemond nods, and with a final glance to his sister, he strides back to the yard.

Before Cole can follow him, Helaena touches his arm. "Ser Criston. I... he..."

The knight offers her a rare and soft smile. "I know, princess."

There aren't the right words. Protect him. Keep him safe. Steady his hand. "Please..."

No words are needed. He understands. He always has. "I will."

[pbs-theundeadmaggot]

first love // paper heart

🎶 paper heart by dayseeker

(AU) Steve Harrington x fem!reader

[a/n] I'm sorry its been so long, life has been pretty chaotic but I'm slowly finding the time to write again.

[warnings?] self doubt, toxic relationship, angst and uncertainty.

first love masterlist here!

You’d been up since the early hours of the morning, watching the sunrise roll in with it’s inky colours fading into a warm hue as time passed slowly. The calm breeze and the faint chatter of the city calming you from the raging thoughts that swarmed your mind as you mulled over each decision that led you to this point.

Against your better judgement you’d followed Robin’s advice and messaged Julien accepting his offer of a date which was rapidly approaching. On one hand you were rather excited, not having been asked out in a while however, you also couldn’t help but feel guilty. Not wanting to hurt Steve’s feelings, for whatever dumb reason that may be, but alas you had to help yourself out and try to move on. 

Feeling eyes on you, you look over towards Robin who lay sprawled out on her bed, shooting you her infamous knowing look, eyes speaking a whole conversation within the comfortable silence of the room. The low lights bounced off her prominent features, casting a cognisant expression over her face. You’re thinking too loud. 

Of course she knew what was bothering you, shooting her the exact same look she’d just given, not wanting to admit it out loud, feeling stupid enough as it is worrying over a boy. A boy that held your entire being in the palm of his hands without even realising it.

Breaking you from your thoughts once again she reached over squeezing your hand, silently telling you that it was time to try and move on. Sighing loudly and brushing a hand through your hair you stood up smoothing the crinkled sheets of your bed out and gathering up the personal belongings scattered across the room, stuffing them into your purse before waving goodbye and heading off to your date.

.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.

 Meanwhile, Steve was pacing the length of his hotel room, thoughts swarming his mind as he thought about what the fuck he was supposed to do now. Pretty soon you’d be going on your date with Julien and if Steve was the master of anything, it was catastrophising. In his mind he’d already married you off with kids and a white picket fence dream, while he remained alone and stuck to the shadows of his old ways, the chains of his past leaving him bound and unable to break the cycle. When in fact, the reality to everyone else involved in the whole situation, knew the date was nothing but a weak attempt to forget the infamous Harrington boy that held the only key to her heart.

Rebecca had long left the room, still angry from the night before where the two realised the harsh truths that spilled from their mouths, the venomous words slowly seeping into the fragile remains of their relationship before killing it for good. He should’ve felt guilty, perhaps hurt and embarrassed that he’d been so foolish and quick to believe the sweet words that fell from her mouth, coaxing him into an pathetically obedient state that he’d only just managed to escape. Yet he didn’t have it in him to feel anything other than joy at the realisation that maybe just maybe he had a chance with you. 

He should’ve followed his heart from the very beginning, wasting so much time being afraid of losing what you had that you didn’t realise until it was almost lost. Confusion and doubt still weighed heavy in the air, uncertainty hitting him like his father used to, the pain giving him an unusually grounding feeling in this very moment. 

Fuck what his parents wanted for him. Fuck what Rebecca wanted from him. It was his life and if he couldn’t even tell you, his best friend and love of his life the truth then what did that say about him? No. He needed to do this now, there was no time to dwell on the what ifs, especially not with losing you on the very line right now. 

He loved you

He loves you. 

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

[a/n] I know its not super long but reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated and encouraged, see you guys in the next part!

other works available here!

Taglist: @freezaz123

[ardenwritesegos]

Aurora

The story of Damien's daughter.

It started simply. The young girl, Aurora, was plagued with terrible nightmares night after night. Each one seemed to worsen, from being chased, to drowning. She came to dread sleep, begging her mother to let her stay up longer. Of course, it didn’t work. Aurora cowered under her blankets night after night. What a poor, miserable little thing. A creature watched over her, seeing an opportunity. Mayhaps, if he somehow stopped her night terrors, he could gain the trust of his d-the child. That was all this was. A way to coax her to his side. Nothing more. When Aurora, against her judgment, fell asleep, the being snuck his way into her brain. Shadows eased their way into her subconscious, attempting to give off a non-threatening aura. Once inside, in the darkest corner of the dream, they were greeted by flames that seemed to grow more by the moment.

“Father? Mother? Where are you?!” The girl screamed from the middle of the room,her bedroom. Tears overflowed from her eyes, as she felt herself burning alive.

“Where are you?!” If the being still had a working heart, it would have broken at that. This display had to stop. At the raising of the being’s hand the fire went out, replaced by a monochrome replica of her bedroom.There wasn’t a burned object in sight. Everything--from the walls, to her favorite teddy, Thomas--was reshaped and pristine. The girl looked down at her arms and legs, finding that she too was unscathed. She no longer felt that intense pain from only moments ago. Aurora hesitantly grabbed her teddy. Perhaps a little tea party would calm her down. She sat Thomas, along with various other stuffed animals in seats around a miniature wooden table. A small curve found its way on one side of the creature’s mouth for a moment, before being quickly pushed down. The plan started the exact way they wanted it to. All that was left to do was remain hidden and continue to do the same thing night after night, until enough trust was built. And so, that is precisely what he did. Each night, the being blocked the girl from her nightmares, replacing them with a comforting little void for her to spend the night in. For a few years, the child kept silent. That is, until--

“You can come out, you know,” the now seven year-old said as if speaking with an imaginary friend. “I know you won’t hurt me. Mother has taught me a lot about spirits,” the girl begins.

 “She says that bad ones would make me feel like I am in danger. I haven’t felt that around you, so I think you’re safe.” Evelyn must be training her, the creature thought to himself. How she could do that while the child’s father was watching was a mystery to him.

“I can see you hiding.” The being had experienced many perplexing things, but nothing was more surprising than that single sentence. Simple, but a firm confirmation of one thing: the girl did get some abilities, not only from her mother, but also, quite possibly, from her father. That, or the girl had been exposed to it enough. Like a disease. Yes, this description would fit corruption quite well.

“Are you scared?” The child’s voice cut off the being’s thoughts. 

“Don’t worry, I know you won’t hurt me,” the child claimed in reassurance. 

“And if you do, I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.” That confidence was very familiar to the creature. Regardless, he could not help but read a lack of fear, both outside and inside. Interesting.

 “Well, we might as well give our names, right? You’ve been keeping my bad dreams away, after all. We should have names for each other,” the seven year-old held her hand out for him to shake.

 “Hello, my name is Aurora. What’s your name?” Complete silence, save for a few creaks in the background. 

“Do you not have a name?” No response. 

“No? But everyone has a name. I guess I’ll just have to make you one.” Aurora stopped for a moment, finger tapping her chin in thought for a moment, before her eyes lit up. 

“Oh, I know, Dark!” She softly exclaimed.

 “Because you live in the darkness.” The creature could scoff at such a childish name. However, the simple title did have a bit of a ring to it. Dark it was, then.

 “Do you like it?” The being didn’t know how they would respond. The two had not established a form of communication, and they didn’t want to show their face to her quite yet. Suddenly, one of the souls recalled a way he secretly answered questions for friends in school. A single knock reverberated through the room. “Is that a yes?” 

The girl closed her eyes for a moment. In that second, she smiled, supposedly receiving a response. Before she could exclaim, however, her surroundings seemed to get brighter, until she woke up in her cyan sheets, staring up at her ceiling. The rest of her day went on normally. However, her dreams continued in the same manner. Each night, she was returned to her little monochrome world. Instead of playing, she would speak to the creature. Their “talks” normally revolved around her day. One night, however, the child started to become more curious.

“Dark, may I try something?” Despite knowing her thoughts, the being hesitated for a moment. 

“Mother taught me that if I focus enough, I can feel other people’s feelings,”The girl began.

 “Would you mind if I practiced on you?” He thought for a moment, before something dawned on him. Ever since they first saw her, the creature felt a familiar energy within the child. Now that she was older, that energy was stronger than ever before. They themself wanted to test something out as well. Two knocks echoed through the room. 

“Does that mean that you don’t mind?” A single knock.

“Wonderful!” She exclaimed.

“Please be patient with me. I’m still learning,” The girl proceeded to close her eyes, her aura spreading across the room, until it encircled the creature. They resisted the urge to shove the energy away. It was full of a warmth that he had not felt in years; a warmth that the blue soul within them wished they could still have. 

Happy to help. Her voice seemed to be projected into the being’s mind. The creature jumped at the voice that wasn’t his. So she did pick up some extra powers. That would make her even more useful. 

“Sorry for scaring you,” the child apologized, retracting her aura.

 “I didn’t even know I could do that!”

“It’s alright”, the girl heard an echoing voice from across the room. If she already heard their thoughts, what was the point of hiding their voice anymore? Their appearance, on the other hand, would have to remain in the shadows. There was no use in confusing the child. At least, not right now.

 “You merely surprised me,” the voice reassured.

 “And it seems you surprised yourself, as well.” the being looked at the 12 year-old with…concern? Is that what that was? He forgot what that felt like. He felt a need to comfort the girl. But if she saw him–

“Why don’t you want me to see you?” so Aurora could still hear their thoughts, it seemed. Interesting… 

“Sorry!” She apologized once again. 

“It seems I can still hear them,” there was a strong sense of concern laced within her voice. 

“Why is this happening?” she asked herself. 

“It’s like we’re…” in that second, Aurora looked up, seeing a cyan silhouette where the being looked to be. When she looked down at her own hands, she could see her own, teal aura shining as well.

“Dark, what is this?” the girl asked. It felt like Dark would know the answer. 

“You should wake up,” the being pushed down every trace hurt, any desire to tell the child everything. That would put a wrench in their plans. They needed time to think. 

“Dark, tell me what��” 

“Wake. up.” the being interrupted. In a snap, Aurora burst awake, jolting upright. The sun was just reaching her window. That meant her mother was awake. She was sure to have some answers. The girl hopped out of bed, putting on her silken slippers. When she opened the door and–

“Hello, darling,” her father greeted–or was he? There was an eerie feeling to him all of the sudden. Like something or someone else wearing her father’s skin. Was this feeling always there, or was she just noticing it now? 

“You’re up bright and early,” he acknowledged. This wasn’t a casual conversation, she could sense it. 

“Is everything alright?” the man started walking towards her. She backed up from him with every step he moved forward.

“Did you have a…bad dream?” he emphasized those last words, giving an ominous smirk. Somehow, she knew that if she said anything, he would find Dark. 

“N-No, it was…very pleasant actually,” Aurora stuttered. 

“Really? Who was it about?” the man continued his questioning. He already knew, didn't he? About her dreams… About Dark. 

“Nobody important,” the girl blurted out. She still felt the need to keep up appearances, to keep this conversation going. Almost as if it were a scene, a part to play. 

“Nobody important, you say…” he continued moving towards her until Aurora was crouched against one of her corner walls. She started to see a thin, red outline on this man’s body. 

“Does he, by any chance, hide in the darkness?” Aurora sealed her mouth shut. She wasn’t saying a word, no matter what he did. 

“Of course, you’re just like him,” he mused. 

“So bad at keeping secrets.” 

“Like who?” she asked, though she already knew the answer. 

“Your father,” the man said matter-of-factly. 

“I figured since you’ve met him, there’s no need to keep this game going with you,” he explained. That shadow being was her father? Is that why he glowed when she used her power on him? Her mother did say that someone’s powers could unlock a hidden connection.  

“Who are you?” Aurora asked in steadily rising fury.

“Oh, just an old, family friend,” the man responded. The girl doubted this man profusely. After all, he did lie about being her father for years. Not to mention, how he revealed it. How could she possibly trust him? 

“Though I doubt he has anything nice to say about me anymore.” 

“You killed him…didn’t you?” the realization hit her like a train. 

“Ding! Ding! Ding! We have a winner!” he exclaimed, donning chaotic energy.

“You know, for someone so young, you sure are clever,” he paused. 

“Far too clever for your own good,” his high energy turned ominous once again, his mouth in a thin line. 

“Are you going to kill me?” Aurora asked, no longer able to hide herself shaking. 

“Why no, dear!” his expression returned to casual, mad joy. 

“No, you’re just what my story needs,” story? What was he talking about? The world wasn’t some narrative that could be pushed in one person’s favor. 

“Villain, hero, having just those two is so boring,” the man explained, as if his logic made sense to anyone else. 

“What I need…is an antihero,” he continued. 

“Someone who tows the line, someone confused of their own role,” he seemed to be talking just for himself, as a form of conversation with his mind. 

“And I know just how to make that happen,” Aurora didn’t get a chance to respond as the man placed his hand on her shoulder. In that moment, everything went blank. 

The girl woke up, lying face-first on the dirt floor of a forest. She couldn’t recall who she was or how she got there. All she knew was that she needed to move forward. No matter what happened, she would be fine. 

No matter what happened. 

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