#thread; her father's daughter

[hauntingblue]

Throughout jojos there is this narrative with jotaro about how being emotionally closed off and traumatized makes him emotionally unavailable and unable to care for his daughter and he much he regrets it before he inevitably can't do anything about it before they both die and it's so tragic and compelling but it is mostly coincidental and hangs on by a thread...

[sercphs]

Father's Day

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Featuring Cradle Verse || Honkai: Star Rail

⠀⠀⠀⠀Another year, as the residents of the universe called it. A standardized measurement perpetrated by the great IPC across the stars, as far as their reach let them - and even further beyond that. This is something she became accustomed to in the time since she had ventured into the universe at large.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Was it ironic then, that this "Father's Day" was the day she set out all that time ago, that it was an arbitrarily named day to celebrate paternity? Or perhaps that was merely the one she had come to see as the 'real' version of the day, for her own reasons. Perhaps it wasn't a standardized thing in this universe - she would never truly be able to tell. Even now after all these years, she doesn't truly understand these things that are so woefully human.

⠀⠀⠀⠀In spite of this she continues to learn, to sink her hands into the matter, to understand what makes these humans and their sibling species the way they are. The drive, the motivation, the justifications - all of it far beyond her understanding even now, yet every cycle she is one step closer to understanding. One step closer to knowing.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀But never any closer to loving.

⠀⠀⠀⠀It is something that exists so far beyond her understanding, beyond what she is capable of feeling. She sees it everywhere, this thing that is called 'love' that people share for each other. A thing that some have declared ever feeling toward her on some rare occasions, but she cannot even begin to fathom what it feels like.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Even further beyond her understanding is this love of Fathers. This day dedicated to them, this day she takes out of every cycle like a great many others, but for reasons so far from what she understands to be it's true reason. To celebrate your Fathers, to show appreciate them, to let them know they are 'loved' by their children...

"Mm... Is that something so very human, too?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀The thought escapes her mouth as she she sets foot on the moon, a desolate and barren place at the edge of infinity. A place so far from those she had become accustomed to, somewhere that one could live without ever knowing about the great Aeons deeper in the universe. A place where one could easily live their life without even so much as knowing about The Destruction, without having heard of The Propagation and it's consequences...

⠀⠀⠀⠀An edge of infinity where the only thing known is Despair.

"Perhaps. I wonder what they would say if they could see this place?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀Gentle footsteps guide her across the surface, through the ruins of a civilization long passed away. Step by step, the same footprints she left last cycle - and the cycle before that. How many cycles had she been leaving these footprints? Always on this same day, the same footprints, one galactic cycle after another. They felt so close together, yet so far apart - so telling of the timelessness of her body and mind.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Closer and closer, until she comes to a stop at a faded red cloth set upon the ground in a crater, a place she can turn her head to the sky and see the world this desolate place orbits. A world she is bound to never set foot upon, locked away from Despair in its entirety after the great tragedies that befell it. A bubble of time sealed away, locked by a poison that permeates all existence...

"Mm... As it has already been another cycle, once again..."

⠀⠀⠀⠀The Emanator kneels on the fabric, setting out a small incense burner in the heart of the piece of fabric. A pair of incense sticks are lit, and her hands pressed together - drawn apart to produce a single black rose. Placing the rose before the incense burner, she turns her gaze to the darkness surrounding the world she gazed upon, her crimson stare peering into the Darkness of Despair.

⠀⠀⠀⠀To her Father, she utters the same promise that she has made every year, every galactic cycle - a promise she will make forevermore, until the day it is fulfilled.

"In my infinite hatred, I give you this gift - Father. May your death come soon, so that I may put an end to suffering."

⠀⠀⠀⠀Father's Day...

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀...What a horrible day.

[yuridovewing]

Imagine if in 2007 or so, some Pokemon Anime writer was answering a bunch of shotfire questions on twitter or facebook or whatever. And they get asked “Hey, who’s related to who in the Pokemon anime? Anyone we don’t know about yet?” And this writer has not revisited the original saga in years, they’re tired and do not care at all, and they just write “Eh Ash’s Mom and Misty’s Mom are sisters and everyone in the show knows this” on a whim. Completely ignoring how that makes absolutely no sense in the OS canon, Ash and Misty don’t know each other and the show actively shipped them, and this take is so stupid that the writer basically immediately takes it back and it’s never implied in any official source, nevermind the actual show, that they were related. But for some reason, the fandom COMPLETELY accepted this take as cold hard canon. A writer had said it, so now it’s gospel. People are arguing over the ship now. If you point out that this is complete and utter bullshit in the actual canon, you are now an incest apologist. Despite this having clearly been a mistake and subsequently ignored for years, everyone is adamant that this has to be the case. That would be stupid, right?

That’s what a lot of WC discourse feels like to me

[itspileofgoodthings]

okay but Kola saving Mills not once but twice … KILLED me

[americashielded]

@wintershieldedheart said:

It's no use. I've tried everything.

"...not to ask a stupidly obvious question..." Steve began with a slight sigh punctuating the brief pause before he resumed his thought, "...but you did actually charge your phone and made sure the charger was fully plugged in before you tried to charge it, right?"

Answering his question before Margot had the opportunity to do so herself, he held up the already unplugged charger cord, though the usb cord through which it charged was still in the adaptor at least, so...she had done it halfway, technically. Steve might not have grown up with smartphones the way she had, but he was decently enough adjusted to them, and he at least knew how to plug in things. Sometimes the simplest answer was the right one after all.

[vinethreaded]

tag drop

[philomelia]

cassie is such an unreliable narrator it’s actually so funny 

[wornkindness]

ㅤㅤ“Yes, but Edwina, what did he do with the horse?” She had been rather determined to have an answer the moment she discovered had what Lord Bridgerton brought her friend in order to win her favor. A grand gesture certainly, but even Amelia knew it had not been the right one. “Did he say?”

@melnchly ♡'d

[darthteeth]

URGENT!!!Help Abdul Salam Al-Anqar and his family get through this war in Gaza!!!

(URGENT) THEY ARE AT €3,445 OUT OF €50,000 GOAL

I was asked by @nader5555 to make this, if u cannot donate please please share this post. Copy pasted from a message i was sent:

"Only a Few Hours Left Before We Enter Our First Year of War, Genocide, Starvation, and Displacement A Final Plea from the Heart of Hell: Save Us Before Hope Dies 💔🔥 I am Abdel Salam, and I have nothing left but words written by a trembling hand ✍️. The war has not only destroyed our lives; it has taken everything from us. Our home, which was once our refuge, is now a pile of rubble 🏚️.

My car, my only source of livelihood, was destroyed in a sudden strike 🚗, and the work that sustained us is now a distant memory 💼. Today, I live in an endless nightmare. Under a sun that burns everything in its path 🌞🔥, my family and I sit in a worn-out tent, a tent that shields us neither from the summer heat nor the winter cold ❄️. Insects 🦟 invade the place, diseases consume our bodies 🩺, and my younger siblings cry from hunger and thirst 🍞💧. We have no clean water or a crumb of bread to ease our hunger. Each passing day deepens the weight of this hell we live in.

My Daughter Eman is Dying from Malnutrition 😨 My daughter Eman suffers from malnutrition; I have nothing to feed or treat her with. The deterioration of her health is killing me slowly. Every glance in her eyes, every pain she endures, crushes my heart 💔. How can I explain to her that what was once our hope has now turned into nothing but a mirage? The Night Only Adds to Our Pain 🌙 The night does not bring us rest; it only adds to our pain. We sleep on hard ground, feeling the cold in every bone of our bodies 🥶, with nothing but pieces of cardboard 📦 to cover us. My wife Aya cries in silence 🥺 as she watches our daughter’s future fade before her eyes. My mother Eman suffers from illness and needs urgent medical care 🩺💊.

My Father Ahmed is Sick with Cancer and Needs Emergency Treatment My father Ahmed, who is sick with cancer, needs emergency treatment outside Gaza, and the cost of his treatment is at least $10,000, not including accommodation. As he suffers from severe pain, I cannot provide the treatment he needs due to our dire situation.

My Siblings Are in Constant Suffering ⚰️ My brother Omar was unable to continue his studies due to the situation. My brother Nader could not take his high school exams, and my younger brother Mohammad suffers from brittle bones and needs treatment we cannot afford. Every day we live brings us one step closer to the end. Death surrounds us from every side: if not from hunger 🍽️, then from illness 🦠. And if not from illness, then from the despair that devours our souls. Where is Humanity? Where is the World? 🌍💔 We want to leave the devastated Gaza Strip to escape the machinery of destruction and killing and the severity of hunger and poverty. The cost of travel for each person is $5,000, and we are a family of seven members, bringing the total cost to $35,000.

Where are the compassionate hearts? Are you waiting for us to disappear into the depths of this suffering? Are you waiting until death takes us before you act? We are drowning, and we don’t have enough strength to scream for help 🆘. Will you let this cry go unanswered? 😭 Your donation today is our last thread of hope. With the little support I received, I was able to buy a simple phone 📱 to reach out to you. But the bitter truth is that what I and my family need is much greater. We are not asking for much; just enough to save our lives from this hell 🔥. Every donation, no matter how small, could be the difference between life and death for us 👐. Don’t Let Us Disappear in the Darkness of Suffering 🌑 Don’t let our story end here. Be the light that guides us to salvation 🕯️✨.

With every tear, with every pain, I write this final plea to you, Abdel Salam."

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[strxngertogether]

Rowan Fielding - Mayfair Witches

[25-40, human/witch/undead, neurosurgeon, cis woman?, she/her?, lesbian?, fc: Alexandra Daddario (may change)]

Rowan was born in New Orleans in the 1990s to Deirdre Mayfair, a powerful witch who had been sheltered and abused her entire life, after Deirdre's uncle raped her. Carlotta, Deirdre's aunt, had Rowan taken away at birth and given to a family member to raise after telling Deirdre that the baby had died in some hopes of Rowan never growing into her powers or falling into the grasp the demon who had his claws digging into the entire family but especially Deirdre. Rowan grew up in San Francisco with her adoptive mother under the assumption that she was a normal human despite an incidence in her childhood that told her otherwise.

She eventually became a neurosurgeon who was incredibly confident in her skills as a surgeon despite her boss who seemed to think far less of her. After several instances of killing or nearly killing people in her accidentally with just the power of her mind, Rowan is convinced she has magical powers despite her mother insisting that she doesn't and refusing to let her speak on the matter.

Shortly after, her mother dies at home from cancer and Rowan is left to deal with the aftermath and the trauma. She eventually begins looking into her birth in some attempt to find out more despite her mother's insistence that it was a closed adoption and there was nothing they could do. She quickly finds out that the adoption agency didn't even exist when she was born and has far more questions when she finds herself thrown into a world of witches, demons, and immense amounts of family drama.

Finding companionship in her cousin, Jojo, Rowan finds it easier to process and weave herself into the mess that is her new life. It's certainly not easy by any means, but having someone by her side to explain everything and simply build a friendship with makes everything easier to take in. It certainly isn't helped though when she finds herself falling for the demon, Lasher's, charms and manipulation while equally feeling terrified of he's capable of and, by extension, what she is capable of. Terrified she'll kill again, she tries to get rid of the demon but the ritual is useless and she still finds him attached to her.

Everything comes to a head when Rowan's cousin, Tessa, is kidnapped by witch hunters. While trying to rescue her cousin, Rowan was shot in the head and she was unable to save Tessa from being burned at the stake. When the rest of the family got there, they found both bodies or at least Rowan's as Tessa's was just ashes. Given that Tessa didn't have a viable body, Jojo and the rest of the family were unable to bring her back to life, but they were able to bring back Rowan. Cold, half alive, and minutes back from death, Rowan made it her mission to hunt down the people who killed Tessa. Killing each and every one of them, she cuts off their heads and brought them back to the family like a cat would bring a dead mouse to its owner. Sickened by Rowan's actions, Jojo feels guilt eating at her as she believes bringing her cousin back from the dead had broken something within her.

Having been impregnated by Lasher, Rowan's body is no longer able to carry a child and the half human child activates a fail safe and quickly grows to maturity, quite literally ripping her way out of Rowan's body leaving a blood bath in her wake. With everybody wanting the child for their own purposes, she nearly keeps it for herself as she doesn't see a better option, but the thought of raising it and having to pretend to love it sickens her. Not wanting to traumatize the child with a mother who hates it, but not wanting it to be used for who knows what terrible things and also not wanting to kill it, she entrusts the baby to Jojo as she's come to trust that she wouldn't use or abuse a child for her own gain.

They do however realize that they can use a small amount of the little girl's blood to banish Lasher and prevent him from ever coming into contact with the Mayfair family ever again. In a frantic, dangerous last battle, the family finally comes together to put a stop to the man, bringing them closer than ever.

[hamletthedane]

I was meeting a client at a famous museum’s lounge for lunch (fancy, I know) and had an hour to kill afterwards so I joined the first random docent tour I could find. The woman who took us around was a great-grandmother from the Bronx “back when that was nothing to brag about” and she was doing a talk on alternative mediums within art.

What I thought that meant: telling us about unique sculpture materials and paint mixtures.

What that actually meant: an 84yo woman gingerly holding a beautifully beaded and embroidered dress (apparently from Ukraine and at least 200 years old) and, with tears in her eyes, showing how each individual thread was spun by hand and weaved into place on a cottage floor loom, with bright blue silk embroidery thread and hand-blown beads intricately piercing the work of other labor for days upon days, as the labor of a dozen talented people came together to make something so beautiful for a village girl’s wedding day.

What it also meant: in 1948, a young girl lived in a cramped tenement-like third floor apartment in Manhattan, with a father who had just joined them after not having been allowed to escape through Poland with his pregnant wife nine years earlier. She sits in her father’s lap and watches with wide, quiet eyes as her mother’s deft hands fly across fabric with bright blue silk thread (echoing hands from over a century years earlier). Thread that her mother had salvaged from white embroidery scraps at the tailor’s shop where she worked and spent the last few days carefully dying in the kitchen sink and drying on the roof.

The dress is in the traditional Hungarian fashion and is folded across her mother’s lap: her mother doesn’t had a pattern, but she doesn’t need one to make her daughter’s dress for the fifth grade dance. The dress would end up differing significantly from the pure white, petticoated first communion dresses worn by her daughter’s majority-Catholic classmates, but the young girl would love it all the more for its uniqueness and bright blue thread.

And now, that same young girl (and maybe also the villager from 19th century Ukraine) stands in front of us, trying not to clutch the old fabric too hard as her voice shakes with the emotion of all the love and humanity that is poured into the labor of art. The village girl and the girl in the Bronx were very different people: different centuries, different religions, different ages, and different continents. But the love in the stitches and beads on their dresses was the same. And she tells us that when we look at the labor of art, we don’t just see the work to create that piece - we see the labor of our own creations and the creations of others for us, and the value in something so seemingly frivolous.

But, maybe more importantly, she says that we only admire this piece in a museum because it happened to survive the love of the wearer and those who owned it afterwards, but there have been quite literally billions of small, quiet works of art in billions of small, quiet homes all over the world, for millennia. That your grandmother’s quilt is used as a picnic blanket just as Van Gogh’s works hung in his poor friends’ hallways. That your father’s hand-painted model plane sets are displayed in your parents’ livingroom as Grecian vases are displayed in museums. That your older sister’s engineering drawings in a steady, fine-lined hand are akin to Da Vinci’s scribbles of flying machines.

I don’t think there’s any dramatic conclusions to be drawn from these thoughts - they’ve been echoed by thousands of other people across the centuries. However, if you ever feel bad for spending all of your time sewing, knitting, drawing, building lego sets, or whatever else - especially if you feel like you have to somehow monetize or show off your work online to justify your labor - please know that there’s an 84yo museum docent in the Bronx who would cry simply at the thought of you spending so much effort to quietly create something that’s beautiful to you.

[savingthrcw]

He did have a nice accent, didn't he? All those 'darlin' and sweethearts were making her a little flustered, something she had not expected in the slightest.

And then he pulled her into his lap and she let out a surprised "Oh!" that ended in a laugh, and that laughed turned into a little moan and a shiver when his lips were suddenly on her neck, her back arching against him as she instinctively tried to be even closer. "I do?" In a rare moment of clarity, she tried to resist the feeling of his kisses enough to say: "But I wasn't trying to, if you are not ready... I promise I can wait. I'd never... never tried to push you." Words were difficult at the moment, but she had to at least try to do the right thing.

There was a little twinge of guilt when she mentioned his honesty. He could never be truly honest with her, not like she deserved, and he hoped she would understand if he ever got to tell her. He would do anything to get his Janey back. "I'll certainly keep both coming, darlin'."

He wasn't sure earlier if he wanted to sleep with her, at least not yet, but the more she bit him like that, the less some parts of him wanted to adhere to that still. His hesitance was starting to slip away.

It was completely gone by the time her nails scraped at his scalp. His hands moved higher still, curling around her ass before pulling her a little more roughly into his lap. Goddamnit, Lucy. "You are somethin' else, sweetheart." His mouth moved, trailing soft kisses down her neck. "You really know how to change a fella's mind."

[tender-rosiey]

Broooo i need more of sukuna and his shy daughter. PLEASE🙏

quiet strings — ryomen sukuna x f!reader

your daughter sits in the corner, her small figure nearly swallowed by the shadows as she stares at the koto placed on its low stand in the middle of the room.

the delicate strings, taut and gleaming, shimmer in the fading light, waiting for the timid touch of her fingers.

sukuna leans against the doorframe, his imposing figure filling the space as he observes her with a sharp, unreadable gaze.

the contrast between his crimson eyes and the softness of the room’s light is almost startling.

he tilts his head slightly, breaking the silence with a muttered, “how long is she going to sit there staring at it?”

you turn to him, shooting him a look that carries years of unspoken understanding.

“she’s just nervous,” you say softly, the familiar warmth in your voice tempering the sharpness of his. “give her a moment.”

“nervous?” sukuna snorts, his lips curling into a smirk that reveals a glint of his sharp teeth. “over a bunch of strings? she’s my daughter, isn’t she? she should be tearing that thing apart by now.”

at his words, your daughter flinches ever so slightly, her small shoulders hunching as she curls inward, her fingers gripping the hem of her sleeve.

you sigh, brushing past sukuna as you cross the room to kneel beside her. the subtle rustle of your robes is the only sound as you reach out, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“sweetheart?” you call, your voice as gentle as the breeze filtering through the open window.

her wide eyes, so much like her father’s but lacking his imposing intensity, flick up to meet yours.

“yes, mama?” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the cicadas.

you smile, radiating a quiet reassurance that you know she needs. “you’ve been looking at the koto for a while,” you say. “do you want to try playing it?”

her small hands fidget with the hem of her sleeve as her cheeks flush a soft pink. she shakes her head quickly. “no… I can’t. I won’t be good at it.”

from the doorframe, sukuna lets out a low grunt, but you silence him with a quick glare over your shoulder.

he raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching in faint amusement. you turn back to your daughter, cupping her cheek in your palm, your thumb brushing lightly over her soft skin.

“you don’t know that,” you say with quiet conviction. “why don’t you try just one string? I’ll stay with you.”

her gaze darts to sukuna, who stands silently watching. his expression is as inscrutable as ever, but the weight of his attention seems to unnerve her.

still, she gives you a small nod, and you smile, helping her to her feet.

as you guide her to the koto, sukuna pushes off the doorframe and strolls lazily into the room, his presence looming as he stops a few steps away, arms crossed.

“you’re coddling her,” he mutters under his breath.

“she’s learning,” you counter without missing a beat, glancing at him over your shoulder. “not everyone leaps straight into things like you.”

his smirk deepens, but he says nothing more.

your daughter kneels beside the koto, her tiny hands hovering uncertainly above the strings. “just one,” you encourage gently, sitting beside her to offer your steady presence.

her small fingers tremble as they pluck a single string. the note rings out, soft and clear, hanging in the air like a fragile thread.

she freezes, her wide eyes staring at the koto in awe as the sound resonates and fades.

“see?” you say, smiling warmly. “you can do it.”

she glances up at you, her lips parting in a tiny, hopeful smile. encouraged, she plucks another string, then another. a tentative melody begins to form, its simplicity endearing.

from his spot a few paces away, sukuna raises an eyebrow. “is that supposed to be music?” he drawls, his tone sharp and teasing.

your daughter’s hands falter immediately, her shoulders tensing as she shrinks back.

“sukuna,” you snap, your voice low but firm. it’s the same tone you use when reining him in—something none other than you would dare.

he shrugs, completely unrepentant. “what? if she’s going to play, she might as well do it properly.”

your daughter begins to pull her hands away from the koto, her confidence shaken, but you place your hands gently over hers. “don’t listen to him,” you say softly, giving her an encouraging squeeze. “you’re doing wonderfully.”

she hesitates, her gaze flicking between you and sukuna before nodding timidly. “really?”

“really,” you say firmly, shooting sukuna a pointed look. “and I think you should keep going.”

her small hands return to the strings, and this time her melody grows steadier, her confidence building with each note.

sukuna lets out a low grunt of approval. “not terrible,” he admits begrudgingly.

your daughter’s face lights up, a shy but bright smile breaking through as she turns to him. “papa?”

he steps closer, crouching down to her level. his crimson gaze bores into hers, but his gruff tone softens slightly. “you’re still not that good,” he says, resting an arm on his knee, “but at least you’re trying.”

her eyes sparkle, her voice earnest as she promises, “I’ll practice more, papa!”

“good,” he replies, standing to his full height again.

you are silently encouraging d/n to play more, before you’re whisked up in your husband’s arms.

you look back at your daughter—who did not notice your absence—and then at your husband before frowning, “hey, what gives?!”

“I want another one.”

“what.”

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[shrimpybbq]

Gwayne Hightower corrupting his sweet Targaryen niece!

His young niece is sent to Oldtown with her younger brother Daeron, much to Gwayne’s delight.

Though she’s a Targaryen, she looks so much like her mother and Gwayne is simply infatuated with her. His niece was Helaena’s twin, the girl much more lucid and rooted in the earth than her sister.

Gwayne who takes her under his wing, allowing the pair to form a strong bond as she learns more about Oldtown and the history of the Hightower’s.

Gwayne watches as his sweet niece seems to grow even more beautiful as she’s older. He notices the attention she draws and the leering gazes men level at her. It makes something in his chest burn.

His niece was expected to return to Kings Landing when she became of age, and yet the time has passed and her mother and father have not sent for her yet. Gwayne comforts his sweet niece though he’s secretly happy and enjoying her presence remaining longer.

Gwayne finds it more and more difficult to resist his niece as she clings to him more in her sadness, his body growing warm at the idea of taking her for himself. He reasons with himself: if her mother married her other daughter to her full-blooded brother then surely an uncle is a less egregious pairing. Gwayne’s been influenced too much by the Targaryen views at this point.

Gwayne seizes the opportunity to corrupt his niece once and for all when she cries desperately in her arms. She’s sobbing about how no man will ever want her as a wife if she never returns to the capital, how her family do not love her, how her mother sent away.

He’s taking her teary face in his hands softly, brushing her hair back from her face as he looks into her wide eyes. The heavy kiss he places on her lips has her momentarily shocked before she tentatively responds. Gwayne’s slowly guiding her lips in the way he likes, revelling in the feeling as her fingers begin threading through his hair.

Gwayne doesn’t fuck her straight away, no, he waits and waits until his niece is so dependant on him, hanging off his every word. She’s visiting the sept with him each day, dining with him and letting him kiss her as much as he wants.

But once he does, there is no one in the world that he would let take her away from him. He would show Otto the bloodied sheets from their coupling and watch his face fall in horror, disgusted at the sullying of a proper Targaryen princess. Otto didn’t think he had it in him, not to do something so vile.

Gwayne gets his way and soon his pretty little niece is standing in front of him in the Sept at Oldtown, exchanging vows with him.

Alicent is beside herself. Her sweet daughter corrupted and defiled by her own uncle, someone she trusted her with.

Gwayne and his new wife are the picture of marital bliss, always giggling and mumbling to each other. The maids in the keep at Oldtown are always giggling as they walk past their chambers; the gasps and groans escaping enough to make a grown man blush.

Gwayne fucks his wife good. I said it. He’s a munch too and 100% makes his wife cum at least once before getting into the main action. He’s got his niece wrapped around his finger and anytime he wants her, he has her.

It’s no surprise when the Red Keep receives a raven announcing the pregnancy of the Targaryen princess, a babe expected no more than 9 months after their wedding (they got down to business right away!).

(Aegon’s giggling at the rage colouring his mothers expression. He loves seeing her so unsettled and makes a note to tease her AS MUCH as possible.)

[iamyourdailydoseofbi]

THE HISTORY BOOK ON THE SHELF. ( HOTD x Reader )

AUTHOR NOTE! Thanks for all the love. <3 pairing: King Aegon ii Targaryen x Targaryen! Little Sister! Reader prompt: When the small council plans to marry off once again, you turn to your older brother for help. word count: 1, 000+ words

You were the youngest and third daughter of Alicent and Viserys. A few months younger than Helaena and Aegon's little shadow in your childhood. Your older brother at first hated it, the way you cling onto him and gawk at him with an innocent awe.

It was your ninth name day, your Father had not paid much attention to it, but your Mother had ordered a celebration for it. You had trailed after him, babbling about nonsense as he tried to lose you. It was at dinner that night that everything had boiled over. Instead of receiving gifts, you had taken to giving everyone a gift.

He had not expected anything. He hadn't been the most kind to you. But was surprised when you had gifted him an embroidered cloth with Sunfyre on it. It was not the best and some threads were loose, but you proudly had told him you learned embroidery for him. Seeing those big doe eyes of yours his opinion changed. He adored you. You were the only one in the family that did not care about his worsening reputation. You just...adored your big brother, flaws and all.

It was why it killed him on your eleventh name day you were shipped off to the Reach, married off to a Lord as old as your Grandsire. He was haunted by your wails, of the way you clung onto Helaena and Aemond, the two of them wailing as Ser Cole carried you off to the carriage.

His young sister, the only one in the family who truly cared, was sold off like a piece of cattle. Not even your cold Grandsire was able to protest the marriage as politically it was a good match and good enough reasoning for the small council to approve it. 

As years ticked by, you gave birth to two children, a stillborn daughter and a healthy son. Your husband kept you away in the Reach, so no one in your family had seen you since you were twelve and given birth to your only surviving son.

He remembered the look in your eyes, so void and almost dead. Of how you tried to stay positive. Saying, "Tis' not so bad. He mostly ignores me, except when he wishes to bed me. But even then tis' not so bad, he finishes quickly."

When he became King, he swiftly ordered you to return home, regardless of your husband's wishes. No one would take his baby sister away from him. Not whilst he was still alive and had the crown placed upon his head.

Watching you bounce your son on your lap, he attempts to pay some attention to the small council, but his eyes keep straying back to you. It was odd to think that you were now a Mother and all grown up. Snapping out of his little daze, he glances back at the small council, each member arguing intently. Furrowing his brows in confusion, Ser Criston slides a piece of parchment in front of him, an uncomfortable look on his face. Raising a brow at what he had just returned to, he glances at the parchment, reading the words quickly. 

Your cunt of a husband was dead, finally croaked in his sleep. There was no reason for you to go back to the Reach. You could stay here in King’s Landing once more. Softly smiling at the good news, he goes to speak up when Lord Lannister stands up from his chair, slamming his hands down on the table. His face red from anger, his eyes wild like an untamable beast, and voice booming loud enough that it would make a dragon’s roar put to shame.

“To speak of the Princess in such a manner is dishonorable, I will see to it personally that your tongue is removed, Lord Wydle.” 

“The girl is of age, she has proven she can bear heirs, healthy heirs. To not give her hand to another Lord would be foolish.” 

“We need allies, the common folk are starving and soon the coin will run out. Surely as Master of Coin you can see reason, Lord Lannister.”

“Your grace, please, listen to reason we should⎯”

It takes a moment to realize what they had been discussing so intently. Then it clicks, they were speaking of having you remarry. 

"What?" He whispers, his voice shaky and full of disbelief.

"No, Aegon, please don't make me do this again. Please." You whisper, tears building up in your eyes.

"It would be best to have your sister marry someone⎯"

"Think of the war, your grace⎯"

Seeing the tears building up in your eyes, it reminded him of all those years ago when you were whisked away to the Reach. Struggling to speak up and dismiss their suggestions, you kneel in front of his chair, gripping onto breeches as you beg and plead for clemency to their plans. Your son starts to wail on the other side of his chair, making motions with his hands to be picked up. 

Feeling his heart break a little at the sight, he shifts his gaze from you then your wailing son then back to the small council. Everything is hectic and he doesn’t know who or what to focus his attention on. Does he console you? Does he tend to your wailing son? Does he handle the small council? Struggling to find his voice, he just stays frozen in his chair. 

“Please, please, do not make me do this again, Aegon.” You beg, “I did what was asked of me before. Please do not ask this of me again.”

“We need allies, your grace. The Princess is still desired by many men, men who will look past her past marriage and son. Think of the kingdom⎯”

“Send treaties, then!”

“Please, Aegon. I ask as your sister, not a member of the Court. Please do not make me do this again. I do not wish to marry again. Please do not send me away again.” You beg, your voice cracking. 

Watching as the tears begin to fall from your eyes, he clenches his jaw tightly, anger boiling up at the sight of you. His precious little sister, the one person in all of the Realm that he truly cared for, was crying by his small council's hand. Slamming his hands down hard on the table, the room goes deadly silent, minus the soft sniffles of you and your son. 

“There will be no marrying off my sister! If you wish for such alliances as much as you claim, do offer your daughters instead, for I will not be doing the same to my sister nor my daughter.” 

“Your grace, if you would just⎯”

“I am King, no?” He snaps back, “There will be no questioning of my decision. The matter is settled.”

----

@fragileheartbeats

@danytar

@nightvers

[foundcr]

her   eyes   watched   as   the   room   changed   to   prep   for   his   idea   of   comfort   for   her,   reminding   of   her   when   she   was   only   little   and   loved   nothing   but   to   sit   around   and   enjoy   herself   with   her   dad.   charlie   remained   silent   for   a   moment   as   her   father   over-worried   himself,   body   still   as   a   statue.

...   until   she   moved,   and   sat   down   on   the   pillows,   curling   up   to   the   comfort   of   the   plush   surface   and   feel   against   her   head,   blanket   moving   by   her   hand   to   cover   her   as   she   remained   silent,   but   shook   her   head.   he   didn't   miss   anything,   it's   perfect   enough.   at   least,   as   perfect   as   it   gets   for   her   right   now.

her   hair   hung   over   her   face   as   she   laid   down,   looking   to   her   father   for   some   sort   of   comfort--   anything   at   all,   but   she   didn't   expect   much.   she   just   was   afraid   to   be   alone   in   this,   even   if   he   volunteered   to   be   here;   she   was   worried   he'd   go   again   as   soon   as   her   eyes   closed,   or   if   she'd   ever   turn   around.

mouth   shivering,   she   was   scared   to   say   anything...   but   at   least   she   knew   she   was   hungry,   and   it   wasn't   hard   to   hide   with   how   empty   she   looked.   all   she   really   needs   is   some   warm   food   and   a   hug,   really.

fuck , he's not very good at this , is he ? her words say yes , but everything else is screaming i just want to curl up and exclude myself from everything. ( no , no. please don't do that. take it from someone who knows. it's not a good idea. ) if it'd make any difference , he'd pray that she hasn't inherited his same terrible tendencies , that she's the best of him , not the worst. but no one would answer those prayers. so he'll have to do it himself as best he can —-- being a tragic story of warning is nothing new , after all.

❝ alright then. that's what we'll do. ❞

as he speaks a 'do not disturb' sign appears on the outside of the door , the elegantly swooping script offset by lucifer's signature crown scribbled in the bottom right corner. merely the first of his preparations that take a whole 5 seconds to conjure up in their entirety. then wings tuck behind the pair to reveal the fruits of his labor : a table stacked with pizza boxes , large tv with voxtube open ( they'll need charlie's login ) , a karaoke machine and mics off to the side , and a pile of pillows and blankets for maximum cozy ( in a mix of unicorn , rainbow , and rubber duck prints and patterns. )

on second thought , he'll magic a sticky note to the sign on the door : " charlie's here. she's with me. we just need some time. - lucifer ".

his limited dad skills are so rusty they've practically worn through and rotted away , but lucifer is convinced this would've been a huge hit when she was little. now ? he's unsure. is it enough ? too much ? is she even still into unicorns and rainbows ? is that too childish ? ah , fuck. it probably is. she's gonna hate it. and him.

❝ did i , uh ... did i miss anything ? ❞