#to boldly flee

[ilaiyayaya]

Doug Walker Jumpscare

My routine for the last full week has just been work, sleep, and slowly force myself through all of Channel Awesome's movies. More accurately 2 of those days were spent watching Kickassia and Suburban Knights, and the last 5 have been me procrastinating finishing To Boldly Flee, because god, that movie has got to be one of the single most unbearable things I have ever watched. I watched them all in the form of a Twitch stream with commentary and The 9/11 Brothers (don't worry about it.) and I don't think I could've gotten through any of those films without those 2 silly little ducks. To be fair, Suburban Knights, and Kickassia weren't the worst, like I found some enjoyment from those 2, especially Kickassia that movie was just genuinely fun, but I could not tell you a single thing about To Boldly Flee other than that every scene was really awkward in a non-funny way.

Doug Walker is like, actually so unfunny that he integer underflows into being the funniest person ever entirely on his own, every single scene involving him (which was almost all of them) became extremely entertaining after a certain point. He has 3 jokes, and 2 tones of voice and he acts exactly the same in every situation, he always feels like he is simultaneously trying way too hard and also has no clue what he's doing acting. It was so hard to tell when a scene was supposed to be serious, or if it was him being self-aware and making fun of himself, like some of those scenes have to be ironic, they can't not be, but they're filmed and acted in the exact same way as the actually serious scenes it's such a mess. Like it sounds like I'm just making fun of him at this point, which I am I think anyone who's ever talked about these movies inevitably does because it's really easy to do, however I did genuinely find these movies (with the exception of To Boldly Flee, which to be fair was probably just because I watched all of these movies back to back and that was not a good idea) to be really fun to watch, and it's very clear that Doug had actual genuine passion in making these and probably really enjoyed filming them (even if the rest of the crew very clearly did not).

This has been like the least productive week ever, I have done NOTHING all because I refused to let myself do anything until I finished these films in their entirety. Tbh I do this a lot, I will very frequently start something and refuse to move onto anything else until that thing is complete, no matter how unimportant it is, it's kind of a problem ngl lol. The worst part is whenever I do just say fuck it and move on without finishing something, it will eat away at me for an indefinite amount of time afterwards, 2 years ago I played Persona 4, got to the final boss then just stopped, like I didn't even attempt the fight I just stopped despite enjoying the game and being at the very end, and that has haunted me ever since.

I don't know where to put this because I suck at structuring things, but like, I just want to bring up a few of my favorite moments (all of them are from Kickassia my brain completely turned off for the other 2 I don't remember shit). The scene where Cinema Snob gets exiled from Kickassia and everyone just awkwardly stares at him as he walks away is easily the best part of any of these movies, it's filmed so weirdly, and it goes on for way too long, like it feels like just a full minute of cutting back and forth between him walking off into the desert, and everyone else on the other side of a fence waving. The point where they just straight up play a random clip from Board James completely out of nowhere was also peak fiction, I love how that small clip of someone else's Youtube show is filmed so significantly better than this full length movie. Another really odd thing is that Doug is just like, obsessed with Ma-Ti from Captain Planet, like he's a recurring character in all 3 of his films, like why him, it just feels so random? I literally don't remember a single other moment from any of these films they left so little impact I actually remember more about the 3 minute Board James cameo than anything else why did I waste my week doing this it wasn't even that funny.

[piggiebonez]

stuff

z*adrs dni. ауе хуй в говне

[almostwisegalaxy]

My insecure boy

Cha hyun su x reader

The night grenn home was demolished by the army and hyun su lost his memory, you chose to flee, abandoning your friends and HIM. It wasn't your choice. He advised you to leave because he believed that if you stayed with the others you'd be killed. So he packed you a bag, all the food he could find and some weapons.

"I don't know who you are anymore, but I feel you're dear to me. I promise I'll find you later, but right now you've got to get away from here.

"But what about the others? I can't leave them like this, they're waiting for us."

"If we all stay together, do you really think we'll survive? We're running out of time. Leave before the building is demolished"

So you ran away at his request, really hoping to find him later.

D+345 after monsterserification

Pov de hyun su

after yi-kyeong transformed

Eun-yoo followed her friend's monster. He had told her he was there to find the person for whom hyun su refused to succumb to monsterserification.

"If hyun su knew where she was all the time, why didn't he go and meet her sooner?"

"She's fragile right now. He thinks that by protecting her from afar, she'll be safer and more at peace".

They continued forward, chatting. Arriving in a valley far from "the city", Eun-yoo wanted to know more about this mysterious person, and frankly, the monster was getting fed up.

He raised his head to eunyoo's level and spoke to her about the spell that had created such tension when they were both in the building.

"Why are you taking so long to find out who this person is? Does knowing that he cherishes and protects this girl more than you does make your miserable human blood boil inside you? "

"No, I don't know what you're talking about." she said defensively.

"Oh, so I'm wrong. Am I also wrong that you wanted to cuddle him from the moment you saw him, that if he'd really been talking so boldly to you in that room, you'd have jumped on him? "

An argument broke out between the two. But the instant his gaze fell on her, hyun su's eyes changed from blue to their original color. It only took one look to regain possession of her body.

"She's... She gave birth..."

He knew she was carrying their children, but not that she'd given birth yet.

At that moment he hadn't listened to eun-yoo for a while. With his heart pounding, he ran to her and embraced her. But when she met the sound of his footsteps on the grass, he stopped dead in his tracks. All kinds of ideas came to mind

Will she be angry with me for leaving her all this time?

What if she doesn't want me anymore?

What if she rejected me?

What if she didn't want me around the baby? OUR child

I listened to her call me so many times, but I didn't come.

It was her voice that snapped me out of my reverie

"Hyun su? Is that you? "

Without missing a beat, he hugged her warmly, and she hugged him back. His doubts evolved.

"I'm sorry I didn't come earlier. I don't have any. I left you alone for so long to fend for yourself, I thought it was for the best but-"

"Chute, it's okay. Better late than never, right? "

They exchange a soft, passionate, loving kiss. Only the baby's chirping on his beloved's breast could stop them. Together they enter the little hut that serves as y/n's roof. The hut soon becomes their home

Yes, eun-yoo was forgotten.

[lavendertales]

cállate la boca || Miguel O'Hara x f!reader**

summary: he's so damn annoyed by you. he detests you. he finds you boring and uninteresting. except for when you're alone with him at night.

word count: 1.2k

warnings: Miguel being a bossy asshole (who rambles in Spanish when he really gets into the heat of things), dirty talk, teasing, ass play, pussy slapping, doggy, just general filth.

A/N: ...I have no comment. idk how I got here. this is just somethin' I had to get out so I'm posting and fleeing lmao 🙈 feedback is more than welcome!

AGELESS/EMPTY BLOGS & MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED!

As far as everyone else is concerned, Miguel O'Hara finds you annoying as fuck. Some might go as far as to say that he's repulsed by your mere presence.

And you don't argue with them. Why would you? You've got nothing to prove. You know the truth as well: Miguel does hate you.

Except for when he doesn't.

Which is every single night.

You don’t bother looking back on how it all started. Frankly, you don’t remember. All you know is the present and the well-choreographed routine you and Miguel have selfishly developed over the weeks.

When he shuts the door behind him, he exhales. You’re already waiting for him in the bedroom, no words spoken. Though the way in which he fucks you varies from night to night, you always know to wait for him naked unless otherwise instructed.

Miguel’s eyes notice you from the frame, drinking in the image of your nude body in the poorly lit room. He leans against the door’s frame, head cocked to the left, and then to the right. Then he slowly inches closer to the bed, disposing of the skintight suit. Your mouth nearly waters.

“Always so needy,” he groans.

You can practically hear his eyes roll. It’s best if you follow his lead once he decides the kind of mood he’s in and how he wants to use your bodies to reach the throes of pleasure.

Though you can’t help the gasp that leaves your mouth when two of his fingers boldly dip into your cunt, stroking and teasing. “Did you touch yourself before I got home?”

Part of you wants to tease him further, but you know from past experience that is a dangerous game to play with Miguel. So you gulp, shamelessly admitting defeat. “A bit,” you confess.

“So damn needy. Couldn’t wait for me to fuck you, hm?”

“Yes.”

You barely breathe. You don’t contradict, you don’t oppose him. Your desires precede any of that; you simply want to give and receive. It’s all this physical relationship is for. Relief. A simple biological need with nothing else brewing in between.

But the way Miguel goes about pleasure is somehow fitting with him: impatient (no matter what he reprimands you for), greedy, dominant and overall a wild ride. He starts playing with your clit as you gasp, spreading your legs further, and then he stops. When you involuntarily whine, he lays a spank over your pussy, though nothing you can’t handle, and leans in to whisper to your earlobe, “Ass up for me, princesita.”

You follow his instruction, albeit the mocking petname, and turn around, your ass shamelessly on display for him to play with however he deems fit. He squeezes and spanks a few times, then he moves back to your clit—and surprisingly, to the other tight ring of skin that’s in its vicinity.

“You’d let me fuck this hole too, wouldn’t you? Yeah, I bet you would. I bet you’d like me to stretch every inch of this body and would take whatever I give you.”

You can barely muster a “mhm” as Miguel’s fingers graze further, testing, anticipating and building. Building for what, you don’t know.

All you know is that you are ridiculously wet by this point, and you have to resist the urge to reach around and play with your clit—else you won’t be able to come at all tonight. Usually when you disobey, Miguel doesn’t allow for any relief from your side.

And you desperately need some relief right about now.

Sometimes he likes it when you beg. Sometimes he himself asks you to beg for him and his cock. You just don’t have the luxury of knowing when or if it will happen.

“Needy little thing,” you hear him coo.

Sometimes he likes to tease you about the height difference too. No matter what you’d look like, you’d still be smaller than him. And Miguel fucking loves that. He loves towering over you, having power and direction over you.

You succumb to him each and every time, without fail.

You can’t conceal the broken moan that you exhale when you feel his cock thrust abruptly into you. He only gives you a few seconds to adjust to him and the sensation of having him fill you up to the brim like that, and then he starts to move.

And you see stars.

“Such a needy little cunt,” Miguel mutters, groaning. “So needy and tight and wet… you thought of me when you touched yourself? Hm?”

“Mhm—“

“Hable, hoy.”

Talk, today.

“Yes—yes, I—I did—“

Words are hard to come by when Miguel’s mercilessly pounding into you from behind, holding you by your waist and with his free hand teasing your ass, barely breaching the skin there.

“You like being a little fucktoy, don’t you? Hmpf—carajo—“

He’s grunting relentlessly, proof that he doesn’t have as much control over his own reactions as much as he’d like to. Whenever he grunts that throated fuck in Spanish, you know he’s getting close. And if past is any indication, you know that soon enough his rambles and his talk will melt almost exclusively into Spanish.

“Princesita needs—needs her little pussy stretched out, doesn’t she? Princesita n-needs to be filled—with my cock, isn’t that right?”

“Yes—“

“Yes, that’s fucking right… ella me necesita… a mí, y a mi polla…”

She needs me… me, and my cock.

Miguel’s string of thoughts begins to lose itself into your body, your scent and your sounds, and you both know it. If you were to dwell into the moment too much, you might overthink how Miguel emphasized the “me” in his barely coherent string of filthy words, but you don’t. You can’t.

“La princesita está necesitada y estúpida de mi polla, ¿verdad?”

The little princess is needy and stupid for my cock, isn't she?

You swear you hear him smile behind the words. You can only mumble yes on a broken loop, feeling your climax close. You’re thankful that you’ve learned some Spanish when this whole Miguel ordeal began because approval is something he seeks deeply, almost like he feeds off of it, and the lack of a response wouldn’t sit well with him.

“Miguel—Miguel, I’m—“

“Close?”

“Mhm. P-Please—“

He grabs a handful of your hair, thus ceasing the tease to your ass, and bends your body almost in half just to whisper harshly to you, “Cállate la boca y ven”.

Shut your mouth and come.

His command sparks something inside you, and you come mere seconds later, biting your lips to the point of tasting blood so you don’t scream his name. Some night he wants to hear his name scratch your throat as you beg for him, but it seems tonight is not one of those times.

“Wanna paint this ass all over,” he groans.

And that is just what he does. He strokes himself to completion, his hot seed spilling in thick spurts all over your ass as he licks his lips. He’s already thinking of tomorrow night and how he’ll want to push new limits and explore more of your body.

[thewordfortheday]

That at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, of those in heaven, and of those on earth, and of those under the earth, and that every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father. (Philippians‬ ‭2: 10-11‬ ‬‬)

Jesus - the name above all names. It's the name that causes us to rejoice and our lips to sing His praise. Fear melts at the utterance of this name. The devil shudders, sicknesses flee, victory is wrought in the name of Jesus. There's salvation in no other name except the name of Jesus. No prayer is ratified unless it is made in the name of Jesus. It's the key to answered prayer and the treasury of His grace. Today, come boldly to the throne of God, in the name of Jesus, there you will receive mercy, and find grace to help you in time of need.

[crusherthedoctor]

"Hello, I'm Shadow the Hedgehog, I misunderstand this franchise as much as the majority of its fans do so you don't have to."

[meeks-just-wants-to-scroll]

Kieran Duffy Mini Analysis

Since I struggle to imagine how Kieran’s facial and body expressions are portrayed, I compiled some notes on clips and dialogue. Uploading for other Kieran fans to enjoy.

To the point: Kieran is not a stammering short coward. He is a plucky man who can stand his ground and leans into his whiny feebleness when his life depends on it. He’s funny and has more guts socially than much of the VDL gang!

I’m chapter 1, we get introduced to him with cowering after being slapped by Colm and fleeing rather than fight. Kieran isn’t a coward, more like a guy who squirms, lies, and pleads if his life depends on it. I suggest you read this post for more info on how Kieran’s apparent feebleness is an exaggeration he puts on to survive in a cut throat gang. After given time to wallow in the stables in Colter, Kieran starts putting up a fight and threatens the VDL gang with the O’Driscolls coming for them for taking him hostage. He fights his restraints and holds angry eye contact with his captors, only breaking breaking when the conversation ends and he falls over again. From what I can tell, Kieran always has a grumpy face whenever interacted with. He boldly says he’d rather die to Arthur’s face!

It’s in chapter 2 where his fight becomes more desperate from the starvation and abuse. He by no means gives up, he keeps up blabbering that he “ain’t an O’Driscoll” even tho he ends up divulging information and seems to know a suspicious lot about Colm and the O’Driscolls.

Mid chapter 2 and onwards, he mellows out into a guy who tries to be as nice and as unobtrusive as possible. He still keeps eye contact when speaking and even puts assertiveness behind some of his words. He has the guts to say to people’s face to leave him alone and stop fucking with him. He also doesn’t shy from grumbling and making “oh come on!🙄” gestures when verbally harassed by the gang. He visibly gets frustrated when called an O’Driscoll but he usually has to calm himself down till he can respond dejectedly rather than actually angrily. He did get upset with Sean and stand in front of him with no cowering to stand his ground when called an O’Driscoll (until he got headbutted).

He thanks people and sounds amused and surprisingly relaxed for his situation. (Idk how to explain it but) he has a smile in his tone of voice in some dialogue. Sometimes greets Arthur in a chipper way. Sweet! Even has the emotional vulnerability to apologize to Abigail about Jack going missing. Kieran asserts his value to the club by taking pride in his horse knowledge and fishing skill. He sternly Arthur he’ll “teach him something” when it comes to fishing. See, useful!

He is still easily threatened by the gang if they get up in his face or yell. He leans away, goes silent, slowly pulls his hands closer to his chest, and goes still when intimidated. It takes a few seconds before he relaxes afterwards. This is what I consider the extent of his cowardly behavior. He just shuts up and backs off. He only ups his pleading and squirming when his life actively depends on it.

Headcanon territory: after listening to ~7 minutes of cut Kieran fighting audio, I can definitely say that this man has some lungs on him! The rasp to his voice makes me think he’s worked his voice hoarse (haha, horse pun) enough times to leave permanent damage/evidence in his voice. I think he damaged his voice while with the O’Driscolls. When he’d be on a job, he’d rely on shouting threats and malicious taunting to intimidate the enemy since his looks aren’t that scary. Plus, if he was amongst a group of O’Driscoll during a gunfight, no one would get a good look at him as he dips out of cover to shoot, they’d just hear his raspy shouting about “cutting all their damn throats” and “this ain’t gonna end pretty, boys” (this one is my favorite because if you listen to the line, you can REALLY hear the rasp in the “boys”).

I’m gonna go out on a limb and say (whether he admits it or not) Kieran does enjoy gunfights. Kieran by no means asked to join a life of crime and I am sure he did NOT want to kill anyone at the start, but over time shit corrupts and feeling the power of firing and seeing his enemies drop gave Duffy a semblance of control back to his life. In a gunfight, no colleagues pay attention to him and he can simply enjoy his brief power trip.

A more wholesome HC: much of the cut Kieran audio has him talking or greeting the other gang members with friendliness. He’s comfortable enough to tease or criticize the VDL gang. I imagine these lines would’ve been for a version where he gets to stick with the gang long enough for him to be trusted and for him to relax into his natural personality! Kieran still has his mumbly quiet moments (usually when exhausted) but he also sounds like he’s smiling more and even making jokes. Even makes harmless jabs at Arthur if he returns to camp bloodied or dirty. Has the courage to ask questions (I can’t find the exact line but I heard a couple where he was asking Arthur what he was doing in “his space” and if he needed to borrow “his things” so Kieran was either given or claimed ownership of stuff) and set boundaries (many cut quotes of Kieran asking others to buzz off or give him space because he wants to be alone). He’ll even express his anger if you push his buttons too much. After ramping down his nature to be this declawed version of himself, I imagine being no only bark but bring on the bite feels amazing.

Tldr: Kieran isn’t your baby girl. He is a kick ass ex-O’Driscoll who is a great asset to the VDL gang.

I also wanna mention that this post utterly changed how I thought of Kieran. I suggest giving it a read!

[girlsdressingrooms]

Iris Barrel Apfel, Decorator and Fashion Stylist

(August 29, 1921 – March 1, 2024) 

Ms. Apfel was one of the most vivacious personalities in the worlds of fashion, textiles, and interior design, she has cultivated a personal style that is both witty and exuberantly idiosyncratic.

Her originality was typically revealed in her mixing of high and low fashions—Dior haute couture with flea market finds, nineteenth-century ecclesiastical vestments with Dolce & Gabbana lizard trousers.

With remarkable panache and discernment, she combines colors, textures, and patterns without regard to period, provenance, and, ultimately, aesthetic conventions. Paradoxically, her richly layered combinations—even at their most extreme and baroque—project a boldly graphic modernity.

Iris Barrel was born on Aug. 29, 1921, in Astoria, Queens, the only child of Samuel Barrel, who owned a glass and mirror business, and his Russian-born wife, Sadye, who owned a fashion boutique.

She studied art history at New York University, then qualified to teach and did so briefly in Wisconsin before fleeing back to New York to work on Women's Wear Daily, and for interior designer Elinor Johnson, decorating apartments for resale and honing her talent for sourcing rare items before opening her own design firm. She was also an assistant to illustrator Robert Goodman.

As a distinguished collector and authority on antique fabrics, Iris Apfel has consulted on numerous restoration projects that include work at the White House that spanned nine presidencies from Harry Truman to Bill Clinton.

Along with her husband, Carl, she founded Old World Weavers, an international textile manufacturing company and ran it until they retired in 1992. The Apfels specialized in the reproduction of fabrics from the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries, and traveled to Europe twice a year in search of textiles they could not source in the United States.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Institute assembled 82 ensembles and 300 accessories from her personal collection in 2005 in a show about her called “Rara Avis”.

Almost overnight, Ms. Apfel became an international celebrity of pop fashion.

Ms. Apfel was seen in a television commercial for the French car DS 3, became the face of the Australian fashion brand Blue Illusion, and began a collaboration with the start-up WiseWear. A year later, Mattel created a one-of-a-kind Barbie doll in her image. Last year, she appeared in a beauty campaign for makeup with Ciaté London.

Six years after the Met show she started her fashion line "Rara Avis" with the Home Shopping Network.

She was cover girl of Dazed and Confused, among many other publications, window display artist at Bergdorf Goodman, designer and design consultant, then signed to IMG in 2019 as a model at age 97.

Ms. Iris Apfel became a visiting professor at the University of Texas at Austin in its Division of Textiles and Apparel, teaching about imagination, craft and tangible pleasures in a world of images.

 In 2018, she published “Iris Apfel: Accidental Icon,” an autobiographical collection of musings, anecdotes and observations on life and style. 

Ms. Apfel’s apartments in New York and Palm Beach were full of furnishings and tchotchkes that might have come from a Luis Buñuel film: porcelain cats, plush toys, statuary, ornate vases, gilt mirrors, fake fruit, stuffed parrots, paintings by Velázquez and Jean-Baptiste Greuze, a mannequin on an ostrich.

The Museum of Lifestyle & Fashion History in Boynton Beach, Florida, is designing a building that will house a dedicated gallery of Ms. Apfel's clothes, accessories, and furnishings.

Ms. Apfel’s work had a universal quality, It’s was a trend.

Rest in Power !

[roncheg]

Part 1 Part2 Part3 Part4

Plot-bunny under cut (remember, it's just for fun!)))

thank you, dearest @rhysiana, for reading it through♥️

So,

Space: the final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship DESTINY. Its never ending mission: to explore strange new worlds; to seek out new life and new civilizations; to boldly go where no man has gone before!

A FEW SELECTIVE EPISODES:

EP#

Family drama! Mingi's parents are on board the ship by accident! The rich heir part comes to light! The marriage part comes to light too! Woo wins the betting pool!

Everything ends up alright, Mingi's parents are completely charmed by the goodest boy™ Yunho.

EP# 

Obligatory pon farr episode - with little to no drama whatsoever - Yeosang quite logically chooses the most respectable, reliable candidate with a very promising future, interplanetary diplomat Jongho, and offers to fuck nasty. They do.

Woo is devastated!! He thought they were friends! He and San would have HELPED!!! WHAT IF Jongho DIDN'T TREAT YEOSANG RIGHT?! (San is nodding his head in accord).

Yeosang calmly answers that their concerns were unfounded and Jongho is a far better marriage partner with more prospects, giving his occupation.

Jongho: MARRIAGE?!

NEXT EP

Jongho and Yeosang come to an understanding after a calm, mature discussion.

Shovel talk from Woo during the next shore leave results in another (minor) interplanetary conflict due to a broken Holy Watermelon. The crew are forced to flee for their lives from the Holy Watermelon planet, San's quick reflexes saving them at the last minute. The Captain promises to throw everyone out the airlock IF EVER AGAIN.

EP# MIRROR, MIRROR

While exploring a new planet the crew comes into contact with a strange artifact, as a result during beaming up The Captain, Mingi, Woo and Yeosang change places with their counterparts in a parallel universe (STRICTFLEET XD), where the halateez crew is on a brink of starting The Revolution (but not yet! just their crew’s dissatisfaction is on the rise)^^

In the mirrorverse:

The Captain is immediately floored by hala-Seonghwa (because he has a goateeXDD) but he keeps his cool somehow. Not for long because it so happens that hala-Captain and hala-Seonghwa are, in fact, in an long-term loving relationship.

Hala-woosan are not together though! So hala-San is brought to tears by Woo's loud demands: “Where is your ring&! where is our wedding photo&! what do you MEAN SEPARATE QUARTERS?!!!!!” (at first hala-San thinks that Woo found out about his Secret Feelings and it’s a cruel jokeTT_TT).

But thanks to LOGICAL Yeosang and level-headed hala-Jongho everything becomes clear and the mixed universe crew begins to work on a solution. With a minor hiccup - The Captain kick-starts The Revolution and hala-NCC Destiny is now on the run.

Meanwhile, in our universe:

Hala-Captain is so belligerent that Seonghwa hyposprayes him on sight.

Hala-Woo is so distressed by an overly-affectionate San and his strange insider jokes about interrogation that he barricades himself in the engineering and calms down a little only when he finds his trusty multi-hammer:3

Hala-Mingi behaves very impudently, pulling Yunho on his lap, demanding whisky right on the bridge; Seonghwa hyposprays him just as a precaution.

But thanks to LOGICAL hala-Yeosang and level-headed Jongho everything becomes clear and the mixed universe crew begins to work on a solution (minus sleeping hala-Captain and hala-Mingi))).

Both crews' efforts are fruitful - first they find a way to multiverse-Skype and then to return to their respective timelines (there was some unauthorized multiverse phone sex first, of course))).

Right after returning, The Captain very politely asks Seonghwa to never grow any facial hairXD

EP#

Seonghwa turns into a lizard.

Woo suggests true love's kiss as a remedy. The Captain, red in the face, insists that Woo likes fairy tales too much for an engineer (San wanted to suggest true love's kiss too but now is secretly glad that he didn't).

After a whole episode of careful research, experimental DNA manipulation, and a tense negotiation with unfriendly aliens (and one true love's kiss from The Captain) Seonghwa is back to his original state.

He is.so.well.rested❤️

EP#

The Captain is lost!

Due to a transporter malfunction™, a shore leave party, including The Captain, is stuck on a wild, inhospitable planet; the only way to transport everyone back is an old model of transporter in an abandoned weather station; it is operated manually (via pressing The Button). The Captain sacrifices himself and presses The Button, everyone safely materializes on the ship sans The Captain.

It's impossible to reach the planetary surface on a shuttle - there is an obligatory and convenient magnetic storm in the planet's atmosphere. 

The crew somehow finds a way to retrieve The Captain after a month of desperate attempts. He is alive and a little bit unwell; he ate bugs and drank dew drops for a month, after all.

Dirty, thin, and wild-haired, he immediately proposes marriage to Seonghwa right in front of the whole crew.

He is coldly rejected (for a week, Seonghwa is furious with him)!

After a week they are reconciled and hold a giant wedding.

San and Woo decide that they want a wedding night renewal of their own and accidentally fall on some lever in engineering. The ship goes off course but everyone is too busy celebrating to notice.

NEXT EP

The ship is in unknown space, everyone works hard to get back home; The Captain is threatening to throw everyone out the airlock.

The last scene: The ship is flying away into deep space, to explore strange new worlds; to seek out new life and new civilizations; to boldly go where no man has gone before!

There is a flag tied to the end part of the ship's hull, it reads "JUST MARRIED"!

(They are back to a known galaxy in a week; every regular member of the crew, beyond the main cast, resigns at the first stop on the next Federation planet).

[justporo]

A Scorching Letter

Brimsterton | A Staevstarion Regency AU

PREVIOUS PART | MASTERLIST | AO3

A/N: Yes hello, I know I haven't posted something I wrote in quite a while. Let's just say I've been busy, but mostly behind the scenes. This however I had written quite a while ago (end of June I think) and I need to get back into the saddle again with posting. So here we are, another trip into Regency AU with @velnna's beloved Staeve (thanks as always for letting me stick him in a costume) and Astarion. Picking off where we left off after the chaise longue incident.

Summary: With a lot mixed feelings after what almost happened between them, a scorching letter is written that reveals genuine truths and brilliant emotions. But the response might not have been what either of them had hoped for...

Pairing: Astarion/Staeve Wordcount: 5,1k Warnings: light implied nsfw

-----

Hands hastily tore open an envelope. On it, in elegant cursive handwriting that couldn’t be mistaken for anyone but Astarion’s, a name was written, boldly and with gold ink even: Staeve Brimstone.

Shivering fingers took several pages from the torn away paper and unfolded them. Immediately, it was visible that the letter had been written with a plethora of intense emotions: some parts seemed barely readable as if the pen had scarcely made its way across the paper in hesitancy. Others were quite obviously written with such vigour, that the sheets were almost torn and stained with blots of ink from a pen that had been pressed too harshly and hastily onto the paper - way too eager to get out the words.

The hands holding onto the letter kept trembling as the letter was studied. It read:

“My dearly beloved Staeve,

It seems we’ve gotten ourselves in quite the compromising position, haven’t we?Apparently, we do have a knack for this kind of thing, don’t you agree? It is nothing new for either of us, truly. How often have we gotten in trouble for something over the years? Quite frankly it might be a big part of the reason why my parents will finally be sending me off to the continent. I figure they fear what two - now grown - young men could get themselves into. And wouldn’t they be right?

A million times have we conspired together. A million plans. A million times it was us against the world. Together.

To our own surprise we haven’t always been discovered. But then again too often than we would have hoped. And yet we have always gotten out of a cornered situation.

This time it is different though.

I take it your sister hasn’t taken notice of what has happened that night. Or it might be that she doesn’t care - I was never able to read her well. And I do not dare to push her on the matter.

What could have happened had we been discovered in that moment? Truly discovered?

But to be quite frank that isn’t what I am concerned with. Not if I am being honest with myself.

You know I am a man of few regrets, Staeve. But I do regret having left like I did that fateful night. My mind kept whispering malicious things to me while my chest was burning, set ablaze by you and your lips. My heart was prepared to scream it all from the rooftops. But yet my anxious mind had me flee like lest we be found out.

But yet my heart keeps burning, the flames impossible to smother. I promise you I’ve tried. Only to find them flickering higher, brighter, hotter, whenever I tried.

And it has been hard to calm it for even just a moment since that fateful night on that chaise longue.

In the end, it has won over my mind even quicker than I thought as I still feel my chest burn with every single beat of my yearning heart. This is what my mind has been toiling with. This and the enticing idea of what would have happened had we not been disturbed, this impossible game of “what if”.

Would we have lost ourselves within each other, unravelled by our hands and touches. Would we have been void of words with only our bodies to speak the yet unspoken? Would we have gone all the way into oblivion together torn and then reformed together. And all to only be unravelled again and again until there had been nothing left but strings?

Strings we might have been able to have knitted into something new, something thoroughly intertwined?

Only the heavens may know.”

The words at the end of this page were thin; anxiously so. The author’s worries and fears clear already by how the words seemed to trail off at the bottom. In hopes perhaps, that they could just be shaken off the page lest they fall on deaf ears.

The next fresh page though started with bold writing again, even bolder than before. The written words proud, tall and unashamed:

“But I do know this: at night I lay unable to sleep with that blistering desire inside of me, slowly scorching me from the inside out. And when the heat becomes near unbearable, I lay there with nothing but the moon as a witness, touching myself while imagining - hoping - it was you. My hands wandering down over my own body and finding pleasure so easily and quickly - so intense - as they stroke and caress. Simply because it is you in my mind. The thought of you nearly enough to lose myself time and again.

I know I am a sinner for this, for my thoughts and my actions. But could a sin truly feel this heavenly? If this is what hell feels like, I will let it take me, gladly. I would welcome doom with open arms for just my actions, but truly, I’d much rather be doomed together with you, Staeve.

The feeling of your mouth on mine has been imprinted on me. I cannot forget it. I will die with the memory of your soft lips on mine on my mind as the last breath leaves my earthly body.

You've touched me a thousand times - a hug, a tap, a taunt - but not like this. Never like this. Not with that enticing intention, not with that need: giving, pleasing but also taking -  possibly all of me. And if I’m being true and honest to myself: I would give you all of myself - body, mind and soul. You may take it all!

Do you feel the same? Because even writing this letter I feel how restless my fingers are, how they itch to touch you again as well, how they need to feel you again: your lithe body, the skin of your face, your silken hair.

I just want to feel the warmth of you again, enveloping me, your body moving against mine as we fall together, endlessly.

And when your hands know me by heart, I want to feel your mouth all over my skin, tasting me before swallowing my confessions to you directly from my very own lips and tongue.

I want you to know me as deeply as no one has before. I fear no one else could ever understand me like you do anyways. And I hope, dearly, this is what you want too. I surely know it’s what I want with you: knowing you inside and out, better than myself.

Back in that moment it surely felt like that.

But memories are fleeting, fickle little things. Already I am questioning if I really saw the same yearning in your eyes I keep feeling in my very soul. But then again, it's not like this only transpired yesterday, hasn't it? Hasn’t this all been brewing for what feels like an eternity?”

Up until this paragraph the writing had been bold, the elegant cursive letters leaning so far it was easily distinguishable that they had been written without pause. Words that had  been too powerful to not let out.

But those next ones were more hesitant again. The pen had been pressed down to start many a time and then hastily taken off again, judging by how several blots and scratches of ink clouded the first letter of the next sentence.

But in the end even these words had found their way - either way:

“I reckon you know the feeling in the atmosphere before a thunderstorm approaches - when the tension is so dense it makes your hairs rise up. When the whole world seems to hold its breath, awaiting the inevitable.

Aren’t we just like that? Awaiting what deep down we have known for so long?

Aren’t we inevitable?

How long have we been like this? In that terrible limbo of potential and not yet made resolution?

Only for it to unload in but a blink of an eye, lightning hitting us both, scorching us through and through, down to our furthest depths - setting us brightly ablaze where light has never even reached before.

There is no way in which we could ever proceed, pretending as if we both haven’t been changed forever in this moment, changed at our innermost core - wouldn’t you agree?

At times I fear that all it would have taken was that one night. One night of scorching flames to then see the fire smothered. This - us - nothing but a quick intermezzo, a short crescendo that is quickly muffled and not to be heard again.

But whenever I think I’ve forgotten about this, about you, for a just moment, there it is again: the thought of you, impossible to get out of my head.

You are always there with me, Staeve, with every breath and every step.

You didn’t just light a candle inside of me, you started a wildfire.

And I welcome it - with all the heat, all the power, all the destruction it might bring but also the all encompassing warmth it might spend. I welcome it to be consumed by it!”

Before the final words of the letter there was generous space left. Quite obviously the author felt the need to let his final words take up room. The final conclusion to the letter read:

“I am in love with you, Staeve Brimstone.

I am in love with you - and looking back it feels like I have always been in love with you. From the moment I first laid eyes upon you up to the my last moments on this earth.

And even more than that: I need you. I fear I cannot live without you.

And even though it might be selfish - but we both know that I am -: I hope you need me too.

I hope to love you, Staeve, forevermore. And if I’m fortunate enough, that you will love me too.

Forever yours,

Astarion”

As eyes ran over the last page, the hands holding the letter had begun to tremble. They were gripping the paper so hard by now that knuckles showed white.

Then when the end had been reached they were shaking so much no word could have been made out anymore. The grip was crinkling up the paper now. Up until the pages were deliberately being crumpled angrily, pressed into a ball of paper, letters and emotions alike forced into an indiscernible mess.

With a few steps only, the way was made to the lit fireplace and the pages were given to the flames. The fire eagerly licked at the papers, ate it up until there was nothing left of the words and the long suppressed feelings they had finally expressed.

~~~

The Brimstone family had sat down for dinner. Or at least for their approximation of it. Viscount and Viscountess Brimstone were idly enjoying their dinner talking a bit of business, politics and gossip. Meanwhile, their son Staeve was more enticed by the workings of a small golden mechanical beetle his father had brought him as a souvenir from one of his business trips than by the meagre meal of roasted pork and vegetables he’d thrown onto his plate as more of an afterthought. The sleeves of his white linen shirt were rolled up to his elbows as he had discarded his doublet long ago to be able to move better and one of his suspenders threatened to give up on its job as it was dropping off his shoulder in his hunched over position. He had wholly reengineered what dinner time meant for him, much to the grievance of his parents. But dozens of tries to change first the boy’s and then the young man’s behaviour had failed. So at some point they had given up as long as he knew to behave when guests were over and was still honouring the family gathering times.

That usually meant that he was at least present during family dinner times, physically at least. But he’d only eat later, once it had all gotten cold. And then would sneak into the kitchen to grab seconds when he would have realised once more that tinkering around didn’t sate his bodily hunger. At least not enough.

His mother had long given up on trying to teach Staeve manners. When he had been a child she had been sure he would grow out of it. But once she had realised that his quirks had only been growing with him, she’d come to realise that it was for the best to just leave him be and hope for the best.

Only occasionally did she still try to enforce his older sister Nita as a role model to him. It never worked.

So, as Staeve was fumbling with his current project and his parents were lost in conversation, his sister Nita - void of any option to make dinner time pass any faster with her parents talking and her brother with his mind elsewhere - moved around some asparagus on her gold rimmed plate and wished she could’ve found an excuse to go eat with her younger siblings in the kitchen. Even they would have been a more ample entertainment discussing their playtime or perhaps their current tutor lessons.

That was until she thought of a way of hopefully grabbing Staeve’s attention for more than a fleeting moment.

“So, Staeve, have you found something to do yet, something to cope?”

Her brother’s tuft of green hair lifted shortly from where it had been bent over the small, intricately built beetle and some similarly delicate tool with which Staeve meant to dismantle the small object - thereby probably irreparably destroying it.

But the younger Brimstone shortly looked at his sister in irritation. Then his gaze snapped back to his hands and his workings and he began tinkering again.

“What?”

Nita rolled her eyes. “You know you are supposed to use full sentences, right?”

“Whoever has the time for that?”

“Ah see, he does speak in full sentences.”

Staeve grunted at his sister’s sarcasm but didn’t reward her with another glance.

Nita tried again.

“So have you?”

“I don’t think that was a full sentence.”

She was about ready to throw her fork at him, hoping it would drive the audacity right out of him - or at least take an eye. For a moment she debated just letting the silence draw out. But honestly she hadn’t been the one starting to be petty.

“You know, Staeve, I really get why even Astarion has decided to suddenly leave town when you’re being such a prick!” Nita almost shouted. That even had caught her parents’ attention now who immediately scolded her for her unladylike demeanour and choice of words.

She pouted, annoyed at how she had been the one being called out now instead of her brother.

And when she turned her head around again to throw him an angry glare she suddenly found she had finally caught his attention. Maybe even a bit too much of it because Staeve was now staring at her, eyes wide, face void of colour.

“What do you mean Astarion is leaving?”

Nita was about to snap at him again. But something in her brother’s gaze and his sudden stillness made her abandon the thought immediately.

“Didn’t- didn’t he tell you? I thought you always knew everything about each other.”

Immediately hurt flashed through Staeve’s teal eyes, too irritated to even try to hide it.

“Leaving when? Why?” Staeve’s voice was nothing more but a croak. A strand of hair had fallen into his eyes. He didn’t even bother pushing it out of his face.

Suddenly Nita felt unsure of what to do. Unsettled by her brother’s sudden burst of emotions. The only thing she came up with was snapping at him again.

“The Grand Tour, you idiot, what else.”

Staeve’s eyes widened even more. He set the small golden beetle and his tool down with a distinct thud, so hard, it even made their parents become silent and turn to their children in irritation.

“When?” Staeve simply followed up again. His words were terribly silent all of a sudden. Nita didn’t have it in her anymore to try and purposefully try and upset her brother. She threw a glance at the big mechanical clock - one of the few Staeve hadn’t disassembled yet: “I think right about now. They’re probably going to travel all through the night to catch a ship in the morning at one of the great harbours.”

Staeve didn’t wait for Nita to finish her sentence. He jumped up, almost making his chair fall over, staring at the clock. Their parents’ heads swivelled around trying to understand the cause of the commotion. But their son was already storming out of the room, not even sparing their scolding and quizzical looks another thought.

Immediately, Staeve made his way through the manor and down to the stables. As he rushed along servants, through a plethora of rooms and finally got outside, he realised that the weather was about to turn: an early summer evening threatening to bring a foreshadowing of yet far away autumn. The oncoming storm, announcing itself with distant thunder and dramatically darkening clouds, though, only felt like a fitting backdrop for what was brewing inside of him.

Questions filled Staeve’s mind as he made his way, and worries - and memories.

Every moment for the last couple of weeks since that fateful night had he basically been thinking about what happened. It only ever took him a split second to conjure up the scene again in his head: the last couple of breaths in which he had stared into Astarion’s eyes and how it had felt like he could see through them right to the bottom of his friend’s heart, the burning feeling of Astarion’s lips against his own and this desiring ache within him, physically and emotionally, threatening to rip him apart from the inside out.

He had been so sure Astarion had felt the same. And hadn’t his friend been the one looking up at him with such pleading in his crimson eyes, lips already parted in anticipation before they had met halfway?

But maybe Staeve was remembering it all wrong. He certainly must be. Why else would his lifelong companion leave him now unannounced?

Loads of feelings were forming up inside his chest, waiting to burst - like thunder after lightning had struck in the far off distance.

Staeve made his way to the stables to grab Freckle while his mind was somewhere completely else. He didn’t even stop to put a saddle or reins on her. A terrible premonition told him he hadn’t any time to waste. And the mare was used to being ridden like this, after all they were a well-practised team.

The young Brimstone led his horse outside and immediately felt raindrops seeping through his thin linen shirt and trousers. He couldn’t have cared less. Wasting no more time he jumped onto his mare’s back and with a click of his tongue and soft nudge from his boots they were off in a dash, cutting through the oncoming rain.

As Staeve thundered down the small trodden out road from the Brimstone estate towards the Ancuníns’ residence the rain turned from just a trickle to a pour - the kind that would turn grasslands into swamps for a good while after and dust roads into murky rivers. His mind was racing at an even more outrageous speed as the gigantic manor of his friend’s family came into view.

Lifting his head while holding onto Freckle’s mane as the horse felt his owner’s urgency and gave him her all, Staeve searched for the familiar sight of that one particular window with a light on inside, hoping it would betray his sister’s words. The one where Astarion often already had been peeking out of in wait for his companion to come by. The one where they had sat countless of times, talking, laughing, smoking some stolen cigars and choking on the burning smoke when they had been only boys.

But the lights were off.

And Staeve’s fears turned into all encompassing panic as he closed in on the giant building as he didn’t dare to let himself hope anymore. The rain around him had him fully drenched by now, his loose shirt clinging wetly to his body. Already he felt hot tears adding to the uncomfortably cold rain running down his face.

When he finally came around the manor, he found nothing but an ill-fated stable hand rushing through the downpour, perhaps tasked with a few last things before being allowed to flee the bad weather. Not even hesitating Staeve rode up right next to him making the poor boy shriek and stumble back from the horse making the gravel fly with a sliding stop.

“Astarion Ancunín?” he only managed to scream against the rain.

The boy just stared up at him, obviously too startled at the sight of Staeve like this. He probably looked like a madman. And he felt like one: not properly dressed, drenched to the bone on his equally aggregated steed. Even more so the more time he spent chasing down a man in this storm who so obviously tried to get away from him without him knowing.

But he needed to see him, at least a final time. One more try.

“The Duke’s son?” Staeve shouted again at the stable hand. And finally the boy seemed to have recovered from his stupor.

“Left. With his father the Duke, in the fancy carriage,” the answer came back, shouted against another thunder in the distance - the heart of the storm was coming closer.

Staeve’s chest clenched. Freckle became nervous beneath him. Even a well trained horse like her didn’t want to be out longer than needed in this weather. But just a moment more.

“When?” he screamed.

“Dunno exactly, couple of minutes, just when the storm started.”

Staeve needn’t hear more. Time was of the essence now. He spurred on his horse once more and left the befuddled boy behind who even forgot to finally rush inside and instead stared after Staeve racing off again.

The roads were already muddy, an endless amount of puddles strewn across them while Staeve made the decision to go for the hill overlooking the Ancunín lands, the one with the weeping willow. There he’d be able to see how far out they were already on the country road leading away from town.

But when he arrived at the foot of said hill and dashed on with Freckle, his horse slipped and almost took a tumble. And since his or his horse’s broken neck surely wouldn’t make him be any faster, Staeve slid off his mare’s back and continued on foot.

The rain kept pouring onto him as he rushed up the hill, his booted feet sinking into the wet ground. Several times he almost took a tumble when his boots sank in too deep. Illustrious curses that would have made his mother blush and his father scold him, left Staeve’s lips as he ran up the grassy hill as fast as possible, barely able to see anything anymore with the rain slashing his face. He didn’t even notice how the freezing cold crept into his body, his limbs, how his fingers began to become stiff. His whole body was shaking, as much from the cold and the wet, as from the feelings still burning inside his chest - the only thing still spending a bit of warmth.

Staeve reached the top of the hill and the weeping willow atop of it - honouring its name as rain kept dripping generously off its tendrils. Trying to wipe at least some of the rain out of his face and panting heavily from running, Staeve’s eyes flew along the road leading out of town, willing the carriage to be there, so he’d know he could still catch them. Or at least a glimpse, of him. To at least wave a last goodbye. Because he didn’t know when - if - his friend would ever return.

And he spotted the carriage. Right there, at the very end of what Staeve could make out. Just before it disappeared around a final turn of the road - and out of sight.

~~~

Inside the carriage Astarion was craning his neck only a little to see Ancunín manor slowly disappear behind the lazily sloping hills of the countryside as the wagon rattled along the road leading away from town. Now the ancient weeping willow was the last familiar landmark before the road would lead them along faceless fields and forests rushing past them, only there to be forgotten again in an instance. The storm was doing its part to make Astarion’s last impression of his home even more dull: clouds and the rain almost washing all of the colours out of this final sight.

This might very well have been the only time in his life when his heart actually ached at the thought of leaving home - or rather him.

Only a few weeks ago had he hoped to spend an incredible last summer with Staeve, his childhood friend. Especially as he had been sure of something new budding between them, something that could have meant them being more than companions possibly. Something that either might have been honestly terrified to explore. They could have gone down this road together.

But it seemed that instead of choosing this final adventure and what treasures and secrets might have been ahead, Staeve had chosen utter and complete silence. To his letter as much as his departure. Astarion had been unable to figure out what to make of it.

However, wasn’t the absence of an answer a response of its own?

Questions, regrets, fear and hurt were all swirling around inside of Astarion’s chest as he feigned indifference staring out the small window the rain kept drumming on. He was covering most of his face with his hand turned away from the other passenger in hopes it would make him look bored and hide his frown - and more than anything, the tears burning dangerously in the corners of his eyes.

Writing that letter, taking a leap of faith had taken nearly all of his courage.

When that kiss had happened after that invaded soiree, it had been easy. Fueled by the evening, laughter and lots of liquid courage it had been easy to fall into Staeve’s arms. It had been easy to be open about what had been building up inside of him for so long.

But writing this letter stone cold sober had been near impossible: opening up about everything that, all his life, he had been taught to keep hidden behind his orderly closed button border, tugged away behind a starched collar closed so firmly it made one choke. Admitting to desires that would make him a wretched sinner in the eyes of his family and society. And finally confessing his feelings to his lifelong friend, risking everything they’ve had. It had been taxing, hard, painful.

And in the end, apparently, he had paid the price.

In front of him, the Duke Ancunín kept talking about their travelling plans while Astarion could feel his heart get torn into pieces the further away from home they travelled. A piece of it begging to be allowed to stay.

“Son, it is a great honour that Monsignore Constantin will take you in for a few extra weeks as his disciple. He is very strict but he is the best,” the Duke repeated his words in a sharper tone when he noticed his son not paying attention. “He will make an upright man out of you, Astarion, I know it.”

“Oh, will he? I can barely wait,” Astarion replied with bitter sarcasm in his voice. His father, in response, was near boiling with anger at his son’s insolent behaviour.

“He has his methods, son, you will see. He will let none of your nonsense slip, I will make sure of it!” The Duke’s words cracked like a whip. But the young man didn’t care, his eyes were still trained on the outside, on the weeping willow becoming smaller in the distance. He didn’t honour his father’s wrath with another response.

The carriage filled with nothing but the sound of drumming rain and thunder rolling ever closer. When the older Ancunín apparently realised his anger would get him nowhere he tried a different route of grasping his son’s attention.

“Hasn’t the young Brimstone come to say his goodbyes to you, my son? Is that why you keep brooding?”

Astarion’s gaze snapped to his father, immediately betraying that he had spoken the truth. He felt how his brows drew together as pain flared up in his chest even more. Trying to get it back under control quickly he looked back outside the window as the carriage shook along the road in worsening conditions.

But his father had cracked right open what had been bothering him and finally Astarion gave up on trying to hide. What did it matter now anyways? The cards had been dealt.

The young Ancunín let his hands fall into his lap but kept looking outside as he felt how the tears in his eyes threatened to become overbearing.

“He hasn’t actually,” Astarion admitted. “In fact, I haven’t seen him in a few weeks. Not since I’ve sent him a letter a while ago,” he continued, voice flat and emotionless.

“A letter? How uncommon for the two of you,” the Duke threw in with a tinge of irony coating his words like bile. In a knee jerk reaction Astarion’s crimson gaze burned in anger at his father’s vile words. But in the end he wasn’t wrong. The young noble resorted to throwing a last glance upon the willow up on the hill.

“Come to think of it though, my son, I do remember seeing the letter,” the Duke rambled on. “And I remember handing it over to the butler so it may get delivered quickly.” Astarion turned away a little further once more from his father as he felt his composure threatening to break fully. “A difference of opinions maybe?,” his father finished.

Astarion didn’t see the slight tilt of the corners of his father’s mouth as he let the words roll off his tongue, not hiding his distaste for the young Brimstone.

The young Ancunín only could feel the final nail being put into the coffin with his father’s final words. His last string of hope he had been holding onto snapped in two just like that.

“Possibly,” Astarion simply replied, kneading his hands in his lap, emotions threatening to overwhelm him fully.

“Maybe even more than that,” he added after a while as he finally let his gaze fall from the last sight of his hometown.

Had he averted his eyes just a moment later he would have made out the figure of a dark-skinned, green-haired young man appearing beneath the weeping willow in the storm. But like this, thunder cracked as the carriage took a turn and Astarion’s home and his lifelong friend went out of sight.

[eraenaa]

U.N.I. (College AU)

Aemond Targaryen x Reader Tag List

Synopsis: Where one of the sons of your mother’s estranged best friend attends the same university as you, and did I mention you were the reason why he lost his eye? 

Warnings: Mature +18, Stalking, Smoking, Semi-Public Sex

Word Count: 2930

You feel his stare again, but you look onward and focus on what your friend was saying. But still, the image of him in his leather jacket, staring at you, the way he held his cigarette and puffed out smoke from his thin lips, eye so openly closed on you— it was starting to unnerve you. A festering feeling spread through you that all you wanted to do was lay your gaze on him, something you swore you would not do. At least not so obviously. 

“He’s staring at you again,” Your friend sang, and you painted a confused look on your face. “Who?” You asked. Feigned cluelessness on your face. “Pirate boy,” they call him, and you always seem to scold them at their insensitive nickname. “Oh,” You said, but you never gave him a glance, even if you badly wanted to. “I’m telling you… you should approach him.” You shake your head and sigh. “I have to go— I have to study for a test,” You suddenly reasoned to change the subject. Your friends gave a nod as they puffed out smoke between their lips, bidding you farewell, and they shall meet you in the dining hall later. 

You walked through the halls fast; you always do. You just did not notice that another copied your steps. 

Aemond had been growing tired of your stubbornness. When he first saw you in the halls of your college, he was certain his eye had deceived him. But no, there you were, laughing carelessly with your friends. A beaming smile on your lips, eyes crinkling with joy. He sneered as you walked past him— completely disregarding him— completely forgetting about him. After that day, he was determined to catch your eyes, to make you look upon him again. Him, the boy you had maimed. 

You finally found a place to study in the library. Somewhere secluded, somewhere you would not be bothered. Staring hard at the reading you procrastinated to do, so now, you’re exhausting your mind as you tried to stuff it more with whatever was said by a dead scholar so many years before. You hunched over the bound book, trying hard to focus, but your eyes did not miss as a figure now stood before you. You cautiously looked up and were met with an indigo eye and frowned lips. “Is this seat taken?” His voice was velvety and cold. You quickly avoided his gaze, “Yes,” You said. “By whom?” He asked. “Me,” You replied. 

“You occupy two seats at the same time?” He asked. You were not looking at him, but you plainly heard the sneer in his voice. Your mouth opened and shut, mind searching for a response. “It is a simple question— yes or no?” He snapped, and you let out a harsh breath. “No,” You harshly bit on your lip as he took the seat across from you. Your knees brushed as he scooted closer to the table. You did not dare to look at him— something that he boldly did. 

Aemond watched you as your eyes were planted toward whatever book you were reading. His eye implored you to look upon him again. He enjoyed the look of surprise and panic in you. “Actually, I��m leaving.” You uttered lowly and quickly gathered your things. Passive and flighty when it came to him. Because guilt never sat well with you— and he was a great reminder of it. Aemond rolled his eye as you gathered your things. “So you can take my eye but cannot even sit across the man you have maimed?” You froze as the image of him as a boy, on the ground and clutching his face in pain, flashed through your mind. It had been years since the accident— an accident that was not entirely your fault, but you bore the guilt as if it were. You took a deep breath and stopped gathering your things. Eyes courageously set themselves upon the boy who smirked before you, enjoying the look of silent anger on your face. You quite had enough of fleeing and letting guilt consume you whole. 

Aemond hummed as you stayed and resumed your task. His eye observing you, his knees bouncing up and down under the table, brushing against yours. He missed you if he were being honest. You who had spent almost every single day with him since the two of you were born until you were both ten. Eight years spent apart. Eight years trying to pretend that neither existed and that neither missed the other.

You stayed there for hours, trying to read, and he stayed there for hours, watching you try to focus on your reading. You were genuinely clueless as to why he was doing such a thing. When you were finally done, you stood without uttering a single word. “Where are you going?” He asked with a raised brow. You debated if you should answer him. Why should you? But as your gaze went back to his, him who expected you to respond, you sighed. “Dinner.” You quietly muttered, and he gave a nod, standing as well. “You no longer talk much now, do you?” He asked as the both of you walked towards the dining hall. He knew the answer: you were oh so talkative when it came to your friends— a beaming smile always on your lips. A wheezing laugh would always find its way to you, but with him, you could barely speak two syllables. 

Aemond frowned as you gave no word. The boy sighed and pulled you towards an alcove. Shoving you forcefully against the curved wall, the hall was dark as it was dusk, and they had yet to turn on the lights. “Stop acting as if I had been the one to have wronged you,” He spat, eye-widening in anger. “You have wronged me!” You answered, trying to push him away as he encaged you with his body and the wall. “You were the one who has wronged me first! And you fully knew it was an accident!” You defended. Aemond clenched his jaw. “You were the one chasing me— running after me, trying to take revenge.” He gritted his teeth. “Because you were the one who took my knickers from my drawers! I was trying to get it from you. It was not my fault you tripped and maimed your eye on a rock!” You reasoned, your voice growing louder, catching other’s attention. “I had ceaselessly apologized— begged for your forgiveness for something that was not entirely my fault, but you had ignored me! You let them believe that it was entirely my fault!” 

Your ragged breathing mixed, your eyes closed on each other, your bodies flushed. You stared up at him with a glare. He stared down at you with a glare. The only thing that broke intense gazes was the sound of the dinner bell ringing. Sensibilities regained, and you pushed away your once closest friend. “That accident was years ago… let us just forget of it— let us just pretend that neither of us exist or know each other.” You sighed. “It is a large campus, Aemond. Surely we can avoid each other.” You proposed. He scoffed. “You would like that, wouldn’t you? Escaping, fleeing just like before,” He whispered. You froze as you realized his head was dipping down. “I shall be here constantly… everywhere you go, I shall follow, just to remind you how badly you have wronged me. You have taken from me— now it is my turn to take you.”  You frowned at what he uttered— a word missing from his statement. But you could not question him as he was quick to push himself away from your frame and walk away. 

Aemond stayed true to his word. Everywhere you turned, everywhere you looked, there he was. Him and his lingering indigo eye, him and his smirking pink lips. You sighed as you caught leather-clad arms once more. Take in a deep breath, cross your arms across your chest, and try to focus on the work of art in front of you. Trying to ignore the man who stood next to you, a bit too close for your liking. “Seriously? Even here?” You asked. You were hoping you would have some peace in the gallery, wanting to escape the thought of the papers you still had to write and the man whom you kept on trying to avoid. But whatever tactic you used to not let your paths cross seemed futile. He always found you. He always trailed you. 

Even at night— when you thought you were finally alone. His indigo eye followed you in sleep. Scenes that you will never utter— that you will never admit to bringing you pleasure in the dead of the night. The man who gave them to you in your dreams stood next to you, his eye finally not on you but upon the painting. “Do not flatter yourself, I came here for the paintings.” He quietly uttered. You blinked, heat rising to your cheeks as you gazed upon the side of his face. Aemond bit down his smirk as he saw an embarrassed blush rise to your cheeks. 

You let out a breath and mindlessly gave a nod, stepping away from Aemond. As being in his presence brought forth the dreams you had of him. The dreams where his lips were upon yours. Where his hands would explore your body, would tangle themselves in your hair, would grip your throat, would bring pleasure to your cunt. As you moved on to face a sculpture, the thought of Aemond only seemed to fester. You slyly cross your legs as you stand, regretting the decision to wear a skirt that day. 

Though Aemond said that he came to the gallery for the art, it was only partly true. He trailed you once more, following your scent that he had grown fond of over the days he would follow you. His eyes scanned your frame from behind. From the back of your head to the middle of your thighs where your skirt stopped. To your crossed legs where his gaze lingered. Aemond licked his lips and stood next to you once more. He would lie if he denied that he kept following you for the sole purpose of tormenting you for an accident that was only partially your fault. No, there was something else fueling him to keep on trailing you wherever you go. There was something else he wanted from you— and that something was not entirely revenge or justice. He simply wanted you. You were not the only one who had scenes of pleasure in the night. Aemond’s dreams of your lips, your taste, and your touch were a constant. Every single night as he drifted into slumber, the only thing in his mind was of you. Your lips upon his, your body flushed against his, your cunt clenching around him. 

Neither of you uttered a word. Your minds were filled with thoughts of desire, thoughts of need, and thoughts of sin. The air between the two of you was tense and growing warm. It did not matter that the air conditioner blared— it did not matter that it was autumn. The two of you who stood next to each other felt nothing but raging heat. 

You turned to your right, peaking a look at Aemond through your lashes. Aemond was quick to feel your gaze, turning to you. Indigo eye was dark and filled with something you could not decipher. No word was uttered, only needing bodies threading closer together until lips locked. You clung to him, pulling him close; his lips tasted of coffee and cigarettes. He smelled of citrus and spice. 

Aemond placed his hands on your ass, clutching hard the plump flesh. His tongue lapped against yours, tasting every part of you. Berries and mint on his tastebuds. The smell of peonies and peaches invaded him. “Aemond,” You called as your lips parted, both of you in need of air. You watch him shake his head and take hold of your arm. You let him drag you wherever; the only thing on your mind now was the lust you felt. The only thing on your mind was the want to kiss him again. Aemond pulled you towards an empty hall, an exhibit not yet open to the public. Your eyes scanned the room; paintings and sculptures that would intrigue her any other time bored your mind. All you wanted to do was drown in pleasure from the man who now began to place kisses on your neck. 

Your hand traveled down, cupping his hardened length through his trousers. A groan left his throat, eliciting even more wetness from your cunt. His hands undid the buttons of your shirt, forcefully yanking your brassiere down to reveal your tits to him, his mouth quickly closing in on the taut bud that hardened and pebbled because of his touch. “I need you,” You boldly uttered, not able to resist the tight need in your core. Your head tilted back; face pointed to the ceiling as he continued to nip and suck on your tit. Aemond smirked as your breast was still in his mouth; he felt you exchange your hand that cupped his length with your cunt, grinding upon his cock. You showing how truly in need you were. 

“Do you want me to fuck you?” He asked; you were quick to nod. A chuckle escaped him, a smirk rising to his lips as his hand trailed from your chest, venturing downward. Teasing you as his hand hovered over your dripping cunt. “Please,” You mumbled against his lips. “I thought you did not want my presence?” He teased, hand quickly grazing your cloth-bound cunt. “Please, Aemond… I need you— I want you.” You begged. That seemed to satisfy him. 

You whined as he moved you away from the wall he pushed you against. Dragging you deeper into the room. You were becoming crazed— desperate. You needed to feel released, and Aemond was taking his time to give it to you. You frowned as he placed you too, and upon a statute, confession took hold that you did not notice that he placed himself behind you. 

Your moan echoed through as his hand finally grasped your needing cunt, cold fingers met with the dripping wet heat that was for him. You hear him hum as his slender fingers run along through your folds. Desire mixed with your confusion as to why he placed you before the statue— man and woman of marble reaching for one another. Before you could ask him— before you could even utter another word, you heard the buckle of his belt hit the floor, his bare length pressed against your behind. He bundled your skirts up to your waist, and you could only wait in heavy anticipation for him to take you. 

His finger continued to draw circles upon your needing bud. His lips continued to torment the side of your neck, nipping and sucking, leaving his mark. You were ready to beg for him to give you more, no longer caring about how pathetic you were starting to sound. You could not utter your plea as Aemond, without any warning, bent you over and shoved his cock inside you. A squeal left your lips as pain mixed with pleasure. One of his hands continued to draw circles upon your cunt while the other found your neck. Grip tight, filled with pleasure. 

Aemond was merciless as he pounded at you from behind. Not caring that your slapping skin echoed through the room, not caring that you were spewing moans that rang in the halls. All he focused on was the feel of you, tightening and clenching upon his length. Warm and wet, needing and screaming for his name. You felt tears spill from the corner of your eyes as you were overwhelmed with pleasure. You turned your eye upward, gazing at the statue before you. Letting the man behind fuck you roughly. “Harder,” You asked, and that only made his desire grow. His hand on your neck tightened, and his fingers drawing circles grew faster. His length pushed deeper until you felt blood and both of your essences run down your thigh. 

Your surroundings were growing dark; the only thing you could see now was the statue of Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss. Your mind could not comprehend or think as to why Aemond chose that particular sculpture for you to look against as he fucked you. All your mind thought of now was how close you were to climax. Aemond let out a growl as you clenched painfully around him. “Aemond,” You called. And he moved your bent frame to lean against his chest. “Aemond,” You called once more. His lips found yours, nipping at your lower lip that cause a rush to go to your already peaking cunt. “Come for me.” He ordered. His hand moved from your neck to your breast to pinch the taut bud. “Aemond!” you called for the third time. Waves of pleasure hit the shore as you came undone in his arms— on his cock. 

Aemond let out a groan with his last thrust, his seed filling you but quick to run down your thighs. “I have told you that I will take you.” He whispered and nipped your ear. You could only let out a stuttered sigh and hoped that he would do it once more.

[hedgehog-moss]

Rooster update: he is a gentleman so far. He follows my hen everywhere at a polite and respectful distance, scanning the area for enemies. I’ve not seen him make any advances whatsoever, he doesn’t seem interested in becoming a father; either he’s too young, or still a bit stressed and disconcerted by his change of environment, or he doesn’t like Dru this way, who knows. Pourvu que ça dure...!

Maybe Dru attacked him the first time he tried something—he doesn’t seem afraid of her any more, but the first morning after he arrived, he barrelled past Dru when I opened the coop and ran away flailing his wings, with high-pitched incoherent clucking, as if he were being chased by a pack of wild dogs. Pandolf, my hen and I stood there perplexed and watched him disappear into the forest. Part of me wanted to yell “I didn’t even want you!! you’re free to go!” and go home to have breakfast, but I couldn’t let him commit suicide by fox on his first day, so I took Pan home (thinking maybe the rooster had been scared of him), took my hen under my arm and spent half an hour on a rooster hunt in the woods. Dru clucks in annoyance if you touch her comb, so I would occasionally tickle it and she’d kÔtkÔtkwÊk and sometimes we’d hear a timid kwêk? in response which helped me narrow down the rooster’s position.

We ended up finding him perched on a branch, quite high up. I poked him with a long stick and he grudgingly moved back inch by inch until he was low enough for me to go up on tiptoes and pluck him like a large fruit. Then I carried him home singing the ballad of Sir Robin. When danger reared its ugly head / he bravely turned his tail and fled—Dru actually seems glad for his company, but she doesn’t know that this anxious bird is supposed to guard her from predators.

Here’s our boldly brave sir Robin strutting gallantly (photo taken with zoom because if I come any closer he flees)

Well, Dru’s new coopmate is very good at being a rooster in one capacity and that is crowing. He starts bright and early and continues throughout the day at random times, a beautifully-enunciated cocorico (he’s french)—I quite like it! The walls of my house are thick enough that it doesn’t wake me up in the morning, and during the day it’s a pleasant addition to the soundscape.

I had lunch with the librarian today and told her all about the rooster, and how I probably won’t be able to keep him since I’ll never meet the recommended minimum amount of hens per rooster. With 2 hens I already have a dozen eggs a week and that’s more than enough for me (+ cats and dog who also enjoy eggs.) The librarian was Team Rooster and said I should get more hens and bring her the eggs. “I’ll find clients.” She was already picturing herself as the nexus of a flourishing library-based egg trade, but most people around here keep chickens so I don’t think the demand will be there.

I showed someone else a picture of my rooster at the grocery shop and she exclaimed “He’s very decorative!” which I think would have made my rooster fluff up with pride. It’s the most validating thing you can say to a male bird. After I summarised the situation, my interlocutor came to the conclusion that I should give him to the librarian so he can become the new library pet. I said “He’ll make a mess” and she said “We can put sawdust on the ground like in old-school cafés...” But then she added that her grandchildren are a bit scared of roosters since they know they can be mean, and they might become afraid of going to the library. We agreed that my rooster shouldn’t be an obstacle to childhood literacy.

[nin3kyuu]

"Mother and Father had told me never to enter the fog, never follow it to still waters, and never go in unwelcome by the moonlight. I had thought of their warnings and stories as jokes. To prove to them their beliefs were wrong, I had boldly entered the swamplands. I wanted to show them there was nothing, and I would arrive back to my homelands safe and in one piece. But I was foolish, for my footsteps froze in place, my lantern shaking in my paling knuckled palms as it stared at me. Its gaze was unwavering, its ghostly eyes staring at me, turning its long demonic face towards me. Its body was scaly and glowing. It almost looked beautiful... had I not seen its face and the rest of its body... the lights... the lights were so pretty I could not look away... could not move even as my body burned, as I felt the Great Mother urging me to flee... this creature's lights refused me too, overpowering the Mother as it neared. Its claws were sharp, its teeth sharper, and yet its lights were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. As my lantern fell into the swamp's waters, its light was all I saw as my bones crackled through its maw. It had invited me to join it, to become part of it... damning me away from the Mother... and I welcomed it. The pain dulled and the lights glowed ever brighter. Who could resist this beautiful power?"

Parluna'vi are a species created by @villainsimpqueen

[tribbetherium]

The Late Rodentocene: 20 million years post-establishment

Quill and Testament: Heckhogs of the Late Rodentocene

The descendants of the spiny bristleback, one of the earliest hamsters in the Early Rodentocene to evolve a unique defense mechanism against the first predatory huntsters, would eventually give rise to the heckhogs, a diverse clade of small omnivores distinguished by their defensive armament: stiff, bristly hairs modified into sharp quills that can be used to irritate or even injure any attacker that is brave enough to threaten them.

Some more basal species, such as the bristly itchrat (Spinopilosomus urticatus) retain the ancestral bristleback's defenses: sharp, loose hairs that can be rubbed off from its coat and kicked into an enemy's face to stick in its nose, eyes and mouth and cause significant irritation and discomfort, thanks to small barbs that can cause redness and swelling for several days or more.

However, more-derived species bear sharp hairs as a more permanent defensive feature, modified into hard, pointed and hollow quills that do not break off easily, and are instead a deterrent from the animal itself being grabbed by an attacker. Such is the case with the spiny-tailed rattratel (Echinomustelus doloricauda), a ferocious tropical omnivore whose spines are concentrated around its tail, making it difficult to grab from behind as it flees headfirst into its burrow. So effective is its defense that the rattratel will boldly try to steal food from large, dangerous predators such as the larger squeasels of its range, knowing that it can get away with it with little consequence. The shorter quills on the rest of its body can point in any direction, which prove helpful in burrowing, and if grabbed from the front, has a backup defense: loose flexible skin that allows it to twist itself free to bite back an assailant or strike it with its spined tail.

The thorn-maned beaverlion (Leocastor echiniuba) is similarly specifically armed: yet the spines of this heckhog are concentrated not around its tail and rear, but around its neck, forming a protective mane of quills. This is because this hardy woodland herbivore is highly territorial, and thus its defenses are against other beaverlions that it clashes with at the boundaries of its territory. With powerful incisors capable of chewing bark and tough plant matter, it became of importance to protect its vulnerable neck from the potential lethal bite of a rival. Propping themselves upright on their back legs and thick hairless tails, two opposing beaverlions can inflict painful bites onto its competitor as they wrestle and shove each other, but, thanks to the spiny manes, rarely become fatal. Ironically, most vulnerable are older males: while the increase in testosterone makes them stronger, tougher and more vicious, too much of it causes a thinning of hair that also causes them to lose many of their defensive spines, leaving their necks exposed. Faced with actual predators, however, beaverlions prefer to flee, escaping into burrows that are often built near the edges of bodies of water such as lakes and streams as an extra precautionary measure.

Physical damage is deterrent enough to most predators, but some take it even further: adding chemical warfare to the mix. The blazing quillcrest (Ambustuspinus cyanorrhinus) chews up poisonous plants to which it has built up a resistance to, and then applies the toxic mixture to its fur and quills when it grooms itself. Likely originating as a means to rid its coat of parasites, it has since become an additional layer of defense which it advertises with bold warning colors: ones that may not be all too visible color-wise to most creatures but make a striking contrast at Beta-twilight: one of the times the quillcrest is at its most active, foraging for seeds, fruits, insects and grubs. Its quills are barbed, allowing them to break off easily and remain lodged in an attacker, and the presence of a toxic chemical cocktail smeared onto its spiny coat serves to make the encounter more unpleasant to any would-be predator.

But spines are not only good for just defense. The iridescent bluehog (Segaspinus cyanopilus) has found a strange new use for these weapons: as organs of display used to attract and court mates. While normally having small, stubby quills most of the year, during the breeding season male bluehogs grow long, iridescent quills, with hollow structures that refract light in shades of the blue spectrum, which they noisily rattle to display to and attract any nearby females in search for a mate. While to most other small animals such a gaudy courtship display is practically a death sentence, the bluehog can afford to be conspicuous as its display structures are themselves defensive weapons: a painful mouthful of quills for any predator that tries to take advantage of the emergence of courting males during the breeding season. Once courtship is over, the males shed the long spines, returning to their drab, short-quilled original appearance through the rest of the year.

The heckhogs in the Late Rodentocene would prosper throughout the Therocene, but would ultimately find their match in the coming of the Glaciocene, which brought massive glaciation and the spread of tundra across temperate areas and left very little tropical forest habitable. To the species dependent on tropical forested regions, such as the rattratels, quillcrests and beaverlions, it would spell their end: but to smaller, more adaptable and more temperate-dwelling species like the bluehogs and itchrats, it would be a disaster they could weather through-- and carry on the legacy of the heckhog lineage into the Temperocene era.

-----------

[claiestve]

𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫 ꨄ Xanthus

˜”* ❝𝘾𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙣 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙧 '𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙.❞

⎯⎯ ୨ ୧ ⎯⎯

ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ: ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʜɪᴍ ᴠꜱ ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ.

⎯୨⎯ " " ⎯୧⎯

You knew how it felt to have nothing. Even when people would swear that you were the most fortunate person in the room, you knew it wasn’t true. Yes, you had money—lots of it—but what else? People didn’t typically take the time to get to know you; they thought you were snobby. Others would befriend you, but the moment they received an expensive birthday gift, they vanished.

It was upsetting to see people use you for your family’s fortune. You saw the way people would turn their back to you when it was time for you to speak, dismissing your thoughts as irrelevant. Eventually, you get used to it. People didn’t value your views or opinions, they just knew your status.

That day you cried to your parents, they couldn’t believe you’d been mistreated like that for all those years. They couldn’t fathom the thought of other kids in your classes talking badly about you solely because of assumptions. So even though it sounded bizarre, they let you flee. They helped you flee. They could see how hopeless you were and helped you out of the bubble. 

It was heartbreaking when you had to be with another family, not because you were moved down to being middle-class, you didn’t care about that, it was knowing you’d likely never see your blood relatives again. Nonetheless, you warmed up to your new family and they treated you like their own. Generally, you were happier, seeing people who actually wanted to get to know you instead of blatantly invading your wealth. 

Then came the day you were confronted by an intimidating blonde man, boldly approaching you and declaring he wanted to suck your blood. It was the first time in years you had faced such a threatening encounter, but this felt different. He couldn’t possibly be after your wealth; what could he possibly gain by having your neck exposed?

It never crossed your mind how what seemed like an attack would be the first time you’d meet the love of your life. And oh, how you love that man, even if it was unethical. 

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

idk i just kinda miss xanthus n i like writing short lil things like this so..

[an-abyss-of-stars]

𖤓 Don't You Dare Do This Without Me 𖤓 Ch. 3

Pairing: Rhaena x Aemond

Warnings: Smutty content mentioned, dirty erotic thoughts

Word Count: 5.9k

Summary: Aemond returns from his afternoon "activities" and is accosted by his mother in the halls of the Red Keep almost immediately, all the while he can't help but eagerly wish to return to his chambers...to return to his wife.

.

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 4 | Ao3 | 

—

Aemond did not dottle once he returned to the Keep. There was no need, seeing as he still had one thing on his mind. 

One person, really...one woman. 

Though it would seem that news of his exploits had already preceded him, the castle was a buzz. Huddled courtiers leading whispers from one corridor to the next. Careful to linger frightful gazes upon his moving form only to quickly flick them away as he matched them frigidly. Causing them to hurry on, to flee from their monarch.

They were so blatant with it. 

But he was a hurricane, he could care less. His long slender legs moved with the speed of a man possessed and he most certainly was. However, he was, to his dismay, just as emotionally tangled as he was before he stormed out of the castle earlier this afternoon. 

Burning that farming village down to the ground was meant to release this tension. His frayed nerves had blurred with a sting of pleasure when he'd willed Vhagar to breathe her magmatic green flames down from their perched swell in the sky. He'd felt a smoothing ache settle in the pit of his stomach, a roaring deep within the center of his cock. 

Truly…it was monstrous and he knew it. The swelling power that coursed through him as he ended all of those pitiful little lives. It was the sound of the flames engulfing everything, the sweep, the swoop of it. It was the screams...the terror...the horror of it all that engaged him in what he thought would be a form of great release. 

It had been before...her. 

Only now, it felt like a false climax. 

By the time he'd circled back over to King's Landing, his abdomen clenched with the returned weight of it all. The conscious memory of how his council had droned on in his ear during their meeting this morn. Harping on about the countless great Houses who would not truly bend to his will. While they had bent the knee in his presence, their loyalties were a falsehood. And as his council had so boldly reminded him, this handful of Houses were great enough that he could not simply burn and diminish them. He could not simply end the bloodlines of each and every single one of them, just because he wished it so. Dérogeance was barely an option in itself, though he had considered it. 

No, it was a fact that he needed their banners, he needed their men for any such upcoming battle that would require foot soldiers. 

Even still, it was an insult, the snide tones used during that meeting as if he were a fucking imbecile who hadn't even bothered to realize the fucking obvious- 

He should burn something else.

Deplete the levels of rage that threatened to burn outwards, harm those closely around him. This anger of his that was still so embedded in his veins...it was building and in truth, the flight had done nothing to calm him. The stench of death and charred remains had done nothing to ease his mind. And he knew worst of all that he needed it to. Above all else he needed to return home calm enough to interact with his children with due care. He'd barely seen them today, and he'd be damned if his sons' were ever brought up to view him as a monster.

As the rest of the realm continued to do so. Even after he’d done so much for Seven Kingdoms. He’d managed to restore trade, abolished Rhaenyra’s taxes, and had loans given out to rebuild holdings that had been destroyed during the war. The city gates had been duly strengthened as he’d overseen the initiative of constructing several huge fortified granaries set throughout the kingdom, filled and made accessible for the people. Ten new war galleys had been commissioned and more were still yet to come. 

And while it had not been his idea initially, his Queen had argued to the need to re-instill the respect of dragons amongst the smallfolk. As she’d once argued that he’d singlehandedly been responsible for the disillusionment the small folk now felt towards dragons. Although, while she’d hoped he’d find a peaceful way of going about it…he’d instead used terror. She wanted the dragon’s unchained in the dragon pit, and he did just that, riding amongst them upon Vhagar’s back. Purposely close, low to the city to remind them of the untouchable might of House Targaryen. 

Yet even still…

Even after all of that. 

Four years of what Aemond would like to consider held mostly acts of benevolence as far as he was concerned. Executions only held for those who’d earned it, torturing the likes of the conspirators responsible for the three royal assassination attempts he’d squashed under his leadership.

Aemond had been a good King…he had made it his mission to serve the realm to the best of his capabilities.

And yet…to them…to the smallfolk, to the Lords and Ladies of the realm…to his own wife…he was still nothing more than a kinslayer. 

The Kinslayer King. 

He was still a monster to them. As his wife surely still saw him as. Deep down, in her heart...he knew that thick black hatred for him still lived embedded within her like a poison tipped blade. Especially since she drew upon it far too often for him to ignore it. 

Perhaps that fuelled her behaviour this morning as well, he could always blame her for his mood at this very moment if that was the case. His lovely little wife, one half of the ever sought after Dragon Twins. It was by his hand that he made her the most powerful woman in the realm. He'd had her crowned as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, it was by his hand that he made her the mother of the future heir to the Iron Throne. The future of their bloodline, of the Targaryen dynasty. 

All she need do was behave accordingly, give him what he wished for when he asked for it. 

As any other dutiful docile demure noble wife would. 

Instead, he chose a dragoness for himself...a right fucking stubborn little pin in his side. One that he'd unfortunately managed to find himself utterly entrapped by, enraptured by a woman who enraged him more often than not. But still, like a fucking hound, he still found himself crawling back to her. Desperate for the slivers of affection he could coax from her. To be so unequivocally wound around her finger as opposed to the opposite, the unseemly fact that it often felt like her body could solve a great deal of his mental woes. 

It was unheard of surely, more akin to an illness than the likes of genuine love. 

At the very least, he could tell himself so at times such as this. That he'd once spent his nights laying with a dark miskept witch in the days before his marriage, and even her visions, her less than shapely body had felt like nothing in comparison to plunging into the heat of his sweet curvaceous Valyrian wife.

Only sweet when she chose to be. 

Forever embittered with him if she could help it. 

Yet she seemed to come around on the pleasures of his company when it suited her needs. Somewhere along the way she’d welcomed the conception of both their second and now third child into her womb, even if she only reluctantly tolerated their first. Those particular behaviours had translated to everything else. With each babe welcomed to their family, it seemed she’d grown more bold and assured of herself. It started with miniscule requests; the return of her dragon Morning, access to the royal library, freedom to walk the grounds of the castle without him. But then her requests shifted into tactile demands. She'd demanded her spot on his council. Was in the making of demanding a complete overhaul of the Keep itself, she wanted the Seven pointed stars removed from the Great Hall and all public view as his mother had once initiated the placement of. She wanted to begone the wearing of stark dark Hightower green, to forgo the dozens of green gowns he'd had her fitted for as she'd always called the colour 'hideous, drab and disrespectful to their family name'. She had hated having to swaddle their babes’ in green blankets and wraps, and she hated to see the 'false' green Targaryen banners hung around the castle. 

As she'd put it...she was no member of the blasted House Hightower. She was not a Green Queen, and he could forget the notion of ever referring to her as such. 

Aemond had recalled chuckling at her indignation, retorting if she’d rather be recognized as a ‘Queen for the Blacks then.’

A remark that earned him only the coldest of responses, ‘no. Because there should no longer be any blacks or greens. The majority of both factions have perished. There should only be House Targaryen, as it once was. Before your mother declared war against a house she was lucky to have even wed into.’ 

That hatred for his mother…that still remained. 

Though as time went on, Aemond couldn’t find it in him to defend his mother’s prior actions. Not when he could finally see through them. Instead, he found himself far more enamoured with his Queen’s bold fire. It made him think that perhaps he was underestimating his feelings for her, at times her defiance brought him great sense of joy. In fact, more often than not, it most certainly did. 

Even now, he nearly smirked to himself. Recalling the way she'd crossed her arms over her swelling belly a few days ago, proclaiming that she wished to return to wearing true Targaryen colours. Reds and black, the true House they were meant to represent. 

She was right, of course. 

Her statements had set a fire beneath him to see her demands met as soon as possible. Seeing as the Dance had long since ended, and in truth he had no interest in being remembered as the Green King Aemond Targaryen. Kinslayer King that he already was, he'd facilitate his reign by wearing their family's trueborn colours. By having pride in their Valyrian ancestry, their history and their culture. He did want for those things...it was his right to have them. He'd just never thought to put them forth so front and center as of yet. 

See, it was in those instances of defiance that he found himself allowing it. She'd coax what she wanted from him when he was at his most vulnerable. Her pale lilac eyes gazing upon him, freezing his heart in place, her long pale lashes batting daintily at him. As they lay in their bed, her beautiful body bare to him. Her plush thighs spread for him, her leaking wanting cunt taking him in full as her legs wrapped around him. By the Gods, he could envision it all so clearly as he’d fallen victim to this embrace over a dozen times. With the way her hands always clutched onto him...welcoming his cock to delve deeply within her. It was the easiest way for her to get exactly what she wanted from him. 

Even if that was only a fraction of the time. For, when the roles were reversed, she somehow still managed to keep her wits about her with her answers. And out of their marital bed, well, he could never have her simply follow his instructions when he gave them. It was much too difficult it seemed to simply follow his command, as her King, as her husband—if it had nothing to do with their bedchamber.

The inequality of it all, truly, in all instances his word should be law. If he wished to have her company, he shouldn't even have to say the word. 

It should be a given. 

It should be happily offered to him. 

His mind still burned with the churning thoughts of his wife and that of his council. As the wind whipped past Aemond as he rode on horseback, only adding to the windswept appearance of his once neatly made singular plait. Ruffling his black leathers as he rode through the streets of Flea Bottom with such vigor. Dismounting his horse in a smooth yet rattled hurry, jumping off before taking large strides to the western entrance of the Red Keep. Needing no greeting or gesture made for the guards standing on duty to push the doors open for their King. It was there that he stomped through the halls with the falsely made cool collected saunter he'd perfected in his youth. 

The swirling aggravation that clouded his every thought, his body felt taut, itching to strike should anyone stand in his way. It was the look upon Rhaena's face earlier that still remained in his mind. Etched to his memory, he couldn't help but recall the look she'd made when she  denied him what was his by right. 

To simply lay with her in their marital bed, with his head nestled upon her ample bosom. 

It was a simple request. 

He only wanted a moment of peace with her. To feel the soft warmth of her body laid against his own, wrapping his arms around her hips. To rest his hand upon the taut yet soft curve of her swollen belly, feeling the life they'd created growing within her womb. Aemond only wanted to listen to the calming rhythm of her heart beat, to deeply inhale the sweetness of her floral scent. To feel her nimble fingers deftly comb through his hair in soothing strokes as he nuzzled his cheek against her pillowy bare chest. To feel the sun warm their skin as they ignored all else in the world and just…

In truth, he only wanted a peaceful hour alone with his wife. 

Instead, her beautiful face had frowned in defiance. Razored verbal attacks were levelled at his feet as if he'd wronged her in some way. 

He had not. 

Did she think he paid so little attention to her that he would not notice the discomfort she was in. The last few weeks of council meetings were waning on her. Waking for the meetings themselves was something she'd grown to dislike in her current condition. As well as the long walk it took to arrive there, the stairs she had to descend and climb back afterwards. The fact that she clearly found the chairs in the council room much too rigid and hard to sit on for an hour or beyond, no matter the cushion used to ease her bottom or her back. There was the fact that she'd often need to excuse herself every time the babe pressed against her bladder, every time she felt overheated or a bout of morning sickness fell upon her. And her feet were often swollen by the time she returned to their chambers after every single meeting. 

Aemond was a keenly observant man…perceptive to the plights of those closest to him. As far as he was concerned, Rhaena was eight moons along in her pregnancy, nearly to term. That was simply the fact of the matter. Confinement for most noble women would have begun at least a moon before now if not even sooner. And here his wife was fighting him on the very chivalrous kindness he'd done her. 

The absolute decency he'd offered her as a proficient loving husband and father to his children, any other woman...

He'd paused when he caught sight of his Lady mother just up ahead, fucksake, he sighed to himself. She was commingling with the Grand Maester, Orwyle, when her eyes caught sight of Aemond moving with assurety. There was a member of Aemond's chosen Kingsguard walking five paces behind him, Ser Rickard Thorne. As Aemond picked up his pace, so did his guard. He did not need to look back towards the man to affirm his assumptions, "my wife, the Queen. She is in my royal chambers, yes?"

A quick beat was all that was needed before the older man intoned, "yes, your grace. I was informed that she returned shortly." 

As expected.

As he wished it-

Wait a minute…returned?

In an unconscious effort to prolong the obvious interlude that would be conversing with his mother. Most likely on the events that had just occurred…burning a small village and that of the repercussions of it. 

Aemond instead, glanced back at Ser Thorne and asked the question that formed on the tip of his tongue, “returned? From where?”

Seeing as his little wife was meant to be in confinement…the mere fact that Ser Willis Fell saw fit to even let her vacate their chambers was a problem in itself. She was meant to be resting, slowing down her daily activities…she was meant to be waiting for him. 

“Your grace, I was only informed that the Queen took to the gardens for a stroll. A short one, with her sister, the Princess Baela,” the knight quickly blustered up a suitable response for his King, surely hoping his slight error would not be seen as incompetence, “Ser Willis Fell and Ser Rickard Thorne were with her, of course. A proper detail guarding her grace.”

“But of course,” Aemond intoned with a bitter tang, it would seem he’d have to clarify the meaning of ‘confinement’ not only to his stubborn wife but as well to the guards of his sworn Kingsgaurd. 

As he made his way down the great hall, the inevitable drew near. With his mother bidding ‘good day’ to the Grand Maester of which she was conversing with, her large brown eyes then locked on to Aemond. Those eyes of hers, they'd always had the power to still him the moment he felt their pressure laid upon him. Her gaze pierced through him in an instant. It was instinctual within him to heel at the sight of her disappointment, the child within him who was still so eager to please her. That child he once was, the little boy who was almost always met with a grim vulnerable look in her eyes, her lips already set to frown as they always did. 

There was no pleasing her...that was a lesson he’d learned with time. Though he was sure she had her reasons this time. It was an often occurrence over these last few years, especially ever since he took his cousin, Rhaena, to wife. But this was not the time, his mind was far too preoccupied. Did he outright wish to ignore his mother entirely, no, he knew better than that. So he did greet her presence with a meaningful nod, but he did not intend on standing by to be lectured by his mother like a boy of ten years of age once more. 

“Mother,” he nodded.

"Aemond," the dowager Queen gritted back, ah, so she most definitely sought to admonish him. With all the force of a verbal lashing that would befit the crime of tripping up a sibling or something lesser, so unimportant. It wasn't until he aimed to rip his gaze away from her, side stepping past her, that her voice grew more assertive, "Aemond! You cannot ignore me. What have you done?! When your reign already lives in a constant state of peril, you move to make more foes rather than alliances?" 

The common tongue, it felt so utterly grating at this moment. Especially coming from her...how his mother itched to remind him of his Andal roots. 

With an irritated sigh, he pursued his lips down at her, "believe me, mother. I am in no mood for this," the words rang out like a gravely hum, anymore inflection and he would have seethed them out. As his body already ached with annoyance, that quiet rage he'd managed to tamp down as he rode back home...it was rushing to the surface once again. The very rage that eased him into the idea of burning fields and small villages as he wished in the first place. 

Though it was unfortunate to say that Alicent Hightower was never one to back down from such a warning. Whether it was a verbal one or a quietly made physically looming one standing before her. Especially when it was her own offspring who permitted it, it was as if she could not see the full grown men her little boys had become. She still viewed them as children, attached to her will. Still in need of her guidance in some way, she still fought to remain so relevant in their eyes. To hurry her shorter legs along, to match Aemond’s long steps just to keep in stride with him, "I am not concerned with your current disposition. I speak with importance. Your allegiances with the North are already wavering, it is true, your council did not lie to you. The point was not made to berate you-"

Agh…such repetition once again.

"Mother, I know," he tried to cut her off sharply, in hopes of ending this admonishment before it could properly begin. But it felt as if there’d been no effect. Like a shattered piece of stone that simply would not burn no matter how hot the flames blasted upon it. 

His heart thumped violently within him. While the heels of his mother's flats only stomped with all of her weight, as she straightened her shoulders and raised her chin. Her eyes no longer remained pinned to him, she instead focused on the hall ahead. To give the appearance of a simple casual conversation being had between a mother and her son, "you know, do you? As you currently threaten our bonds with the Westerlands. If you know all this already, then what is to be done? Four years have passed, and you've offered the North nothing of note. Footholds and trade agreements. Clearly they want something more substantial. The North still remains loyal to Rhaenyra's faction even in death, her spirit commanding their stale oaths. They would sooner ride out to face you in record numbers in the name of honour to another. Their loyalty to the name of Jacaerys Velaryon. As opposed to raising their banners for you and any war you might call them upon."

'I KNOW! I FUCKING KNOW!' is what he wanted to roar aloud, damned the look that would fall upon his mother's visage. Damn the fucking peasants who would have heard him, Lords and Ladies be damned, he was at his wits end. He'd had enough for one day. He only needed quiet solitude to think properly, to draw up real plans to secure the North truly to his side. Pacify the damage done during the war…make his mind up on what to do with the Westerlands…

But if all anyone wished to do was drown him in information he already knew-

Grunting as he rolled his shoulders, his eye blazed down at his mother. Tilting his head as he nearly spat his retort, "yes yes and all that stays their hand is their loyalty to their Queen, Rhaena Targaryen. As well as her sister, Aegon's wife, Princess Baela Targaryen. Yes, mother, I know. I chose them strategically. The North will not attack us. And the likes of the fucking Dowager Lady Johanna Westerling has already proven she has no mind for war or true retaliation," Aemond's jaw was grinding as he purposely focused on the corridor ahead. Ignoring the nobles that spotted a heated discussion between their betters as they passed through the halls. 

Making their way up several flights of steps, Aemond found the world around him to blur slightly, the voices around him numbing to the faint mumble of incomprehensible jargon…then focusing in. He shook the uncomfortable feeling from himself, rattling his neck slightly, as he finally turned the corner with his mother. Heading towards his royal chambers, he lowered his voice to a smooth yet dull tone, "see, mother. I'm not some hapless fool. I know the North needs placating. I've known it since Aegon abdicated the throne to me, since my first son was born and then my second...."

There he took another silent moment to breathe deeply, unlatching his hands from behind his back. This level of fury and restlessness, it was convulsing within him, violently transforming into this warped unsettling thing in his gut. Soon enough, unconsciously he found his right hand had sprung up towards his throat. His thumb found comfort in stroking the old vertical scar that spanned down the side of his jaw, spanning the length of his neck.  

Such a clean scar…a straight mark. 

His deranged love for the wound that was given to him by his once caged bird, it was more of a cozy reminder than a haunting. And his chest felt as if heavy laid bricks rested against his heart, it was this reminder of the old slash his wife had once handed him that seemed to calm him. The confident fact that he’d have her in his midst soon enough. And with that certainty in mind, it was becoming far more difficult to not simply dismiss this conversation and leave it as he wished, because he could. Because his mother could no longer order him about as she once did. 

No one could. 

No one but-

She was not present in this hallway. 

His dragoness…

He’d join her in their shared chambers soon. 

He'd much rather be dealing with her than his mother at the moment. 

Rolling his jaw, he knew he had to regulate his emotions. He could not explode, not here, not with his mother. With his dragoness, it was different, it felt mutual. She would fight him on anything...but his mother, she was just a woman. An older one grappling with the changes of the world, the changes in her station. The utter power she’d lost and had failed to ever regain…

Breathing in and out, Aemond continued on, "this is a task that needs planning, precise planning. Does it not? Treating with the Northern Houses, worse yet possibly offering marriage pacts and or true dragon allegiances. I have not taken this lightly. But Targaryen blood is scarce now and I cannot waste it so eagerly. Sending mine or Aegon's own offspring North just to appease a few sour Lords. The bloodline must be secured first and foremost, and other alliances may be needed in our future."

"Aemond-" she'd started, the lacking tone had already informed him of what she might say next.

But he'd given her no room to continue, "mother, when I say that I've considered everything, know that I have. When I say that I am devising a plan that may yet gain the North's favour,  before we are set in a truly perilous situation...you must take my word for it." 

"A perilous situation," Alicent’s frown set deeper, her brows creasing as her eyes sharply fell back onto her second born son, "and was it peril that emboldened you to burn the town of Oxcross? Peril or the basest peak of your petty fury at your own humiliation? That is what the council meeting settled within you, is it not?" she stood firm, her feet planted as they were now safely standing in the royal wing of the castle. With her hands delicately folded in front of her emerald green satin gown. Her fingers itching to fidget with the encrusted jewels there, if only to mitigate her own emotions as she boldly asked the question so few would ever dare to. 

Though she seemed to forget that she held little power over him now. 

Dowager Queen mother that she was. 

Aemond slowed his own steps, eager to end this encounter out in the hall before he stepped into his chambers to face the other bold woman with whom he shared his life with. 

"Mother...careful now. It’s uncouth to pry," his voice lowered to the base of his throat as he slowly stepped towards her, his polished riding boots clacking against the hard stone floors. Echoes permeating the otherwise empty corridor. It was there, he could see it, at the end of the hall. Almost glowing with a direct ray of sun beaming upon the door…Aemond could see the guards there. At his chambers, his sanctuary away from all of this. It was all so close...yet his mother stood in the way like a blockade of the most egregious kind.

"Is that what you're doing now?" Alicent hummed darkly, twisting her own lips in the process. The auburn waves of her unbound hair falling back behind her shoulders as a look of doubt and subtle disgust fell upon her face. She looked him up and down along his form, the wordless gesture of it all was all too clear even before she spoke, "my own son, threatening me once again. First with your wish to rule the Seven Kingdoms, to snatch what was rightfully your elder brother's. What we fought for here, the freedom, our very lives. And then you made the unilateral decision yourself. To bestow upon the two of you, wives that were of the blood of our enemies. The man that almost killed you!"

Exhaling with the whole of his body, he maneuvered around his mother, rolling his stiff shoulders, flexing his fists away from her. Stroking that scar of his, the one that laid just opposite of the one that nearly severed his head that day. Above the God’s Eye, when the Gods’ saw fit to save his life instead. 

No…when Gods’ left everything up to the will of pure luck itself. 

Daemon Targaryen had almost killed him that day…his uncle would have taken them both to oblivion.

And now here he was stroking a scar made by that man’s own daughter, the daughter he’d chosen to take to wife the very same year.

His mother surely knew as much, even as she watched his actions with perplexity. Surely clueless as to why he felt the need to knead his wound as he did. But it was a precaution taken on his end. Because he could feel it building within him, something dark within his soul. Doing his best to tamp down the feeling, trying to remind himself that he could not unleash it here. He couldn't harm her...

However, he could halt this line of questioning. Straightening himself, he stood to his full height, towering above his mother. He watched as the mix of emotions filtered across her face, as the fearlessness in her eyes began to waver. Not that he would ever lift a physical hand against her. But she did doubt him now...ever since the war...ever since Lucerys...she did doubt him. 

She thought him a monster...just like all the rest. 

"Do not forget yourself, mother," he eyed her with cold precision, watching as she took one step back and then another. Her hands were trembling just a bit as he in turn settled his hands behind his back, hardening his countenance in the process, "Aegon handed me his crown, that was his choice, he knew he was not fit for it. But in the case of our wives, no other would do. The war depleted the amount of dragon's blood in the realm. It is my goal to replace what was lost, that cannot be done with any old bride. Andal or otherwise. Both Aegon and myself needed Valyrian brides. And we have since brought forth several trueborn Valyrian children to the crown, to this house. House Targaryen." 

Every statement he made was punctuated with a step towards his mother, so that he could see the understanding settle in her eyes. Watch as her gaze fluttered about his face in a course of action that seemed desperate to find the little boy she was so used to squashing beneath her. The boy she once used to serve her needs first then looked to appease his own. 

But that boy was gone.

He died during the war.

In some horrific form of symmetry or horrid cosmic karma, that little victim of a boy that lived within Aemond had died the day Lucerys Velaryon...Strong had died. Where the anger and pity that swirled within him in a mix of blinding fury and flurried uncertainty. That fury is what led him to chase his young nephew and his tiny dragon up into that storm. With the sole wish of killing the young boy at the forefront of his mind. It was never meant to be a game to him...the sick thrill of it all, terrorizing that child as he gleamed all of the joy in the world from the power he'd felt.

It had all been so glorious.

Justice...for himself, finally delivered.

There was no hesitation, he did not wish to fall back.

Until it happened... he'd bade Vhagar take her moment, strike while the young pair were unprepared. Only then did uncertainty finally strike at Aemond's core...only once he'd done the deed.

Once the boy was dead.

Scattered strewn limbs tossed to the sea...the rest devoured by Vhagar.

A fate worse than a simple death, to be of the blood yet eaten by a dragon.

A cardinal sin, surely.

The act of killing one's kin...the act of severing a line of dragon's blood, no matter how thin. It wouldn't have mattered if he regretted it...the life was already lost. Rhaena had once screamed something along those very same sentiments towards him once before. The truth of the matter had settled there.

And now, looking back at it all, he knew it just as well. The death of Lucerys was the day Aemond knew he could never return to living beneath the will of another. Not as he had existed before...not beneath Criston fucking Cole's will, or his mother's, or his grandfather, and certainly not beneath Aegon in that fashion.

He was King now.

His word was law.

To be obeyed above all else.

Aemond finally relented his stalking pursuit, his mother seemed concerned enough. And truth be told he only needed her attention for one final statement, simply rasping the words, "I've never threatened you, mother. I've only ever stated what is. When I brought the dragon twins here, I stated they'd be made to wed myself and Aegon. It was a decision I made as King, not a Prince, not Prince Regent...but as the highest power in the realm. It was not to be argued with, and most certainly not to be overturned by you or my grandfather. The same could be said about this matter now."

Finally, stepping around her, he made his way towards his chambers. Relieved by the simple fact that he could not hear his mother's footsteps following him, instead he heard her voice trembling off, "and with no one left to guide you any longer...you'd what? Rain ruin and death upon all the land, nobles and smallfolk alike? When you feel insulted? Or denied…wronged in some way? Or just because it makes you feel strong?"

"Neither...or all of the above, feel free to choose for me. Clearly you’ve already decided," he'd shrugged carelessly, not bothering to attach an emotion to his mother’s otherwise heartfelt deliverance. Nodding for the two guards at his door to unlock the room and give him entry. The respectful taste that would normally sour in him, to bid his mother 'good day' or to at the very least 'excuse' himself had evaporated. He'd instead left his mother alone in the corridor, with his back turned towards her, entering the bright sunny haze of his chambers with a breeze of warm Spring air wafting towards him.

His sanctuary. 

Within that breeze was the familiar scent of his wife, sugary sweet wild berries mixed with a bright lilac air. It was Rhaena's signature scent, a mixture of the fragrant oils, soaps and creams she always used to ready herself.

Gods, how he'd missed it.

It’d only been a few hours away from it…but he’d wholeheartedly missed it.

—

Notes: In-universe backstory, that will be fleshed out in the full longform fic that's coming later on. The scar that Aemond is touching so fondly in this chapter was given to him by Rhaena! (there's more detail about this incident in the notes on Ao3!)