#tranquil vale

[blech]

Pigeon, Man, Tranquil Vale, Blackheath, Lewisham, 1990, 90c6-02-33 by Peter Marshall

A man. A pigeon. A van. London.

[asydicsydney]

The full storyboard will be posted when it's done. But I just need you guys to see this

I DREW KISSING FOR THE FIRST TIME. IT LOOKS SO GOOD. I LOVE THEM

[ariiadnes]

╭ ㅤ⿻ ･ HOLY IS THE LOVE THAT SAVED ME ( part ii. )

HOW DELICATE LOVE IS , THIS EBB & FLOW OF SERENITY.

-ˋ ♡ ◞ childe ･ thoma ･ xiao. genshin impact. title cr : juniper vale. repost. tagging @pixelcafe-network. ଓ.°・・・part i.

❀ ﾟ. ༄ childe

childe has always been meant for greater things. in his future, he envisions it all : CONQUEST, POWER, & DESTRUCTION. but in his present arises LOVE , and he does not know what to make of it.

it is a fascinating feeling, the knowing of a belonging. in the abyss he found the hunger for survival and cold fury, and in you, he found the yearning for love and infatuation.

delicate is the way he treads with a wavering heart, sinews lined with chaos and calamity and hesitation and the wanting. childe doesn't know what this type of love is supposed to mean, doesn't know what it's supposed to be, and whether it is right-- this act of pretending like it is his, like it is meant for him. ( but he is made of facades, and he always will be, so maybe this is okay, and maybe he can have this love. )

in the winter, childe holds you close to him. there is no better way to warm up, he claims, and what's there to lose? after all, you can steal some of his body heat and cuddle with him. it's a win-win situation, and even though you roll your eyes at his theatrics, you always give into the comfort of being held.

"i could hold you like this forever." he says with a dramatic sigh, and he almost thinks that your arms wrap around his neck just a little bit tighter.

he expects you to brush him off, make light of his silly words just as you normally do, but you look at him with a gaze so gentle that he almost thinks that maybe this is it-- that love is the endgame for him, and this is all he really needs, power and superiority be damned. with you at his side, what more could he ask for?

you smile, pinch his nose ever so softly before pressing a kiss to it.

"well, what's stopping you, ajax?"

( nothing, he realizes. you are his everything, and he will do everything in his power to cherish you. )

❀ ﾟ. ༄ thoma

thoma is made of gentle beings & love never ending ; in the strings of a tender heart, there is a reverence so pure that not even the gods could understand what worship means.

thoma is in love with you and there is not one day where you are not reminded of this. because there is love to be found in the little things, you both learn: in the way you both wake early with the intention of surprising each other with breakfast, only to wake up at the same time, hearts full and the air filled with laughter as you cook together in compromise. in the way you slow dance in the place you've made a home together at 2:38am, in the way he finds peace in the warmth of your hug as if it were second nature when he comes home after a tedious day of tasks.

thoma is in love with you, and he always tells you this. because to him, love flows in his bloodstream, and how lightly does he carry it with him everywhere he goes. you feel it with every touch, every word-- every glance, every fleeting moment with him, and what a wonderful thing to drown in, this feeling of adoration.

you wake before sunrise, vision blurred as you adjust to the darkness of the bedroom. besides you is the person you love & the person you have decided to spend the rest of your life with, and the smile that graces your lips is one of genuine solace.

you fell asleep holding hands & you wake to his still in yours, his grasp still firm. you tighten your hold the slightest bit; he stirs in his sleep, awakens from his slumber.

you almost apologize for the disruption, but the sight of your tranquility is a blessed one to wake to, and he smiles a smile that is even brighter than the sun, you think.

"good early morning," thoma says, and you nearly laugh at the way his voice cracks, "i love you."

"good early morning," you whisper, pressing a kiss against his temple, "i love you."

❀ ﾟ. ༄ xiao

loneliness is a dull blade; twists itself into his existence, burrows into remnants of misery, and leaves its presence there. it is known and untouched, and perhaps even deserved-- because the removal of such a thing can only lead to the pouring and pouring of sorrow, and a yaksha does not know if the pain would be worth it until it healed and scarred.

the loneliness has always been there, he thinks, and he does not indulge into his thoughts too much for his own sake. but it dissipates when you come into his life, and of all the people he has met, he believes you are the one he cherishes the most.

"xiao," your fingers trail down his neck, touch delicate and exalted, "what do the dreams taste like?"

he shivers under the graze of your fingertips. he wonders if it is from the way you speak his name or the feeling of you.

there is a lump in his throat and he cannot seem to rid of it. he swallows hard, noticing the slight amusement and curiosity that adorns your features. how lovely does the moon's light shine brightly on you, and xiao realizes that he has always found you beautiful, whether under the night sky or the sun's rays-- no matter where you are, he will always look at you with affection in his eyes.

he separates himself from his pride, lips pressing against yours in a kiss made of sacredness and love known. the dreams were once bitter in times of darkness, but now, they taste like nostalgia. like days remembered and times unforgotten. they taste sweet, meant to be held dearly to one's memories.

he breaks the contact, too flustered to notice the way you chase after his touch for only a brief moment. pink hues color his cheeks, and instinctively, he buries his face in your neck to hide his embarrassment.

"it tastes like love." he mumbles against your skin; your laughter is light as a feather, happiness laced throughout, and he thinks it is a miracle that his face can get even hotter.

[theforgottenmcrmy]

Second Sons (Ser Harwin Strong x Reader)

᯽ Please note that this is an overall Part 25 to the series Growing Strong. The masterlist, and part 1, can be found HERE ᯽

Pairing: Ser Harwin Strong x Tyrell! Female Reader

Warnings: GOT typical sexism, canon divergence, a couple curses, canon typical violence, canonical character death, a couple people rip off Olenna Tyrell's lines because she's an icon

Summary:

A short flight, and he would return to his mother. To his siblings, except for Jace, who was hopefully safe and probably still in the Vale. To his cousins, and his betrothed. To his friends. And to the man who had offered him more fatherly guidance than probably any other had in his life, regardless of the personal cost to himself.

A/N: I hope you guys enjoy reading this one as much as I did writing it. I have one more tentative part planned to connect the events of s1 to s2, but depending on how episode 1 on Sunday plays out, I may tie it into the plot of that episode. I'm not sure yet if I'll keep writing this story into s2 while its airing, or wait until after it's out. But if I do end up waiting until it's out in its entirety, I can almost guarantee I'll at least have one shots or related hand canons posted since those are fairly easier to whip up.

Prince Daemon Targaryen was well on his way to speak with the dragonkeepers to ensure Caraxes was adequately prepared for a flight to Riverlands.

The queen had yet to grant him her permission to depart Dragonstone- as Maester Gerardys had so kindly informed him the day prior - but her lack of approval would not change the inevitable. The Riverlands were essential territory to the war that was all but upon them, and Prince Daemon was of the belief that the arrival of a dragon upon his doorstep would be most efficient in swaying Lord Grover Tully to remember his oath.

The same notion had sent the eldest Velaryon princes, Crown Prince Jacaerys and Prince Lucerys, to the Eerie, then the North, and to Storms End respectively. The princes, and their dragons, had left Dragonstone the evening prior. As Daemon strode through the halls of his family’s ancestral keep, shadows from the rising sun filtered in from windows throughout. It was near midday, and not a word had been received yet from either prince.

Fortunately, not enough time had passed for such a fact to become a concern, even for Rhaenyra. Jacaerys, if he’d been wise, would have flown on Vermax to Claw Isle, where the loyal Lord Bartimos Celtigar’s household would have offered him shelter for the evening, before braving the rest of the flight to the Eerie the next day. Any raven he might have sent the evening prior would not have been received so soon. The same could be said for Lucerys, who had most likely been taken in by Lord Borros Baratheon and treated to a feast that would have lasted well into the night.

Prince Daemon - or was he Prince Consort now? - did not know exactly what compelled him to travel through Dragonstone’s training yard on his way to speak with the dragonkeepers. Perhaps it was the dreadful reminder in the back of his mind that once his business was finished with them, he was expected to return to the Chamber of the Painted Table, to the grueling politics that did not cease despite the Velaryon princes’ departure.

But what Prince Consort Daemon Targaryen did know was that Dark Sister hung heavy at his side with every step he took. The blade sang to him, even now, calling for the spilling of blood. Green blood. It had been quite some time since Daemon felt drawn to the alluring chaos and thrill of battle. The past few years on Dragonstone had been some of the most peaceful years of his life. Perhaps he might have grown content with such tranquility, given his rather tumultuous youth. But all thoughts of that had been swiftly set aside upon the slaying of his brother - most likely by the efforts of that scheming Hightower bitch of a queen - and the loss of another daughter.

The precious life lost was the first casualty of the Green’s treason, and was not likely to be the last. But for their Visenya, for Viserys, Prince Daemon would see all of the Hightowers to a just end. And, if said ends occurred between Caraxes’ maw, or by the sweep of Dark Sister, all the better.

Given the time of day, Prince Daemon had not expected the Dragonstone’s training yard to be occupied. If he had, he might have chosen another route to achieve his means. But as he entered the cavernous room, the familiar sound of a blade meeting a stiff bag of hay filled his ears. The usual guards, a pair each, posted by the entrances on either side of the room watched in silence as a lone figure sparred with a training dummy in the middle of the yard.

The young Lord Selwin Tyrell-Strong wielded not a wooden practice sword, but a real one. Each slice that tore through the air resulted in straw leaking from the dummy and drifting slowly to the floor.

Prince Daemon knew he ought to have ignored the boy and continued on his way, but something gave him pause. He watched with scrutiny as the young lord, who was so focused he had yet to become aware of the prince’s arrival, went through his motions. The confident, smooth movements, a varying but ultimately repeating set of strikes and blocking imaginary blows, were clearly more muscle memory than any conscious thought. The preciseness of the strikes, despite the target being stationary, were decently placed and well informed, the lordling having aimed for weak spots that would exist in an opponent's armor, and, of course, the heart. It was apparent that Lord Strong and whatever various masters at arms had instructed the boy thoroughly.

Though there was still room for improvement, even Prince Daemon was forced to admit the boy held decent promise, particularly for his age. Perhaps the bold show at dinner two nights past was not merely an isolated spectacle at all, but rather an indication of something more.

But Prince Daemon was wise enough not to always speak the thoughts that came to his mind. He had no duty to compliment the boy’s form, and certainly no desire to inflate a young lord’s ego.

So instead, Prince Daemon called out, “You seem to be in the wrong place, My Lord.”

With a small jump, Selwin halted his movements at once. To his credit, his grip on the blade remained firm as he slowly brought it down to his side. “My Prince?”

Daemon walked towards him slowly. His gaze was appraising as the young lord turned to him as he approached.

“I am told many of our guests are in the Chamber of the Painted Table, undoubtedly eager to take advantage of every moment they can obtain with our new queen,” Daemon explained simply.

Selwin took a steadying breath, visibly regaining composure from the exercise. “I shall leave them to it, then.”

Daemon’s brows raised. “You are not one for politics?”

“If I need to be,” the boy answered carefully, his focus flitting back to the training dummy.

“But it is not what compels you to rise for the day.”

It was not a question, but still, Selwin answered.

“That has always been my mother’s area of expertise. And my brother Derrik is a far better student of hers in that subject than I could ever hope to be.”

Daemon did not fail to notice how Harwin Strong went unmentioned. The Lord of Harrenhal might have been born to inherit it, but Daemon knew Harwin had little desire for ruling and even less patience for courtly designs. Harwin Strong was Lord of Harrenhal solely because his honor and sense of duty bound him to be. Daemon Targaryen enjoyed the luxuries his title and residence at court had brought him, but even he could not deny that, at some level, he and Lord Harwin Strong were cut of the same cloth. They were men both far more at ease in the training yard, if not the battlefield, then in a ballroom gallivanting about solely for society’s amusement.

And as Prince Daemon sized up the Lord of Harrenhal’s youngest son before him, he surmised that perhaps the apple had not fallen far from the tree.

“Ah yes, Derrik Strong- your late uncle’s namesake.” However, Daemon had spoken his truth at the dinner two evenings past: it truly was younger, not the older, of the Tyrell-Strong boys that resembled their late uncle, Ser Derron Tyrell. Unable to refuse the urge, Daemon gently goaded, “Our queen, on the word of your mother Lady Tyrell, I am sure, has told me he is quite intelligent for his age.”

Selwin said nothing.

“It must be heard, living in his shadow,” Prince Daemon prodded.

Lifting his sword, as though to inspect the blade, Selwin refused to take the bait. “I do not believe that I do. We are merely… different. We possess different strengths. He is more knowledgeable about court and politics, and I am more comfortable here, training.”

“But it is said that you are to inherit either Higharden or Harrenhal someday- and your brother is to inherit the other. You will rule somewhere, someday.” They might not have been the Iron Throne, but neither of the boy’s potential inheritances were anything to scoff at.

“Then I shall. It is my duty, and I will endure it, as my father does.”

Daemon did not doubt that. The Strong sense of stubbornness runs true. “And what if your brother challenges your succession?” he posed then. “He could, as you well know. Regardless of what Lady Tyrell and Lord Strong have decided, he is the eldest. When your mother and father are gone, by all laws of the land, he could pursue both seats of power, and the realm at large would not find fault in him for doing so.”

“I do not believe Derrik would go against our parents wishes,” the young lord asserted calmly. He lowered his blade once more, and fully turned to the prince. As Selwin met the Rogue Prince’s critical eye, his jaw tightened. “But even so, if that is what my brother desires, I would not stand in his way.”

“You would truly stand aside?”

“He is my brother, Your Highness. I would sooner fall on my own sword than willingly spill his blood.”

“You care for him.”

Selwin repeated, “He is my brother, Your Highness.”

They were seemingly at an impasse in the conversation, and yet, Prince Daemon felt surprisingly satisfied with the boy’s response. A few moments of silence passed between them, the Rogue Prince looking upon the youngest Tyrell-Strpng boy thoughtfully.

Eventually, Prince Daemon recalled what he had originally set out to do. The dragonkeepers would start to wonder where he was, even if they didn’t dare to ask after him.

So Daemon conceded, “Very well then, My Lord. I shall leave you to your practice now.”

Selwin bowed his head, but said nothing in response to his departure.

Prince Daemon turned to continue on his way, but hesitated. Quietly, so as not to be overheard by the guards dutifully keeping watch, he advised, “Mind your stature while blocking. Your left flank is a bit too exposed- you might stave off your opponent's blade, but anyone with merely half their wits about them will take advantage of it and deal you a nasty blow to the ribs.”

Selwin nodded appreciatively.

Prince Daemon finally did as he had announced, and continued across the yard. Not bothering to turn his head entirely, he called back to the young lord some final parting advice.

“Do keep practicing though, Lordling. One never knows when they may be called upon to lift a sword for their queen."

Lord Larys Strong, recently reaffirmed Master of Whisperers to King Aegon, Second of His Name, unrolled his most recently received correspondence with care.

Faint screaming echoed off the stone halls and walls surrounding him. Such was the consequence of having his office in dungeons of the Red Keep. All prisoners who ended up on this particular floor, the one just below the Black Cells, never rose above it again, but Larys was able to come and go as he pleased. And he would be lying if he denied that he derived a bit of pleasure from the fact.

Of course, he had his living quarters elsewhere, in a more socially acceptable part of the Red Keep. But for his official workspace, he had chosen this.

The King - both Viserys, and then Aegon, thought Larys’s choice of office, which was little more than a rooted out cell with a desk and chair, was rather peculiar. But Larys had been quick to remind each of them that such a location was extremely practical for his profession. And the convenience of being so close to those he was entrusted with wringing out information from, no matter the cost, could not be overstated when considering his physical limitations.

Larys scanned the letter briefly. It was from Harrenhal. Ser Simon Strong was more than happy to heed Larys’s request to provide him information from within the keep’s walls, and to relay information Larys provided to him back to others in return. Slowly, but surely, doubt was being sewed into Harrenhal’s soil. Doubts of its lord, who had been physically absent for years, and doubts of the credibility of the Targaryen princess who the Lord of Harrenhal would undoubtedly support in the upcoming war of succession.

Not too much longer now, and his brother’s steward, Lord Dannis Chambers, might have a mutiny on his hands.

Just as Larys had intended.

Larys smiled to himself as he retrieved some parchment and a fresh quill from the desk drawer. As he penned his response to his uncle’s letter, the candle’s throughout the room flickered.

He could not afford another failure. Not now, with the Hand of the King watching and scrutinizing his every move. 

To say that Lord Otto Hightower had been more than displeased with Larys after Lady Tyrell had failed to be eliminated from the political landscape would be a severe understatement. Not only had Lady Tyrell reunited with Larys’s insufferable brother, her husband Harwin, but the pair had already reached Dragonstone with their children. And from Dragonstone, they had begun to communicate with Harrenhal, Highgarden, and other reliable allies, Larys assumed, to begin coordinating aid for Rhaenyra’s cause.

But now that the cow had been milked, there was no squirting the cream back up its udders. And all Larys could do, and what he had been moderately successful in doing thus far, was mitigating the situation he had found himself in. Controlling what he could control.

That was not a new mantra to him, having been born a crippled second son. He owed the life he currently enjoyed entirely to his particular talent of making the most of what he was given, and using it to his advantage.

Larys faintly heard himself idly humming along as he finished his letter, rolled it up, and sealed it. He set it aside to be sent out by raven the next morning. Then, he reached into the desk drawer and withdrew another piece of parchment.

There were so many relations Larys had to tend to these days. But tend to, he would. The Dowager Queen, the Hand, the new King... It did not matter that Larys was not truly loyal to any one of them, so long as they each believed him to be.

Their belief in him directly correlated to more power. More power meant more control. And what had Larys always exceeded at?

Controlling what he could control.

Sewing seeds of doubt. Cultivating the crops of chaos.

And watching as the realm in the name of Hightower Greens, in the name of the Targaryen Blacks, in the name of whoever found themselves in power- burned.

The humming continued as Larys penned his next correspondence.

To My Dear Cousin, Alys…

“Tell me, Your Highness, what exactly does Vhagar eat?”

Prince Aemond Targaryen credited the countless etiquette lessons his mother subjected him to throughout his youth for his strength in resisting snapping back a sarcastic response.

This one- was it Ella? Elle? …Either way, she was polite with her questioning at least. Shy, almost.

“Whatever she likes,” Aemond replied, giving her a small smile that made the poor girl flush as red as the tomato on her plate. Ellyn, that was her name. “She still enjoys hunting for her own food, on occasion. However, most of the time, I ensure she is provided with only the most exquisite quality of pork and beef.”

For almost three full days, Aemond had been hosted at Storm’s End. He’d allowed himself to be swooned over by the majority of Lord Borros Baratheon’s daughters, all while assuring the Lord of Storm’s End of the heaping rewards he was to receive should he pledge himself to Aegon’s cause. Privately, Aemond was a bit cross at having such a large part of his future- his godsdamned wife- decided for him, but when his mother put the proposal before the small council, he knew he could not, would not, voice his disapproval.

For Aemond was nothing if not a dutiful son. His mother’s lack of empathy for his position, the infuriating care she still held for Rhaenyra, and her insulting unwavering loyalty to his oaf of an older brother aside.

For his mother, Aemond would give up his own choice of a wife. And though he knew in his heart that he deserved nothing less than a true Targaryen for a bride, being a true Targaryen himself, he would settle for a Baratheon girl. For his mother, Aemond would play envoy, remain polite, mind his tongue, and secure Baratheon’s allegiance. For his mother, Aemond might have been willing to give up all semblance of himself, if only to save her and their family.

“Hm,” another of Lord Borros’s daughters, Maris, chimed in, and most unwelcomed at that. “It would seem the dragons eat better than some of the small folk these days.”

Aemond only remembered her name due to the alarmingly large number of times the young woman had managed to vex him thus far.

He bit his tongue. Again. “A sad reality King Aegon wishes to rectify, My Lady.”

Maris’s attention fell back down to her plate. But under her breath, she muttered, “Doubtful.”

Another sister- whose name also escaped Aemond, but he knew her to be the eldest- gave Maris a stern look from across the table. “Maris!” she reprimanded in a hushed voice.

Maris did not look apologetic in the slightest. Instead, she looked rather determined. It was a small wonder where her stubbornness came from, given her sire. “What? ‘Tis true. You know the small folk are always the ones who suffer the greatest when the realm goes to war. Nobility may suffer financial losses, or political standing. But it won’t be us out there, going hungry. Spilling our own blood in the name of others.”

“I will not assume that you plan to grace any battlefield with your presence, My Lady,” Aemond replied, his tone clipped. “But you may rest assured that should my half-sister refuse to acknowledge Aegon as our king, I will meet any army she may gather head on.”

Maris’s eyes hardened. “The odds would be in your favor though, wouldn’t they? Why, what is a thousand men versus the likes of Vhagar?”

“Maris, please,” Ellyn begged her. To Aemond, she inquired sweetly, “All of this talk is futile, is it not, My Prince? Surely there will be no war. Princess Rhaenyra will see reason.”

“We can only hope,” Aemond said placatingly.

Perhaps his half-sister would see reason. But Aemond doubted Rhaenyra to come to terms with her situation whilst Daemon was beside her, filling her head with incendiary thoughts. Even if Rhaenyra yielded to Aegon, Daemon would need to be dealt with.

It was a good thing Aemond was more than up to the task.

“I do hope you are engaging in appropriate topics of conversation with His Highness,” Lord Borros said from the opposite end of the table.

His lordship had been distant, seldom engaging in conversation throughout Aemond’s stay. Nay, it was mostly his daughters and wife that had attempted to get within his good graces. Not to say that Lord Borros had been rude in a sense- but he had not been very welcoming, either. But that was just as well with Aemond; he was not in Storm’s End to make new friendships. He was simply to sway Lord Borros to support Aegon, and to ensure his continued loyalty to the crown, select one of his daughters to be his bride.

“Of course, Father,” the youngest daughter replied quietly.

Aemond did a double take. The girl had said no more than five words in his presence the entire stay thus far. Seldom had she even made eye contact with him.

Her name was Floris, Aemond recalled. Of the four, Lord Borros’s youngest daughter was indisputably the most attractive, a fact of which was obviously a source of pride for Lord Borros. But she was the youngest, not yet flowered. She was rather soft spoken, too. The girl was still innocent to the true nature of the world in which she would be expected to thrive. In a peculiar way, the youngest Baratheon girl reminded Aemond of his sister, Helaena.

Aemond had yet to formally choose which one of the girls was to be his future bride. But he knew he would not be choosing Floris.

“His Highness was merely enlightening us of the many ways King Aegon intends to help the less fortunate in the realm,” Maris shared with her father, smiling sweetly at the man whilst sarcasm dripped with her every word. Once Lord Borros looked appeased, Maris dared to shoot Aemond a challenging smirk.

Aemond would most certainly not be choosing Maris as his bride, either.

Before he could contemplate a witty response, the doors to the dining hall were thrown open hastily. A visibly fatigued servant rushed in.

Lord Borros rose from his seat at once, his dark brows furrowed deeply. He bellowed, “What is the meaning of this?”

“My Lord,” the servant boy bowed. “A visitor just arrived. He is in the courtyard now.”

“A visitor?” Lord Borros echoed, still frowning. “At this hour? Well, who in the Seven Hells is it?”

Though the messenger did not address him, Aemond did not miss the wary glance the boy threw in his direction before he answered his lord.

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon, My Lord. He comes bearing a message from Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.”

…

For his mother, Aemond had agreed to be civil.

But as for himself, Aemond knew he could not let the opportunity before him slip through his fingers. And as the intoxicatingly wicked ideas filled his head as to how he might turn this chain of events in his favor, all thoughts of the Dowager Queen, his sweet sister Helaena, and her young, vulnerable children faded far into the recesses of his mind.

Prince Lucerys Velaryon, newly reaffirmed heir to Driftmark, and future Lord of the Tides, followed the soldiers escorting him though Storm’s End with his back straight, and his head held high.

He knew very well what- who- was waiting for him when he would arrive in whatever hall Lord Borros welcomed him in. The mountain of a dragon lurking beyond Storm’s End upon his arrival with Arrax was enough of an indication of who awaited him inside.

But his mother had sent him to Storm’s End with a purpose, and a message to deliver. He would not let nerves break his composure, nor deter him from his task.

The guards finally parted before him, opening the doors to the hall within. Lucerys clung to his resolve as he stepped forward. Thoughts of his purpose gave him courage, despite his daring to wonder whether Aemond would be the only Targaryen he would soon come face to face with.

Lord Borros Baratheon sat upon the Storm’s End throne up ahead. Various soldiers and nobles lined the room. Closest to Lord Borros were three younger women, who Lucerys assumed could only be his daughters. Amongst them, with long pale hair that contrasted against the waves of dark hair so similar to Lucerys’s own, was his uncle, Aemond.

Aemond, who looked far too smug with Lucerys’s current predicament. It was such a shame that Lucerys did not plan to grant him any further satisfaction from it.

Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled from the windows and ceiling above. But Lucerys pushed onwards, and forced himself to take a few more steps into the room.

“Lord Borros,” Lucerys called to him, “I’ve brought you a message from my mother, the queen.”

Lord Borros’s expression as he beheld him was a rather peculiar one. The lighting was a bit poor in the hall, but Lucerys could have sworn the Lord of Storm’s End looked particularly pale.

However, the words that came out of Lord Borros’s mouth were anything but meek.

“Yet a few days ago, I received an envoy from the king. Which is it? King, or queen? The House of the Dragon does not seem to know who rules it.”

The Lord of Storm’s End found his own joke rather funny. The shoulders of one of his daughters, the fourth one standing beside Aemond, shook with silent laughter. Lucerys did not deem the observation worthy of a response.

“What is your mother’s message?” Lord Borros eventually bid him.

Aemond still smirked at him, but Lucerys refused to meet his eye. Instead, he wordlessly held out his hand. One of the guards who had escorted him stepped forward, grabbed the sealed parchment from his gloved hand, and walked forward towards the throne. He deposited the scroll in Lord Borros’s awaiting hand, but despite the message finally being within his grasp, the recipient still looked frustrated.

“Where’s the bloody maester?!”

An awkward silence filled the air as the maester in question shuffled through the crowd. As he did so, Lucerys took a moment to properly assess Lord Borros Baratheon. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d hoped to find in such an angry face- perhaps a trace of his grandmother, Princess Rhaenys. A familial resemblance was plainly evident in their shared shade of dark brown hair, at the very least. However, there certainly was no shared similarity between Lord Borros and that of his father, Ser Laenor Velaryon. His father had always taken after the Velaryon complexion, and Lucerys could not recall his father frowning enough times for him to deduce whether it resembled Lord Borros’s currently gruff expression.

All the while, he felt Aemond’s eye boring into the side of his face.

The maester had finally appeared and taken the scroll from his lord’s hand. While the maester read over his mother’s message, and subsequently relayed the contents to Lord Borros, Lucerys took the moment to calm his gradually rising nerves.

Lucerys tightened his jaw. What precisely was Aemond hoping to accomplish by staring at him so? He would not be goaded into engaging with him, for nothing beneficial could possibly result from that. Not but a little over a week ago, Jace and his uncles had been unable to make it through a mere family dinner without blows being exchanged.

Lucerys gripped the pommel of his sword with a tightly clenched fist. Granted, it was the same sword that Selwin and Lord Harwin had determined was not the most suitable for him, but it was a sword nonetheless. Lucerys could only pray to the Seven that he would not have cause to draw it- he had promised his mother as much, after all.

The maester excused himself, and it was as though all eyes, even Aemond’s, fell upon the Lord of Storm’s end as they eagerly awaited his reaction.

“Remind me of my father’s oath?” Lord Borros scoffed. “King Aegon at least came with an offer: my swords and banners for a marriage pact.”

That was news to Lucerys, and information he planned to pass on to his mother when he returned to Dragonstone. But he would not let his surprise show.

“My Uncle Aegon has cause to want to buy your allegiance with such a promise, My Lord,” Lucerys replied carefully. “The price of honor is high, but it is always one worth paying.”

Lord Borros scoffed. “Honor… I do not know if your mother can define such a word, boy.”

Lucerys fought the immediate urge to rise to her defense. But Lord Borros’s comment was a peculiar one. Aemond must have thought so too, as he finally tore his eye off of him and looked towards the Lord of Storm’s End inquisitively instead.

“Nevertheless,” Lord Borros continued on, his increasing irritation evident with each word, “Let’s say I do as your mother bids… Which one of my daughters will you marry, boy?”

Lucerys could not bring himself to even steal a glance at the daughters in question as Lord Borros gestured to them. “My Lord, I am not free to marry. I am already betrothed to my cousin Rhaena Velaryon.”

Lord Borros looked over at Aemond. “I’d heard as much… So you come with empty hands?”

Was upholding an oath and maintaining honor not enough motivation to support the realm’s rightful queen? Was loyalty so easily able to be bought?

Lucerys’s gut sank, but he refused to let it show. He might have been young, with plenty still to learn, but he knew a lost cause when he saw one. The atmosphere of the room shifted, churning faster and steadily brewing into a storm.

“Go home, pup. And tell the bitch your mother that the Lord of Storm’s End is not some dog that she can whistle up at need to set against her foes.”

Lucerys’s jaw tightened once more. He managed to ease up on the tension just enough to get out, “I shall take your answer to the queen, My Lord.”

He had turned and taken two steps when another voice called out.

“Wait!”

Lucerys let out a small sigh, but forced himself to turn back around.

“My Lord Strong,” Aemond crooned mockingly at him.

Nearly all rational thoughts fled from him as the insult hit his ears. Lucerys took several steps forward back into the room, but instead of Lord Borros, it was Aemond that he approached.

“The lighting in here is poor, Uncle,” he said to him. “So I will forgive the mistake your remaining good eye has made. But Lord Harwin Strong is far from here, and both of his sons as well.”

One side of Aemond’s lip threatened to curl up into an angry snarl. Unfortunately, he did not yet take the bait. “Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm, trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?”

“Your brother’s throne?” Lucerys echoed with disbelief. At that moment, he was unsure of whether he held anger or pity for Aemond, who sounded so certain of his brother’s claim to the Iron Throne. “I will not discuss such gross accusations with the likes of you, Uncle, for you can hardly be considered an unbiased party. And I will not fight you. I came as a messenger, not a warrior.”

“A fight would be little challenge. I’d rather you pay the debt you owe me.”

Aemond reached upwards and removed the patch that covered what remained of his left eye. Even with the poor lighting, Lucerys could see the blue gleam of the sapphire that had taken the injured eye's place some years ago. Lowering his hand, Aemond threw his overcoat aside, and unsheathed a dagger from his hip.

“Here is a knife, just as the one you had that night. Put out your eye, and I will let you leave.”

Aemond threw the dagger downwards, and it skittered across the stone floor. It came to a still at the halfway point between him and Lucerys.

“One eye will do,” Aemond prattled on. “I would not blind you. I plan to make a gift of it to my mother, actually.”

Lucerys wasn’t entirely sure whether the Dowager Queen would be pleased with such a gruesome gift. Regardless, his answer to his uncle would have been the same.

“No.”

Aemond’s smirk faltered. “Then you are craven as well as a traitor.”

“Not here,” Lord Borros warned.

Instinct alone forced Lucerys to retreat a few steps backwards when Aemond suddenly stalked towards him.

“Give me your eye, or I will take it, bastard!”

Aemond scooped up the knife he had thrown onto the floor with an obviously practiced ease. With similar swiftness, Lucerys unsheathed the sword at his side, holding it out before him defensively.

“Not in my hall!” Lord Borros roared, rising to his feet. “I want no blood shed beneath my roof. The boy came as an envoy, and he shall leave as one.”

Aemond’s nostril twitched.

To the men who had escorted Lucerys into Storm’s End, Lord Borros commanded, “Take Prince Lucerys back to his dragon. Now.”

As the guards moved about him, Lucerys held Aemond’s eye as long as he dared. Eventually, he relented, sheathing his sword and following the escort out of the hall.

By the time he was returned to the yard, the rain had begun to pour. Arrax, spotting him despite the sheets of water, cried out to him. Lucerys approached him with a determined pace. Once he had reached the dragon, he looked over his shoulder.

Vhagar was nowhere to be seen.

Lucerys closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he turned back to Arrax. As he commanded his mount to remain calm, to focus, and to listen to him, he allowed himself to think of their destination.

It was a short flight back to Dragonstone, just as it had been to Storm’s End. The poor weather, which was not ideal, would most likely add some additional delay to the flight. But if Lucerys remained centered, and if Arrax obeyed him, they would make it back safely.

Lucerys would return back to Dragonstone. He did not know what Lord Borros’s refusal meant for the queen’s cause, but he knew beyond a doubt that his mother would not be angry with him for his failure. If he knew anything at all in those harrowing moments, he at least knew that.

His heart pounded madly, betraying everything he had just asked of Arrax, as he saddled up, and the pair ascended into the stormy sky.

Steam filled Aemond’s eye and ears as he watched Lucerys be escorted out of the hall.

He might have taken the moment to allow himself to recompose, and excuse himself to his guest chambers to clear his head before he did something foolish. He might have taken the high road and walked away, had he not been incensed beyond the brink of sanity by a single childish remark.

A snicker came from beside him.

“Was it one of your eyes he took, or one of your balls?” Maris taunted, raising a mocking brow at him. She shrugged nonchalantly. “I suppose I should be glad you shall be choosing one of my sisters to wed. I want a husband with all his parts.”

A blood red haze carried Aemond out of the hall and into the stormy night.

With a careful hand, and an even more cautious step forward, Selwin opened the door to the library at Dragonstone.

He stuck his head inside the chamber, just past the doorway. He did not dare to breathe as he patiently waited a moment and listened. Nothing but the sounds of the softly flickering flames and the cracking of wood met his ears, until-

A faint crinkle of a page, as a page was turned.

“My Lord?”

Selwin stood up straight, and his eyes were wide as they landed upon the source of the noise.

Lady Rhaena Targaryen, who was seated in a red plush chair beside the flames contained in a rather grand stone-carved fireplace, beheld him with a befuddled expression.

“Lady Rhaena,” Selwin all but blubbered, his cheeks feeling a bit warm from being caught in such a poor state of decorum. “Forgive me, My Lady. The queen granted me permission to peruse the library earlier this afternoon, but I did not anticipate it already being occupied.”

Lady Rhaena’s expression shifted seamlessly from curiosity to one of slight amusement. She gestured vaguely around the room. “No trouble at all, My Lord. ‘Tis hardly as though there is not plenty enough room for the both of us.”

With her blessing, Selwin took another step into the room and allowed himself to fully take it in. It was far grander than he had imagined it to be. Although, that ought not to have been  too surprising. The Tagaryens weren’t exactly known for doing anything on less than a grand scale.  Rows and rows of books and scrolls comprised many aisles, with each aisle running the length of the room on either side. Beyond the shelves, the warm orange rays of the setting sun bled into the room.

In the very center of the room, to his immediate left, was a large stone table. Various books and scrolls were piled atop of it, as though they had been recently browsed, or perhaps were awaiting the return to their respective places upon the surrounding shelves.

Lady Rhaena, who had been watching Selwin with a keen eye, had an open book resting on her palms. Still a few paces away, Selwin could not make out exactly what the contents of the pages pertained to, but he did not believe the words to be of the common tongue.

 “Are you particularly fond of reading, Lord Selwin?” she inquired politely, rising to her feet.

As she moved to approach the table beside him, Selwin suddenly found his boots to be alarmingly intriguing. “Not particularly,” he mumbled. “My older brother is far more inclined to take to scholarly pursuits than I.”

Lady Rhaena placed her book, the pages still open to where she had paused in her reading, upon the stone table. “...But?”

“I must admit, I do enjoy a bit of history, My Lady.”

“Truly?”

At the sound of her genuine surprise, Selwin mustered enough courage to meet Lady Rhaena’s eyes once more and nodded. “Our maester in Highgarden used to tell me all about the histories recorded and housed in the Citadel. And while those sound fascinating, I was always far more interested to hear about the accounts kept here, in Dragonstone. Is it true there are texts here from Old Valyria?”

“A few,” Lady Rhaena confirmed. Her fingers absentmindedly brushed the pages of the open book before her. “Since the queen has given you her permission, you would be more than welcome to read some of them, as well as whatever else you are able to find in here…. However, might I make a recommendation for you to start with?”

“Please do.”

Selwin watched as Lady Rhaena disappeared momentarily down an aisle of shelves on the right hand side of the room. She returned a moment later with another book in her hands. As she resumed her place before the stone table, Selwin turned to mirror her stance.

Lady Rhaena carefully opened the book. Her eyes skimmed the text rather quickly as she turned its pages. Then, she abruptly stopped. As she looked back up at Selwin, she offered him a smile. “Perhaps this may satiate your interest. For a little while, at least.”

Selwin read over the first couple of lines.

… In the year 73 AC, Harrenhal was without a master once more. Queen Rhaena Targaryen, who had resided within its walls for many years, had finally passed, and King Jaehaerys found himself tasked with appointing its new lord. The task proved to be challenging, as the rumors surrounding Harrenhal had only grown in number and validity over time…

“It’s an account from the Old King’s reign, and the events that led to your ancestor, Ser Bywin Strong, being named as the Lord of Harrenhal,” Lady Rhaena explained helpfully.

Selwin tore his eyes away from the page. “Thank you, My Lady. This was a very thoughtful recommendation.”

“I hope you enjoy it. When you are through, you shall have to let me know what you made of it. It was written by Grand Maester Elysar during King Jahaerys’s reign.”

“And it recounts the king’s actions,” Selwin repeated plainly as another thought struck him. “Should this not be kept in the library within the Red Keep?”

Lady Rhaena tilted her head as she glanced back down at the book with a pensive look. “Mayhaps. But the maesters keep so many texts, it would not be possible to keep them all on hand for the king- or queen.”

“A point I did not consider,” Selwin admitted sheepishly. “Besides, ‘tis hard to imagine this accounting holds any particular weight when compared to others of more import.”

Lady Rhaena paused. “I respect your opinion my lord, but I cannot agree with it. House Strong may be young when compared to some of the other houses in Westeros, but there is no foretelling of what may yet come to pass. Perhaps Ser Bywin’s inheritance of Harrenhal is only the first part of what will be the larger history of House Strong… Why, it is said that Lord Harwin is the strongest man in all the Seven Kingdoms. Surely that would at least be of a small note?”

Selwin did not bother to stop his chuckle. Maybe that still rang true. But his father, while still relatively young, had begun to pass what most men considered to be their prime. However, so as to not insult the lady beside him, Selwin acquiesced, “A small note, perhaps.”

“And what of you? Do you not think yourself likely to do anything of note? You are to be the next Lord Strong, or even the next Lord Tyrell, are you not?”

“I do not know.”

Lady Rhaena was particularly perceptive, Selwin would later deduce. “You would let your brother claim the lordships of both your parents’ houses?”

Selwin managed to hold in his chuckle this time. Hadn’t Prince Daemon inquired about exactly the same topic not but a day before? Now that he thought about it, Lady Rhaena, though said to physically resemble her late mother, emulated her father in more ways than one might initially suspect. Selwin believed as much, particularly at that moment; both Rhaena and Daemon had managed to pry thoughts from him he had not been comfortable enough to share with even his own family.

“I do not know,” he repeated once more, feeling a bit foolish and more like his age than he could recall in recent memory.

Most mercifully, Lady Rhaena was not one to take joy in his discomfort. It was not difficult at all for Selwin to believe Lucerys found himself a bit ‘smitten’- as his mother often put it- with his betrothed. Any young man would be, would they be so fortunate to be betrothed to the kind-hearted Rhaena Targaryen.

“What do you know?” she gently prodded.

Selwin refused to meet her eyes. Had he not been so conflicted within himself, he might have been concerned with burning a hole through the text before him with the sheer focus he placed upon it.

“I know that Aegon’s treachery means war is likely to ensue. I have read enough history to know that usurping a throne does not tend to end in peaceful terms, let alone terms in which no blood was spilled at all. I know war is coming, and I know my family is in danger because of it. But I have nothing to offer. My father, as you put it, may be the strongest man in all the Seven Kingdoms. My mother is the Lady of Highgarden. My brother is intelligent beyond his years, and when the time comes, there is no doubt in my mind that he will make a fine lord- of whatever inheritance that may be. But as for myself? I am…”

He felt Lady Rhaena’s intense gaze upon him as he searched for his next words.

“I am naught but a second son. I am nothing. I can do nothing. My family could be in peril, and I am powerless to help them.”

It was silent for a long while.

Lady Rhaena confessed, “I believe I might be able to sympathize with you. I know what it is like to feel like nothing I do truly matters. I know what it is like to be able to do nothing, to feel powerless.”

Disbelief had Selwin snapping his head up in her direction. “With the utmost respect, Lady Rhaena, that is a bit difficult to fathom.”

She gave him a challenging look. “Really? Tell me then, My Lord, what would I do if the Greens surrounded Dragonstone on the morrow? Would I rally our sparse number of men to battle? Would I lead my grandfather’s fleet, engaging the enemy upon the waters of Blackwater Bay? Would I mount a dragon, and meet Vhagar and Sunfyre head on in the skies?”

Selwin mulled over her words. “Forgive me, My Lady. I did not mean to give insult.”

“No forgiveness is needed, My Lord, for no insult was taken.”

The text before him still laid open, and despite the heavy topic of conversation, the words seemed to call to him.

“I will not sell myself short just yet,” Selwin vowed then. “But if there is still room in the histories for my story, then there shall be plenty of room in them for your own.”

Lady Rhaena frowned. “I am not certain I follow your meaning.”

Selwin’s attention shifted towards the book to his right, the one Lady Rhaena had been reading. Valyrian, he realized, now close enough to plainly see the words on the page. He did not know the language, but he could deduce the topic based on the page’s illustration. Scales of various colors bordered the yellowing parchment.

“You are no less a Targaryen because you have yet to claim a dragon of your own. And those who harbor that opinion of you are of no consequence. What good do the opinions of sheep serve a dragon? Because that is what you are- a dragon.”

Lady Rhaena merely looked at him for a long while, her expression plain. Just when Selwin began to fear he may overstepped, she suddenly grinned.

“Prince Lucerys is most fortunate to have a friend like you, Lord Selwin. And any friend of Prince Lucerys can consider themselves a friend of mine.”

Selwin’s face warmed, but he could not pinpoint precisely why. “I shall strive to remain worthy of your friendship then, My Lady.”

Lady Rhaena plucked the book up from the stone table and closed it gently. She then offered it to him. “I have no doubt that you will.”

To what end did Aemond pursue him?

Lucerys wracked his brain for all logical explanations as to why Aemond stalked him. This was not merely the exchanging blows in the training yard, or coming to an impasse during a family dinner. His damn uncle was using Vhagar to actively hunt him, and Arrax, sizeable though he was for his age, was no match in size.

Finally, up ahead- there was a break in the clouds. As Arrax emerged through the cover, they were both freed from the storms roaring below. The sun kissed Lucerys’s face, providing a bit of warmth that offset the coolness of his drenched clothes and cloak.

Lucerys looked around, and attempted to gather his bearings. Vhaegar was nowhere to be seen.

In that moment, he thanked every single one of the Seven; they had finally gotten Aemond off their trail.

Lucerys urged Arrax forward at a more relaxed pace. Once he was able to find a landmark, he could determine which way was home. And once he knew where Dragonstone lay, nothing but a short flight home remained.

A short flight, and he would return to his mother. To his siblings, except for Jace, who was hopefully safe and probably still in the Vale. To his cousins, and his betrothed. To his friends. And to the man who had offered him more fatherly guidance than probably any other had in his life, regardless of the personal cost to himself.

The war may yet come, but Lucerys would be there to witness it. He would be a squire, he would learn anything and everything he would need to be a lord that Driftmark’s people could respect, a lord that they could trust. And he would continue doing everything in his power to make his mother, the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, proud.

The thought of what was yet to come gave Lucerys hope.

So much hope, he had not realized the sun had abruptly disappeared.

  …

  ……

  …

Lord Otto Hightower had been roused by a frantic messenger. Thankfully, he’d already been dressed, having fallen asleep at his desk. Still, the trek from the Tower of the Hand to the small council chambers, where he’d been summoned to by the king, felt far too long.

He entered the room without delay and made sure the doors were closed tightly behind him before he turned to face those within. Quite an assortment of the king’s council and advisors were present already.

As was his second eldest grandson, who stood a few paces away, dripping water from his clothes and long hair.

Alicent sat at the table, her head in her hands. Even from a distance, Otto could tell her complexion was far paler than it should have been. Ser Criston stood closely behind her, his focus shifting between her, the king, and Aemond.

“Grandsire, you’re here at last,” Aegon said by way of greeting. “We have news.”

Otto knew he would regret asking, but he did so nonetheless. “And what news might that be, Your Grace?”

“Lucerys Verlayron has been slain!”

Though it was Aegon who had answered, and eerily cheerfully at that, Otto was quickly able to deduce the true source of the news. He whirled to Aemond, gripping the young man by his overcoat in his fists. The fabric was still damp. “What have you done, boy?”

Aemond’s eyes were void of emotion. He did not even make an attempt to remove himself from Otto’s firm grasp.

His daughter pleaded, from beneath her fingers, “Mother have mercy on us all.”

At her proclamation, some semblance of life finally returned to Aemond’s eyes. He turned his head, still in Otto’s hold, and looked over towards his mother. The look he gave her was one of shock, and- rather surprisingly, Otto noted- betrayal.

“You only lost one eye,” Otto beseeched him, shaking him mildly to garner his attention. “How could you be so blind?”

“Release him at once, Grandsire,” Aegon commanded with a firm tone, an authority to his voice that Otto did not know he possessed.

Otto had little choice but to heed a command given by the king. He released Aemond’s overcoat, but still, Aemond did not step away. Instead, his focus remained on his mother.

“Prince Aemond is the true blood of the dragon,” Aegon praised him with a grin, sounding more proud of his brother than Otto had ever recalled him to be. “He has made a good beginning of things. He returns from Storm’s End a betrothed man, and he has demonstrated to Rhaenyra what will happen if she continues this senseless pursuit of a throne that is not hers for the taking.”

“Your Grace, do you truly believe the death of her son will dissuade Rhaenyra from her pursuit of the Iron Throne?” Otto demanded of him. “Do you think Daemon will be dissuaded?!”

Aegon waved him off nonchalantly, and it took every ounce of control in Otto’s being to stop himself from grabbing his eldest grandson in the matter he had just handled his young brother.

“Those are matters to be dealt with on the morrow. As is the planning of a feast.”

“A feast?”

“Aye, a feast,” Aegon confirmed. “We shall have a feast in Aemond’s name. But, as I said, that can wait til the morrow. But there is another matter that cannot. Will someone fetch me a quill and parchment? I wish to write to my dear sister and inform her of the news myself.”

...

......

…

Prince Daemon Targaryen had been the one to intercept the messenger. The queen was lucky to have been spared reading the filth of a message herself. Aegon, whose provoking words were permanently embedded in Daemon’s mind, would not be so lucky in the end.

His oaf of a nephew and his kinslayer of a brother could enjoy their feast while it lasted. They would not be the only ones to enjoy splendors in the days to come, Daemon would make certain of that.

Still, Daemon did not doubt his nephew’s vile message to be anything less than the truth. After all, he had been the one called down to the shore. Lady Tyrell, after calling her children back inside the castle walls, had directed him towards what had washed up. It had been an immediate recognition, and was unmistakable for any other beast.

Daemon knew the reality of what the day's harsh developments meant. He knew the reality of what was yet to come had been set in stone the moment his brother Viserys had gasped his last breath. But he anguished to know that this would be the event that would cement the severity of the situation for Rhaenyra.

She looked at him curiously as he approached. That was no surprise; they had not spoken to one another since their latest disagreement.

He pulled her aside, away from her advisors, and he gave her the truth as plainly and honestly as she was owed. When she pulled away from him, processing the devastation his news had wrought upon her, he fought the urge to look away, if not leave outright.

And as Daemon stood there, something resonated within him.

To many within the realm, second born sons might have been considered to be little more than a spare. But to have described Prince Lucerys Velaryon as such in the eyes of his mother… that would have been more egregious a crime than the manner of the young lord’s demise itself.

A/N: 🖤

[acronym-chaos]

Poolrooms Creature ID Pack

[PT: Poolrooms Creature ID Pack].

[ID: A purple thin line divider shaded at the bottom. End ID].

Names

[PT: Names].

Abyss, Aqua, Azure, Azureth, Bracken, Briny, Brook, Calm, Cascade, Cerulean, Chloris, Coral, Cove, Delphine, Delta, Dew, Drift, Echo, Edd, Eddy, Fathom, Fjord, Foam, Gale, Haze, Harbor, Haven, Hydra, Indigo, Iris, Jet, Lagoon, Lapis, Lucent, Maris, Marlow, Marina, Marsh, Mist, Mire, Nereus, Nix, Oceane, Onyx, Pearl, Pelagia, Placid, Rain, Reef, Rivulet, Serenity, Shoal, Silt, Solstice, Spray, Stillwater, Storm, Surge, Tempest, Tidal, Tranquil, Torrent, Vale, Vortex, Wade, Warden, Wash, Waverly, Whisper, Zephyr

Pronouns

[PT: Pronouns].

Aqu / Aqua / Aquas; Curr / Current / Currents; Dee / Deep / Deeps; Dri / Drift / Drifts; Flo / Flow / Flows; Gli / Glide / Glides; Har / Bor / Harbor; Hue / Huem / Hues; Mi / Mis / Mist; Po / Ol / Pool; Rill / Rills / Rills; Rip / Ripple / Ripples; Shoa/ Shoal / Shoals; Sli / Slide / Slides; Slip / Slips / Slips; Spra / Spray / Sprays; Su / Sur / Surge; Ti / Tide / Tides; Va / Vap / Vapor; Wa / Wav / Wave; Wa / Wad / Wade; Whir / Whirl / Whirls

Titles

[PT: Titles].

A Drifter of Endless Pools; A Whisperer in the Depths; The Lurker Beneath the Surface; The Echo of the Pool; The Keeper of Submerged Secrets; The Phantom of the Waters; The Silent Watcher of the Tides; The Glider of Shallow Waters; The Riddle of the Poolrooms; The Wave that Never Breaks; The Haunt of the Flooded Halls; The Silent Swimmer; The Reflector of the Abyss; The One Who Glides Through Water; [Pronoun] Who Lurks in the Depths; [Pronoun] Who Glides Beneath the Surface; [Pronoun] Who Reflects the Abyss

[ID: A purple thin line divider shaded at the bottom, end ID]

Requested by @rwuffles!

Also tagging: @pronoun-arc @id-pack-archive

[scrollonso]

hi! idk if you're still taking these...if so maybe 37 with Rosquez?

i reblogged 2 and idk which one this is for so rosquez secret relationship and kiss "as comfort"

also i've never wrote rosquez before.. bear with me 🙏

For years, Valentino and Marc had maintained a public persona of fierce rivals, their battles on the racetrack the stuff of legend, analyzed and celebrated by fans and media around the globe. Their on-track skirmishes were a high-stakes spectacle, filled with adrenaline and strategy, drawing massive crowds and garnering intense media attention. Yet, beneath the surface of their high-octane rivalry, there lay a secret that only they shared — a deeply personal relationship that had quietly evolved over the years.

What began as a subtle flicker of mutual respect and understanding amidst their fierce competition gradually transformed into something far more profound. In the midst of their relentless battles, they discovered a bond that extended beyond the racetrack. The pressures of their careers, the unceasing demands of the media, and the constant need to uphold their public personas only served to strengthen the secret connection they shared. This bond, precious and private, became their refuge from the spotlight and their sanctuary from the relentless scrutiny of their public lives.

One evening, after a particularly taxing season filled with grueling races and intense media engagements, Valentino and Marc sought solace in a remote retreat — a quaint, discreet cabin nestled in the hills of Spain, far removed from the bustling racing circuits and the incessant clamor of the media. This cabin, with its rustic charm and tranquil surroundings, offered them an ideal escape from their demanding world.

The day had been long, marked by intense emotions and a slew of relentless press conferences. As twilight descended, the cabin’s warmth was a comforting contrast to the cold, calculated world they had left behind. They spent the evening in a rare moment of peace, preparing and sharing a meal together. This simple act of cooking and dining was a luxury for them, a rare opportunity to be away from the prying eyes and the constant barrage of public scrutiny.

As night deepened, they found themselves by the fireplace, the soft glow of the crackling flames casting a warm and flickering light that danced across the room’s rustic interior. Marc, usually known vibrant and expressive, sat unusually quiet. The weight of the season’s disappointments and the persistent scrutiny of their public personas had taken a toll on him. Vale, typically exuding confidence and energy, was similarly introspective. The exhaustion of the day had softened his usually assertive demeanor, leaving him in a reflective state.

In this intimate setting, away from the demands and expectations of their racing careers, the silence between them spoke volumes. It was a silence filled with unspoken words and shared understanding, a space where they could simply be themselves without the pretense of their public facades. The warmth of the fire and the serene ambiance of the cabin provided a rare moment of tranquility and comfort, allowing them to find solace in each other’s presence.

Valentino reached out across the small, cozy space, his hand finding Marc’s in a gesture that spoke volumes of their years of unspoken understanding. The touch was gentle but purposeful, conveying a depth of emotion that words alone could never capture. Marc looked up, his gaze locking with Valentino’s in a silent exchange that conveyed both affection and the weight of their shared experiences. The bond they had nurtured in secret was palpable in their eyes — a quiet language of comfort and intimacy forged over countless hidden moments and unspoken promises.

Marc squeezed Valentino’s hand with a tenderness that was both reassuring and intimate, the simple gesture embodying the years of mutual support and trust that had formed the bedrock of their relationship. Valentino, feeling the warmth of Marc’s touch, leaned in closer, his face illuminated by the soft, flickering light of the fire. The glow revealed a vulnerability that Valentino rarely allowed himself to show, a rawness that spoke to the strength and depth of their connection. Marc, responding to this openness, moved closer, his own features softening as he bridged the gap between them.

Their kiss was slow and deliberate, a tender exploration that spoke of years of shared moments and unspoken bonds. It was not born of sudden passion or fleeting desire, but rather a deep, enduring intimacy that had grown over time. As their lips met, it was as though they were melding into one another, finding solace and understanding in their private embrace. The kiss was a comforting affirmation of their love, a way to reassure each other amidst the chaos of their public lives.

As they kissed, the outside world seemed to dissolve into nothingness. The pressures of their careers, the constant need to maintain their public personas — none of it mattered in this private sanctuary. The kiss was a moment of escape, a serene affirmation of their enduring connection that existed beyond the confines of their professional lives. It was a brief respite from the relentless demands of their world, a way to remind each other of their steadfast bond.

Valentino’s hand cupped Marc’s face, his thumb gently stroking Marc’s cheek in a tender, loving caress. Marc’s arms wrapped around Valentino, pulling him close in a warm embrace that spoke of security and peace. The embrace was not merely physical but emotional, providing a deep sense of comfort and reassurance that both had longed for amidst the tumult of their public careers.

When they finally broke the kiss, they remained close, their bodies still touching in a way that felt both natural and comforting. The silence between them was not heavy or uncomfortable but filled with a profound warmth and love. They understood that their relationship had to remain hidden from the world, a secret kept from the public eye, but in that moment, it was enough to simply be together, away from the expectations and demands of their professional lives.

Sitting together by the fire, wrapped in each other’s arms, they found solace in their secret. The bond they had forged in the quiet moments of their shared journey was a source of strength and comfort. The world outside might continue to view them as fierce competitors, but within the confines of the cabin, Valentino and Marc were simply two people finding peace and strength in their private love — a love that had endured through the highs and lows of their extraordinary lives, providing them with a sanctuary from the pressures of their public personas.

[princesssszzzz]

Confliction

Pairing: Aemond x Rhaena

Word count: 4.6K

Warning: Gore, Violence, threats of SA

Aemond and Criston goes to Vale wanting revenge

Read on AO3

No matter how many times she thought of it, Rhaena never could get used to this. The idea of being involved in conflict with her own family, not just a conflict but a bloody and destructive war. Her heart weighed heavy with the burden of mourning and grief. She thought her father taking off the head of her great-uncle or watching Aemond have his eye sliced out was most haunting things she's witnessed. The green army, and the dark haired silver clad man leading them seemed to be hell bent on replacing those memories with his own worst creations.

The Vale, once a place of quiet solace and high tranquility, now echoed with the clashing of swords and the cries of battle. The air was thick with tension, charged with the impending storm of violence that threatened to engulf everything she had left of her sanity. As the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the land, Rhaena stood at the edge of the balcony, her peering gaze fixed on the figure of Criston, the knight who had brought turmoil and fear into her world after she was rushed here to escape it.

It should've been impossible. That's what she was told, that the Vale is impenetrable and no one would be able to harm her there. How did they even know she was there? Why did they care? She was thinking how her dragonless status and the lack of Arryn soldiers involvement in battles should've rendered her a non threat to the Hightowers. Nevertheless, here was the dark dusty green splatted all over the place with hundreds of soldiers rushing over the serene light green grass. Rhaena thought it was irony at best.

As Criston's forces closed in around them, the reality of her situation hit Rhaena with a cold, sharp clarity. She was not just a pawn in a game of power and conquest; she was still a threat, a target, a prize to be claimed by those who sought to break her spirit and bend her will no matter how innocent she saw herself. But Rhaena was no fragile flower to be crushed underfoot. She wanted to be a dragon, fierce and unyielding, with fire in her veins and steel in her gaze. She turned to run down the hall, rushing away from the chambers she knew they would go to first, looking for her.

Maybe if she could hide somewhere they wouldn't find her. She cursed herself for being in a castle she didn't grow up in. If she were in Dragonstone, she would know exactly which crevice of the halls would conceal her. The cracks in the tall walls she used to slide her slender frame in while hiding from Jace while they played as children.

Rhaena didn't bother to listen to where she ran, or look where she went. She didn't need to; her feet were quick carrying her slender frame as she quietly raced through the halls, away from the scent of blood and death. There was another smell mixed in with it; it was an acrid odor of sulfur that sent chills up Rhaena's spine. It wasn't unpleasant to her nose, nor to her body, but when coupled with the heavy scent it sent a shiver down her spine like a cold hand closing over your throat. It made her feel uncomfortable, uneasy.

She ducked behind a set of stairs as a group of loud men passed the halls in front of her, shouting obscenities. They carried swords, green shields, and wore chainmail armor making it obvious to Rhaena that these men weren't Arryn servants but knights. She could sense their hostility from the way they moved and spoke; their footsteps echoed off stone walls before they stopped abruptly. Rhaena peaked around the steps, ready to retreat to sanctuary in a new direction if the men sniffed her out but she paused and sighed. Realizing the only way to turn was back. Back towards where the fighting started. How did they get in to other side of the castle? She was going to be found. Rhaena just knew it. One of the knights drew his sword and walked slowly around the staircase. He stops and then started humming something soft and familiar. It's the Oldtown song she heard in King's Landing. It sent a jolt down her spine. She glanced up to find him looking right at her, scanning every inch of her body for any sign of someone else before his eyes settled back onto her face. It felt as if his brown eyes burned holes through her soul. Rhaena's lavender eyes and swooped back long silver hair was all he needed to see to know who she was.

"You sneaky cunt, don't try to hide down there." The man gave her a slimy smirk, showing off his rotting teeth.

Cringing, Rhaena leaned her body and shied away from the crassness of the intruder.

He lifted his dingy blade high over his head, poised to strike the last chord of the song he was humming. Rhaena knew trying to fight now would be a waste. She would humiliate herself with flailing skinny arms attempting to hit the solid armor. Gods. She was weaponless, alone, and terrified. Baela would never be caught like this. Ever since the news that Aegon had been crowned, Baela had not gone a moment without a knife at her side, even in bed. Rhaena closed her eyes, waiting for the blow and for all light in her body to replaced with complete darkness and silence. Death. Instead, the sound of a sword swooping clinked loudly and filled her ears. The sick humming stopped immediately, followed by a grunt of pain and a loud thud. Rhaena slowly opened her eyes, confused. The soldier standing over her now had his face turned around, arms still in the air in shock as he watched blood pour out of his fellow raider. His previously smug face was now twisted in rage as he stared at another man in shock with red, angry eyes. She followed his gaze, slowly starting to rise from her crouching hiding spot that failed to veil her. Rhaena rose to see the Knight Ser Corwyn Corbray had his Valyrian sword in hand, the shining bright long silver dripping with blood. Dark Blood. Fresh Blood. Rhaena felt faint, refusing to fully look down at what she knew was the other soldiers' body cut entirely in half. She could smell the gore. Ser Corwyn's gaze met hers and recognition flickered in his grey eyes, a slight smile appeared on his lips. The same warm smile he gave her when she arrived. She had arrived walking in with an envoy after Baela took off with Moondancer. She knew she looked troubled and scared. Grateful to be there in safety among allies of the red and black Targaryens, but worried for her family. Ser Corwyn's expression to calm her nerves lasted less than a moment when his eyes flashed dangerously towards the other soldier that had now turned to from him. He took a step towards the Knight, the sword still clutched tightly in his hand.

As the clash of steel rang out shrill in Rhaena’s ears , Ser Corwyn's skillful swordplay danced effortlessly against the nameless soldier's crude attack. The Knight moved with an elegant grace, even with his age, his Valyrian sword glinting in the faded light as he deftly parried and countered the soldier's strikes. Despite the nameless soldier's aggression, it was clear that Ser Corwyn was the more talented warrior. Rhaena looked behind her, making sure no one was watching as she tried to mentally plot out the escape her and the Knight could take. Hope glimmered in her chest as she realized she was no longer alone, and could trust the man to protect her.

With a swift and decisive move, Ser Corwyn disarmed his opponent, leaving the soldier defenseless and at his mercy. The green soldier whimpered as the Valyrian sword cut the weaker metal out of his hand. Rhaena watched as the Knight stood over his defeated opponent, ready to land the last blow when a sinister presence loomed behind him. It all happened so fast, Rhaena could barely register it. Ser Criston Cole and 3 soldiers had arrived from behind the honorable Ser Corwyn Corbray, their faces twisted with malice and cruelty as Criston spotted her. As Ser Corwyn turned to face the new threat, he was outnumbered and surrounded. The sound of clashing blades filled the air as the knight fought valiantly against the overwhelming odds. Despite his skill and determination, the sheer number of attackers was too much for him to handle alone. In a brutal and heart-wrenching turn of events, Ser Corwyn was overwhelmed by the merciless assault of Criston and his men. Rhaena wanted to look away and she heard the squelch of stab after stab. She wanted to scream. As he fell, his Valyrian sword slipped from his grasp. Rhaena, witnessing the horrifying scene unfold before her eyes, knew she had to flee. The little light and warmth Corwyn had only temporarily brought to her was quickly replaced with ice cold fear. The sound of a large dragon flying close seemed to rumble the castle and her heart almost stopped. She was foolish to think she would be safe. She wished her father was here. He would've been able to help the sweet Ser Corwyn. The young girl's heart pounded in her chest as she ran taking advantage of the busy fighters, quickly squeezing to run away the echoes of the violence behind her driving her onward.

Her trembling legs could barely carry her and Rhaena's escape was short-lived as Ser Criston, fueled by his desire for vengeance and cruelty, abaonded the Hightowers soldiers to pursue her relentlessly. He was much older than her, but he was fueled by adrenaline and hatred. Rhaena could hear his sinister laughter echo through the halls as he caught up to her, his tough grip firm as he held Rhaena, a wicked glint in his eyes as he whispered threats of unspeakable harm into her ear. The young girl's bravery wavered in the face of such darkness, but deep within her, a spark of defiance flickered. She wanted to be a dragon and release a roar to let her go. Her terrified chest could only let out a whimper and cry. This was only the beginning of her fight for survival.

The council chamber was shrouded in an air of tension as the new King Aegon, Aemond, their grandfather Otto, and the rest of the council sat at the round table, contemplating their next move. Days after Aemond had informed them of his killing of Rhaenyra's son and the young dragon Arrax, they've gotten past this. Aegon didn't care. Criston stood by Aemond's side proud , his eyes fixed with a steely determination that contrasted sharply with Aegon's carefree demeanor.

"Brother, we must strike where it hurts the most," Aegon exclaimed, his drunken lazy voice laced with a hint of foolishness as he pointed at the map on the wall. "The mother of bastards and her supporters will come after us."

Criston's expression remained impassive, his mind already set on a darker path. "We should take the youngest daughter," he suggested coldly. "Daemon and Rhaenys wouldn't dare attack then."

Otto nodded with contemplating eyes, "House Velaryon missing the one link to keep at least half Velayron blood ruling at High Tide would have to consider their position. Rhaenys and Rhaenyra's little deal has already fallen apart with the loss of the bastard boy."

Aemond looking torn, hesitated. He knew Rhaena was innocent, but the anger within him towards anyone connected to his half sister and her bastards warred with his sense of righteousness. He said nothing, looking down and silently hoping Criston would change his mind about wanting to go after the girl. The annoying girl from Driftmark. She had the audacity to smile at him at dinner. Aemond scoffed, not believing or understanding why she would extend that to him. He was glad to remember he had ignored her, pressing on through dinner with a stern still face, trying not to react to all the annoyances. Why did she have to sit right across from him. Aemond's off topic thoughts drifted back to the conversation when Lannister interrupted Otto's planning to bring up the importance of going to Harrenhall. The meeting was cut short by Aegon. He blamed it on his lack of ability to concentrate, and before Otto could pinch him under the table to force him to act kingly, Aegon had abruptly gotten up and rushed out of the room. No doubt looking for a stall to throw up last night's multitude of beverages. Aemond would never admit it. He was glad. His mind was already gone. He couldn't tell anyone he had lost control of Vhagar. He wanted to go lay down in the dusty quiet library and mindlessly stare at his spot on the ceiling of the room.

A day and a half had passed with Otto trying force a mindless Aegon back into the council room for planning when tragedy struck with the death of Aegon's son, the council finally reconvened with a somber atmosphere engulfing the room. Aegon's demeanor had shifted drastically, he seemed suddenly older now. To the infuriated Aemond, his brothers eyes now filled with a burning rage and his voice dripping with malice.

"Daemon will pay dearly for this," he growled, his hands clenched into fists. "We will show them no mercy." His usual bloodshot eyes were still bloodshot, but with new purpose now.

Aemond, his heart heavy with conflicting emotions, nodded in agreement. He shared his brother's thirst for vengeance, his resolve hardening as he cast aside his last shred of doubt. Together with Criston, they plotted in secrecy, their eyes set on the dragonless vulnerable target that was Rhaena. If Daemon wanted to target children, then so be it. Their plan veiled in deception, they masked their true intentions, allowing the whispers of their false destination of Harrenhall to serve as a distraction to their true target in the Vale. And as they set out on their journey, the shadows of cruelty loomed ominously over the fate of the young Targaryen girl who stood unknowingly at the center of their sinister scheme.

Aemond's footsteps echoed down the corridor. The adrenaline from the battle in the Eyrie hills barely subsiding in him. His first intentional kills, and he felt no remorse. It felt nice. Freeing. He smiled of thinking blood curling screams he had just been listening to as the sound of those screams seemed to be louder than what he heard from his mother when they found the body of his young nephew. Vengence felt sweet. The young prince took a breath as he pushed open the door to Rhaena's chambers, a scene of cruel intimidation unfolded before him. Ser Criston, his mentor turned Rhaena's tormentor, stood menacingly over the young Targaryen girl, his words dripping with venom as he ranted about her family. Rhaena looked smaller than she did the week before at dinner. She looked innocent and frightened, cowering in the corner as Criston's hand struck her fragile form, smacking her face. Aemond stopped. For a moment he was sure he was not witnessing Rhaena as he knew her now. She looked like the younger girl he had hatred for. He tried to remember how she had told his enemies that Vhagar was hers to claim. Aemond tried not to think of the pig he told her to ride. He knew what he was trying to do. Fill his mind with memories of how the whiny girl had pushed him. She was wrong. He was right. She's just Daemon's evil spawn.

His jaw clenched as he fought against the rising tide of guilt and pity threatening to engulf him. His loyalty to his family, fueled by the desire for vengeance, warred with the familial bond he shared with Rhaena. She was his cousin, kind-hearted and beautiful, but a pawn in the twisted game of power and revenge. Criston's cruel laughter pierced the air as he detailed his plans to rid Rhaena of her fingernails one by one and looked over to one of the lingering soldiers and told him to write down his message. A letter to Daemon.

As Criston's cruel words filled the air, a cold shiver ran down Rhaena's spine as she rubbed her reddening cheek. Tears welled up in her eyes, cascading down her cheeks like glistening rivers of despair. Her father had frequently ranted about this beast of a man, Criston Cole, but nothing could have prepared Rhaena for this. The man had put a knife to her neck and dragged her back to her chambers, he had spent the better part of 2 minutes in between glaring at her, giving instructions to his men, and ranting about her various family members. He stared at her with a vicious hatred, and Rhaena could not understand why. When he called her a Targaryen bitch his voice lowered and dripped with deep loathing. She watched as Aemond walked in, right before the man hit her. She almost fell to the ground and tried to lean as far away from the furious man as her corner would let her. There was nowhere Rhaena could slither to hide, with the window being blocked by one of the tall green wearing guards. She glanced over at Aemond, seeking solace in his gaze, but found only a hardened resolve clouded with anger and bitterness. She tried to think back to the look they had shared years ago. She remembered seeing his face even in the darkness of the Driftmark cave. She had glanced to him with a pained face, silently begging him not to harm Jace with the rock. The young silver haired boy that looked back at her with humanity and understanding her unspoken request was no longer there. This new request of hers was being denied. She couldn't even feel the sting of her cheek anymore. This new, angrier Aemond was much different from the Aemond she remembered from dinner. She couldn't read her cousin's expression. He was stone faced, standing perfectly and silently watching Criston, not letting her pleading eyes bother him. Rhaena felt her heart sink even further and felt like the beautiful lace ridden painted room she had been so in love with just hours ago was now a shrinking prison. She was surrounded.

Criston's menacing voice cut through the tense silence, commanding a soldier to pen down his vile intentions in a letter to Daemon, outlining the unspeakable horrors he planned to inflict upon Rhaena. The mere thought sent a shudder through her, her breath catching in her throat as fear gripped her heart like icy tendrils.

Criston's eyes gleamed with a malevolent glint as he leaned in closer to Rhaena, towering over her.

"You see girl," he sneered, relishing in the fear that danced across her face, "Your going to pay the price for what your craven father did."

Rhaena's breath quickened with confusion on her face, her chest tight with dread as she realized the true extent of Criston's intentions. "Please, I-I've done nothing wrong, I don't know what you're talking about" she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes pleading for mercy.

Ser Criston's cruel laughter echoed in the chamber, cutting through the air like a sharp blade. "Oh, but you have, my dear," he taunted, his words laced with venom. "You bear the blood of a man who dared to defy me, and your whorish cousin pretender Queen and for that, you will suffer."

Aemond stood standing rigidly behind Criston, feeling a surge of conflicting emotions roiling within him. He refused to show uncertainty in his face. He didn't need to study to understand that Rhaena had been in the Vale far before her father had conjured up his plans. Rhaena was innocent. But so was the child. Criston was his mentor, his father figure. Cole has always been there to protect Aemond and his mother. Vengence was needed. Aemond tried to shut off his thoughts and block out everything that was happening.

Hisjaw clenched as he listened to Criston's plans, his fists tightening at his sides as he struggled to contain the storm raging in his thoughts. As Criston detailed his vile plans and the soilder scribbled away, Aemond's gaze flickered towards Rhaena's wet eyes, a silent apology in his remaining eye. But he couldn't afford to stop this now. What message would that send to Criston? To the entire realm that alleged fierce kinslayer couldn't even enact revenge against his enemies.

He might as well go ahead and announce to the realm he lost control of Vhagar so everyone could really see them as weak. An easy group to overthrow. His family would be slaughtered if they acted weak. This would send THE message to the realm, to the pretender, Queen and the rest of the realm.

Why couldn't they have sent one of the bastard boys here instead, Aemond thought.

But no, she was here, and he was forced to witness the cruelty inflicted upon this girl he doesn't want to look at, Rhaena. The weight of his conflicting emotions pressed heavily upon his chest, his mind a battlefield of loyalty, vengeance, and a newfound protectiveness towards the helpless girl before him.

As Cole continued his tirade, his voice loud with contempt, Aemond's thoughts flickered back to Ser Corwyn, the bloodied knight who had been muttering Rhaena's name and coughing up blood, now lying motionless on the ground, a pool of crimson spreading beneath him. The sight of this fallen man stirred remorse within Aemond, a pang of guilt for standing idly by as Rhaena suffered. That man would be protecting her right now. He wouldn't let this continue. Aemond imagined himself as the Knight, a man who wasn't burdened with familial allegiance. He would’ve cut down all the men in the room, pick Rhaena up and carry her to the baths. Undressing her and kissing away her tears-

Rhaena let out a cry when Criston threatened to let his men take turns fucking her, her once radiant spirit now dimmed by fear and despair, cast another desperate glance towards Aemond, her eyes silently pleading for salvation. In that fleeting moment, Aemond saw the reflection of his own inner turmoil mirrored in her tear-streaked gaze. She was family, innocent and undeserving of the torment that Criston had in store for her. She was a Targaryen. Even though she was dragonless. Aemond's chest pinched again.

His clenched fists trembled at his sides again, the conflict within him reaching a crescendo. The bond of blood and the final threat from Criston finally tearing at his resolve. He looked upon Rhaena with Criston approaching her to loom over her again and rip her clothes off, her fragile form bound by chains of fear, a newfound determination ignited within him. Rhaena let out a quiet sob when Criston used a knife to tear at her maroon dress, pearls from her necklace spilling onto the floor. Steeling himself against the tumultuous storm raging within, Aemond took a step forward, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence of the chamber. "Enough, Cole," he declared, his tone firm and commanding.

Criston turned towards Aemond, his eyes ablaze with fury at the interruption and defiance in his apprentice's voice. "What do you think you are doing, boy?" he spat, his grip tightening on Rhaena shivering body.

Aemond squared his shoulders offended, his gaze unwavering as he met Criston's malevolent stare. He was quickly growing tired of Criston's familiarity with him. "I am not your boy, I'm your prince. I said enough. I will not stand by and watch you do this to my cousin," he proclaimed, his words ringing with a newfound resolve. "She is family, and you can't touch her.

A flicker of surprise crossed Criston's features, quickly masked by a sneer of disdain. "You forget your place, I was named Hand of the King. I'm getting vengence for your mother and brother" he snarled, his voice a venomous hiss.

Anger bubbles inside Aemond. He didn't want things to turn this way. The soldiers in the room were quietly staring between the both of them.

As tension crackled in the air, a palpable sense of defiance and determination radiated from Aemond, a stark contrast to the malevolence that permeated the chamber. Rhaena, her eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and hope, watched as Aemond raised an eyebrow to Criston. Though he remained outwardly stoic, a fire ignited within him, a resolve to find a way to thwart Criston's heinous intentions, even if it meant betraying the man who had guided him for so long.

The silence was finally cut with the door opening, Aemond refusing to break eye contact with Criston as he heard feet shuffling in behind him. Rhaena's eyes left Aemond, looking shocked towards the entrance of her chambers.

It was then that the sinister truth unraveled before her, like a tapestry of betrayal woven by Gerold Royce, the traitorous snake in their midst. Hatred for Rhaena's father had driven him to conspire with the enemy, leading Criston's forces straight to their unsuspecting target. Aemond took a breath when Criston unhanded Rhaena, turning fully to Gerold.

Aemond's conflicted gaze met Rhaena's quickly, before turning to see what they were looking at. This must be the man that had lead them through the backside of the Vale and told Aemond where to fly Vhagar low to remain undetected as they crept up to initiate their taking of the Vale. This man also had a deep seated hatred for his uncle. If Aemond's mind wasn't so preoccupied with Rhaena and Criston, he would have cackled at this and rejoiced.

Criston ushered past Aemond and made his way out of the chambers to round up the remaining soldiers and secure prisoners, the tension in the room seemed to stop suffocating the air once he was out of sight. Aemond turned back and hiseye bore into the still frightened Rhaena, a mixture of possessiveness swirling within them. He stepped closer to her, his expression unreadable to her as he reached out a hand, hesitated, then let it fall back to his side. Gerold Royce's voice echoed through the room, trying to gain the prince's attention again by announcing the demise of Lady Jeyne Arryn and proclaiming the Eyrie now belonged to Aemond. Rhaena chocked back a sob. The weight of the words hung heavily in the air, a bitter victory tainted by Aemond's newfound distain for Ser Criston Cole.

"Leave us." Aemond barked. He waited for the room to clear.

Rhaena refused to move, her wide gaze flickering between Aemond and the now closed door through which Criston and the traitorous Royce had disappeared. She could sense the turmoil within Aemond, the conflicting emotions within him. Uncertainty clouded her features as she remained silent, not sure of what to say or do while he continued staring at her. She decided it was safer for her to remain in the corner, and wait for Aemond to make the first move. Finally, Aemond broke the charged silence, taking a deep breath, his voice low and tinged with an intensity that sent shivers in Rhaena's stomach. "You will be safe, Rhaena. I won't let him lay a hand on you. I swear it." With those words lingering in the air, Aemond turned on his heel, sauntering out the room and leaving Rhaena alone, the weight of the Kinslayer's promise heavy on her shoulders. She finally slid to the floor, letting her cries out and allowing herself to fully process what happened.

Aemond continues down the hall, stepping over bodies and avoiding blood as he quietly ponders to himself. Aegon won’t care and his mother will have to find a sworn shield to protect her after he gets rid of Criston.

[paelexleporinum]

chenyu vale is nothing but quiet and peaceful; while the inventor appreciates the sight itself, the melody that comes along with the birds that fly above him, he can't help but want to shoo the sounds away.

his head hurts — he knew his corrosion had been getting worse, his father had warned him to not overdo it when he saw mace heading for liyue's border with fontaine.

he's there only to find more of the jade he saw once being sold in a fontainian shop — lightweight, sturdy, can float according to tales from liyue — a perfect, almost dreamlike crystal the inventor has searched after for what feels like a millenia. his reasoning and scope remain a secret, yet he was still determined to flock to chenyu.

if only his body wasn't failing him, he'd be happy to be in such a tranquill land — his vision blurs over, wretched delirium, wretched corrosion... — he curses it over in his head.

he knows he walks up somewhere, then down, then he makes some sort of turn — it's hard to see, relying on his hearing that's slowly becoming white noise aswell; he knows his eyes are doing an annoying flickering again, as if he were a stingy lightbulb.

mace touches a tree, then yanks a vine accidentally, then he feels like throwing up and crying. he tries to push that feeling down, embarrassing as it is at his big age, yet when he trips on a branch, vine? — he doesn't know, just that it was something earth-toned — and is launched into a pond face first, he gives up all feeling of his body and fully sobs into the lake.

the water bubbles up as he breathes into it, kicking his feet up and down like a toddler during a tantrum. he's surely causing a disturbance if anyone's around, yet he could really care less — afterall, nobody around here knows him, and looking at the state he's in, nobody would want to be near the inventor, let alone help him up.

haiyue is used to the occasional traveller stumbling upon his abode. usually, he'd guide them back onto the path they'd meant to take- bidding them farewell, never to see them again.

what he wasn't used to, however - was someone quite literally stumbling into his lake- falling face-first into it. said someone was quite lucky he'd been outside, because he wouldn't have caught it as fast if he had been anywhere else.

haiyue approaches the, for lack of a better word, flailing body in his lake- a hand gathering the fabric of his hanfu, lifting it just above his ankles, to avoid getting it splashed too much.

unfortunately, it didn't seem to be much help. seems he'd have to get muddy today.

he untangles the traveller's foot from the vine it was stuck on, and gets on his knees to pull him from the lake, resting him gently in the grass beside it.

"...are you alright?" he mutters, just loud enough for him to hear it- leaning over him and brushing the purple hair sticking to his face out of the way with his fingers.

[cowboyinternist]

hello and welcome to the post where i finally talk about some of my favorite wtnv episode art, because it’s a thing they do that i absolutely adore.

and i think it’s severely under appreciated/untalked about

starting with this one because i think it’s really lovely both in concept and execution. i have the print of it :)

i enjoy this work a lot for a same reason that i love room scenes: story told through subtlety. using the fridge as a canvas, including esteban’s drawings and letter magnets, gives us a window into the lives of these characters that we don’t really see in the typical format of this show. it’s also just really cute??

the subtle references to the past, the constant, and the current really tie the themes of the episode (and the show as a whole) together.

other things of note:

the star tarot card is representative of hope and new beginning.

the exes on the community calendar match up to the day of the month (the 15th).

i really really really like the references to the wtnv novel, because i think the novels are neglected a lot when it comes to the podcast and merchandising.

it knows with a certainty that the people seeing it will understand the niche references on it, and thus does not feel a need to explain itself.

it works really great as episode art, but also wonderfully as a 10th anniversary piece. unlike the poster. which i hate.

like the above, i love this one for several reasons. the composition, the colors, the lettering.

but above all i am a big enjoyer of flower imagery and symbolism.

lavender is pretty well known to symbolize calm, and tranquility. i think most people know that. and i think that reflects the kind of levelheaded and methodical way that carlos finally deals with his problems in this episode.

and i’m hoping the it’s representative of carlos’ mindset in the year to come? representative of him finding peace with his past.

him having his back turned to the viewer gives a sense of withdrawal or running away, but the lavender and calm atmosphere portray an aura is resignation. he’s done running.

other things:

old woman josie says in an early episode that carlos smells like lavender chewing gum

lavender is drought resilient and does very well in desert climates :)

i love this one for the same reason that i have issues with the most recent arc.

the magnifying glass both casts a shadow over and a beaming light into the community that you see in the illustration. it can be assumed that it’s only a matter of time before it bursts into flames and is destroyed under the prying eye. symbolism that is pretty easy to dissect. it tells us exactly what the danger is and exactly what is in danger in a very easy to interpret way.

welcome to night vale has always had a very heavy emphasis on community, but for me that isn’t really shown in this arc.

allegorical meaning aside, it ended up being framed in this way that ended up m very cecil & carlos vs. the night vale community + the uowii. rather than it being cecil, carlos, and the night vale community vs. the uowii. which was so

i think both of those concepts exist within the arc, but the latter is less believable because there’s so much less community detail. characters motives are not described. characters reactions to certain events are brushed past, often with little emotion to them. oh josh is missing? that sucks. anyways. dana is completely innocent? woohoo! anyways. they don’t allow room to for us, and the characters, to just FEEL? which is a stark contrast to the writing of previous years.

night vale as a community is what was at stake at this arc. but the lack of focus on characters and the relationships between them really took the stakes and emotion out of the situation. and, for me, took some impact and comedic value out of the ending.

i remember being really excited upon seeing this episode art because this piece did a really good job at setting an expectation for what the themes of this year would be. the themes were still there, but the writing didn’t do them justice and didn’t give them enough push to make them feel as impactful as they should have been.

this is all that i have the energy to talk about for now, but if there’s other episode art you’d like me to talk about, send me an ask! i’m also happy to talk about my opinions on other merch pieces that they have in their store! :)

[roegadynroost]

Hello! I'm really impressed with you speed running all of your alts to get the Regalia! Would you mind sharing any tips or tricks that got you through so much ARR fast? - A fellow alt-happy Eorzean

Oh wow hey! Thanks for the ask!

One REALLY big help is doing stuff on the New and Prefered servers because the Road to 80 buff is just WAY TOO GOOD. I'm working on the story on some alts and by the end of ShB, only doing the story, I can get about 3 jobs to 80. If you have character on congested servers that you don't mind moving around you can move them to a new or preferred server for FREE and get the Road to 80 buff for 30 days (It lasts longer on characters made directly on those servers tho.)

There are some bits that I like to watch on every run through, but skipping the cutscenes is an obvious must. I play on PS4, and put on a show while I grind most of the time.

If you have the road buff, when you get to dungeons, instead of queueing in the Dutyfinder set up a Partyfinder for your dungeons. I always set them to one slot other that myself, and then set the minimum ILV to 500. This will ensure only higher level players will join.

Into the description type: "Unsynced for MSQ progression." or "Unsyned, help me get my alt through MSQ?"

Players are usually happy to help folks working through the MSQ. This works on every Datacenter.

If you don't speak Japanese and you have an alt on the JP servers and you want quick clears, use the auto translate feature for the phases "Unrestricted party" and "Main Scenario Quest". Also if you don't speak Japanese, Auto translation "Nice to meet you" at the start and "Thank you" at the end of duties.

Make sure you set your DF to Unrestricted before you queue so you don't accidentally queue up regularly instead and always \readycheck before you go in.

Most dungeons with a LV 90 player are less than five mins and a lot of the time they won't even roll on the gear so you get good upgrades along the way. If they rush through and you don't have time to grab all the chests you can always \return at the end to get the chests that were not grabbed. If there are mobs still in the dungeon, don't worry, if you sprint and kite them you can grab everything before they kill you, then respawn and leave through the exit at the start or the menu.

The ONLY duties I don't do Unsynced for is for Castrum Meridianum, Praetorium and Porta Decumana, because with they force cut scenes even if you do it unsynced I don't like to ask people to sit through them so I just do them normally.

IF YOU HAVE FRIENDS JUST AS THEM FOR HELP UNSYNCING. I love helping my friends unsync stuff. Hell, I love helping anyone unsync stuff. Takes very little time.

If you don't have the road buff, make sure you do your leveling roulette, and queue for the dungeons. Unfortunately, the end of ARR has a LV jump around the time you get to the Rhytahtyn solo instance and if you skip duties you'll likely be underleveled.

A few characters I ended up having to run through Aurum Vale to get to 50 just so I could get through the final strech of stuff. I love Aurum Vale personally, but I know it's not everyones jam.

Buy a stack of cheap food early on so you can keep your 3% exp buff going. My personal favorites are Eggs, Orange juice and Plums.

DON'T FORGET We get Vesperbay tickets on new characters now to returning to the waking sands is no issue. They recently updated it to you get 99 total over the course of ARR. If you made a character BEFORE they added the Vesperbay Teleportation Tickets, don't run from Horizon, Teleport to Limsa Lominsa, go to the Arcanist guild via the aethernet and then take the Ferry to Vesperbay. It's pretty quick on PS4, if you're on a Toaster it might be faster to go from Horizon because of less loading.

I recommend stopping by Camp Tranquil to get your Chocobo the ability to fight (My Fiestly little Chocobo) when you hit 30. Also grab a stack of 99 Gysahl greens when you're at Bent Branch doing that. You don't have to finish the quest to be able to summon you chocobo, so if you're in a rush there is that. I always level my chocobos in Healing first. IMO Choco cure is the most useful chocobo ability early on.

Don't forget to do your job quests, a lot of them will sync up with stuff you're doing in the MSQ, and when you get to 45 the gear boost is substantial even if it's only useful for those few levels to 50. DPS can probably get away with ignoring it, but for tanks and healers GEAR IS SO IMPORTANT, especially if you're not unsyncing stuff.

You get some upgrades from the story but the ARR stuff is all normal quality, it's not the greatest. There is a Jeweler NPC in Ul'dah that I recommend grabbing accessories from, cause I've had times where I'm 50 and still have dang LV5 ring cause the MSQ doesn't give any accessories and if your RNG is bad in dungeons it can be pretty bad. (you will get a acessory from unlocking AV though, that is nice!)

If you have some of the preorder earrings, make sure you visit your the mail moogle for that. If you've been playing a long time and have stuff like the Tidus and Yuna outfits from fanfest that get sent to every character, Grab those outfits too. They're good at the early levels and give a pretty good EXP boost to lvl 30. (Don't recommend wearing them in dungeons past like the first three though)

Of course, most important of all. Take care of yourself. I've been dealing with long-covid for years now and if causes me no end of issues, but I can get into the zone and focus hard with MSQ grinds. Self care is so important. I'm pretty good about getting up and stretching and getting myself what I need, but sometimes I'm in the zone and it gets bad. I am lucky I have a partner that helps me keep up with that stuff too. If he gets up to move around and go somewhere, I usually take that as my time to give myself a break.

Setting myself a little 3 hour timer for water breaks is something I'm working on and seems to be good. I try to not keep too much food around my gaming area because if I'm going to eat something I'd like to get up and move around too. If I do keep something nearby, I try to have fruit and not like snacks. Doesn't always work but trying is important.

I hope that in here somewhere you find something useful! HAPPY ALT-ing!!!

[anitalianfrie]

Only saw it now but ... please do elaborate on omegaverse rosquez 👀

and elaborating on omegaverse rosquez i will!

so, i've already talked about how their relationship starts, their first heat together and their scents. So we're going to their post divorce era baby, yuppie!! under the cut because boy did i get ranty

After sepang and valencia the absolutely do not talk, and after the press conference marc is deeply hurt. like, really. vale said some pretty horrible shit. Anyway new season new me, time to win at motorcycling once again, wearing blockers and staying as far from vale as possible :)

But then time passes (let's not kid ourself, by this i mean three months passes MAXIMUM) and marc misses vale even if he said horrible shit about him, and he believes a reconciliation is possible, so they kinda talk again. of course this doesn't work because they refuse to communicate properly and their solution is to have sex. But this can't be like, sex they want, they have to have another reason behind it, so they only fuck when vale is in rut which regularly happens during random weekends because that man refuses to regolate them. never during marc's heats because that's. too much for him. letting vale see him like that again after all he did. no sir, never again, they might be fucking sometimes but it's very much not like last time. also marc starts to suppress more of his heats because "they're taking off too much time from racing" (man you're on fucking holiday bffr) .they do a couple of years like this and then we arrive to argentina 2018. which is a shit show. and marc is too stressed and has suppressed one too many heats and it triggers a heat just before the race, but of course he's not gonna stop and he's racing anyway. and he basically plays bowling with the other riders and vale falls and. once marc gets down from the bike it's pretty obvious he's going into heat, everybody has noticed it, but he HAS to go and apologise to vale. And then vale goes to the media and says that marc is too dangerous to have on track and that people like him shouldn't be allowed to race and that it's scandalous he's racing in his condition and that he will hurt someone (which is pretty hypocrite of him since he's dome the same his whole fucking career) and that marc is still bitter about what happened between them in 2015 and that he's made him fall purposefully because of his evil and cunning omega schemes. yeah he basically sets back the view on omegas in motogp of another 50 years, because the first time wasn't enough.

and at this point marc is :) i'm never letting myself be vulnerable again :) which means he's never getting into heat ever again, starts taking heat blockers stronger than horse tranquilizers and the same goes for scent blockers, refuses to aknowledge being an omega and keeps stating he's just there to race, outright refuses to answer any question about valentino.

once marc and vale reconcile and marc starts taking less agressive suppressants and they spend all their heats and ruts together again, marc confesses to vale about him being his first alpha and the first person to ever be with him during a heat, vale does a bit of mental math and asks if there was somebody else during the years between 2015 and their reconciliation and marc goes no :) i didn't even had heats for a certain period :) and vale realizes that maybe he's fucked up even more than he previously thought

[moonshynecybin]

Can't decide on a specific scene but i'll take anything you have to say about i'll meet judgement by the hounds bc at this point i have re-read it so many times ...

the thing about ill meet judgement by the hounds is that literally no concrete planning went into writing that thing. i was up against a deadline for a grad school assignment i was procrastinating like NOBODY'S BUSINESS had two panic attacks that week (unrelated to school!!) and then flew to bath with my roommate spur of the moment. posted that ch2 late at night zooted on my anxiety meds and and woke up to some LOVELY messages that i read on a bus when i was pulling away from the airport. insane experience. i didnt even want to give it a chapter two right away i was like IM BUSY. and then i wrote it immediately.

BUT to actually talk about the fic. like you asked <3. i actually had this idea that i wanted to follow marc's pov (at that point i had only written vale) and get inside his insane headspace leading up to his arm surgery and then be like. wouldnt it be crazy if vale was there and wanted to reconcile a bit but he was also kind of avoiding SAYING THAT. wouldnt that make marc feel EVEN CRAZIER. marc marquez saw trap simulator. inside you there are two wounds one is valentino rossi and the other is your fucked up arm. anddddd 2022 seemed like the ideal place for a rosquez reunion to me! like. dramaturgically. marc is on the brink. vale has just retired (easy to get a reason for him to have an epiphany regarding marc, made even easier bc marc pov means i never have to explain it in depth !)

and the thing about this fic is that it was supposed to be. A LOT longer. go race by race until his surgery and have them talk a lot more. change a little more gradually. but uh. ive already said my life was insane at that time and i got excited and fucking SENT that badboy. (again. i was lightly tranquilized.) which i think MOSTLY makes it better but the pacing is still little wacky. anyways i do think of the scene i cut where marc talks to alex all the time but i think i also fully deleted it! dont write fic under the influence! i also cut a BIG scene of them at the french GP where vale brings marc a sandwich and makes him eat it. it should also be noted that i was doing SO much journalism research about this period and i found a bunch of WILD quotes from marc that i compiled into a small insane vision board of them to ground my fic in his crazy way of conceptualizing his life. that i apparently also deleted while zen-ed out. so

more stupid behind the scenes under the cut

actual plot summary (my "outline") that i wrote out at the top of my google doc complete with typo:

Thinking about how absolutely distressing it would be for Marc pre surgery or right after if Vale tried to reconcile. Early 2022 before surgery decision and post Vale retirement

Scenes of Vale like. earnestl y talking to him. Marc represses a panic attack every time. race by race?

and here's what i had written for aragon, which is full of lines i just thought of with NO context or structure like this part would NOT take off the ground. you might notice some of them get repurposed later in the fic:

III. French GP, 2022. P6.

Marc’s still not out of the habit of reaching for him, apparently. He looks— God. Marc’s head hurts just looking at him. He could swear he has defenses from this, from how Marc can feel where he is in every room they’re in together. He guesses somewhere in the last few weeks he’s lost them, again. Just another thing he used to be good at.

despite everything, Marc can feel himself relax, with Vale here. The warm heat of him sharing space. He used to feel like this all the time. Vale to his left. His arm, casual and pain free, on his right. Now he's scarred all the way down both sides.

He remembers when he was a kid and he met Vale. How he had winked at Marc and said, I'll look out for you, cradling the toy car that Marc had brought specifically to give to him in his hands. How Marc had turned it over in his brain for years. I'll look out for you.

Marc bargains with himself

Marc does stupid, stupid things when Vale is in his life. He knows this. Going to the ranch is a bad idea. the press alone, if anyone finds out, would feed the paddock journos for years. It would be stupid— risky

Someone needs to tell him not to race. calm him down. Usually, it’s Álex. 

MORE OUTLINE: Vale brings him a sandwich and Marc wants to cry, terrible race. They watch a movie its very Valentino voice lemme take care of you !!! but no talking about their past lmao. maybe arm

Genuinely terrible race. That one stat about alwasy finishing top 5 or crashing. Vale like actually gets him to talk about his arm which gets no where fast (guest alex?) and riding misery begins to reach a tipping point

[ariiadnes]

╭ ㅤ⿻ ･ HOLY IS THE LOVE THAT SAVED ME ( part iv. )

HOW DELICATE LOVE IS , THIS EBB & FLOW OF SERENITY.

-ˋ ♡ ◞ kazuha ･ zhongli ･ itto. genshin impact. title cr : juniper vale. repost. ଓ.°・・・part i. part ii. part iii.

❀ ﾟ. ༄ kazuha

& just as the sea intertwines itself into the earth's existence, so do the storms that weave themselves into the crevices of a vagabond's heart. kazuha clings to the idea of peace and a love reborn and carried, knows this to be his truth and idea of survival in a world where chaos and tranquility go hand in hand. there is always an ache, a hiraeth ; how it flows just as the wind does, coming and going, embraced and felt nonetheless.

under the skies there is a kindness that is meant to be felt and shared ; from the heavens to the earth, to the flux and flow of the calm waves, and to the hilt of his sword, he knows that there is love in the fight for the greater good. he shares this love with you, understands it wholeheartedly, and how fortunate he is to experience such a beautiful thing, this wanderer with origins that have long faded into oblivion.

it is storming. the rain falls gently, graces your home with a semblance of white noise that calms the nerves. you lie with kazuha, palm against palm as he finds amusement in your fascination at the difference in the size of your hands. calloused are his fingers, worn from many battles won and lost, and somewhere there is affection that lingers in his touch.

"the sun was so beautiful earlier." you absentmindedly murmur, shifting your hand just the slightest bit so that you may lace your fingers with his, grinning when you squeeze his hand. "you've never really been one for storms, have you?"

"there is nostalgia in every raindrop that meets this earth." kazuha smiles, brings your hand to his lips before pressing a kiss to it. "the storms remind me of both the hardships and victories i've faced in my life."

there is a quiet pang in your chest that resonates in the gentle words spoken. you find yourself speechless, guilt pouring into your veins at the inability to comfort your lover. but the curve of his lips never falters, and he holds you closer to him, allows you to listen to his heartbeat.

"i will always be grateful for the rain. it brings you and i together, doesn't it?"

now, you are the one who smiles. you laugh, kissing him ever so gently in a goodnight, i love you.

"it does. i am grateful for it, too."

❀ ﾟ. ༄ zhongli

to live as a mortal is a strange phenomenon-- one zhongli must learn to adapt to, even though years have passed since the fall of rex lapis. liyue flourishes in his absence, and somewhere he thinks there is a longing for what once was. but on the balcony of the home he once built, he looks to the sky for the comfort of new beginnings. this place blooms without him, the civilians starting anew and becoming even stronger in the absence of a god.

it is a precious thing, their resilience. humans are prideful beings, aren't they? to grieve and continue forth, to come out of the flames even brighter than ever before.

"do you miss it?"

zhongli senses your presence. you step forward, stand by his side. you inhale sharply, shoulders rising and falling with your breaths.

he does. but there is an end to all things, and no longer is he needed.

"it would be selfish to answer so honestly."

"you held the weight of their lives for countless of years, love. i think it's okay to be selfish now."

but is this not enough, his selfishness? to announce his goodbye in such a manner, to test the waters and see if survival ran in the bloodstream of his land? to rescind his godhood and live normally for once? to fall in love with you and live the rest of his days in peace?

is this not selfish enough?

zhongli smiles. it is bittersweet.

your hand rests on his shoulder, eyes meeting amber. you need not speak the words, but as silly as it may be, he certainly would find comfort in hearing them.

"you can live for yourself now. they continue to grow, even without your guidance. they're doing just fine, and surely they send their prayers to you in the hope that you are, too."

"it is never easy, is it?" zhongli muses wistfully. he knows you are right, but perhaps all the logic in the world would not allow his emotions to find reason.

you turn to face him, gesture him to do the same until you are looking at each other.

"things never are, but we can make it easier." you tell him, hands cupping his cheek. "we can start out this way : tell me what i can do for you."

zhongli blinks, takes a few moments to register the newfound determination on your features. he laughs, and suddenly, it is almost as if his exhaustion has dissipated.

"you have always amused me, my dearest." his hands cover yours. "may i ask that i always stay by your side?"

you laugh, press a kiss to his nose.

"what a foolish god you are, asking something you already know the answer to. i'll always be with you, whether near or far."

❀ ﾟ. ༄ itto

the hardships of the oni are never forgotten. itto remembers his past with traces of bitterness and hardship, but in those memories, he remembers the warmth of family found. how time has passed and how things have changed so drastically. he recalls such times more often than he would like, and it is almost as if he relives them.

itto has a good heart, undoubtedly so. he is rambunctious, carefree, and in his blood there is the pride of his family. but personalities mean little when others judge on appearances, and so itto understands the fear and wariness people cast upon him for his mere existence. it doesn't mean anything, doesn't hurt-- is what he tells you, grinning as he brushes off your concern, but it builds and builds until he cannot ignore it.

it is a constant reminder, and as much as he would like to move on, as much as he knows that what others think doesn't matter, it hurts in the end, even if he doesn't want it to. but you are there-- you're always there to defend him, even when the words sting the most, even when he takes them to heart.

"don't worry about it! i don't wanna cause anymore trouble, so it's no big deal."

itto can practically feel the anger radiate from your body. it's an aura, an ungodly one, really, and he wonders if he's ever seen you seethe in such a way before ( yes, even when he released all the beetles in your house ). it's almost a routine by now; he's typically successful in getting you to calm down, but you don't even respond this time. you stay silent, your back towards him. he approaches you, thinks of more silly jokes to crack, thinks of anything that can ease the pain and anger that you feel on his behalf.

your shoulders tremble. you turn on your heel, meet gazes with him. there are tears in your eyes, and it burns.

"it is a big deal, itto! everything they say about you is never true. you're not scary, you're not frightening-- you're not going to hurt them and you never would. they should know that. just because--"

"whoa, whoa, whoa--" itto's mouth is running a mile a minute, and instinctively, he holds you in his arms. you're crying much harder now and you shouldn't be-- how silly that he is the one who suffers yet you are the one who laments. "don't cry— i'm fine! it doesn't matter what they say, 'cause it's not true. i only care about what you think. that's what happens when you're in love, right?"

your sobs stifle immediately at such an innocent question, the lump in your throat still very much there.

"you're too nice, itto."

itto wipes your tears away, grinning when he feels how warm your face is.

"and?"

"and i love you."

he hums, kisses you on the forehead.

"i love you, too. see? nothing to worry about, as long as it's you and me, okay?"

[novankenn]

OMAKE : Oh... Crap-Baskets... HELP?

Joan was so happy. It was the start of the Winter Holiday Break and she was with all her friends in the common room. She had taken the time earlier in the week to do some baking for everyone, and the table was loaded with sweet homemade treats.

But what was more important to Joan was everyone's reactions to the small tokens of appreciation and friendship she had spend a month creating and collecting.

Ruby: Thank you! I love it!

Weiss: This is very thoughtful Joan. Thank you.

Yang: You made this? You made all of these? You go girl!

Joan: Yes.

Blake: I don't know what to say, but thank you Joan.

Joan's smile was beaming as the members of RWBY placed the friendship bracelets she made for them upon their wrists. Each one fashioned around a different Clasp. Ruby a Rose. Weiss a Snowflake. Yang a Sun, and Blake a Book.

Nora: *Squealing* SO CUTE! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

In her hands was a set of small teddy bears, one in each of JNPR's colors, all handmade by her.

Ren: Joan, this is too much.

Ren was sitting with a tranquility guard meditation fountain kit in his lap. If Joan's smile could get any wider her face would split. She was just so happy that everyone was enjoying their presents. That was until Pyrrha opened her's.

Pyrrha: Ummm... I... excuse me please.

Joan's smile faltered as Pyrrha rose from the circle of friends, her gift in hand and walked out of the common room.

Ruby/ Weiss / Yang / Blake / Nora / Ren : ...

Joan: *Sniffles* I ...

(In Argus)

Terra: So this one is from Joan.

Hands a beautifully wrapped boxed to Saphron. Which Spahron takes while giggling.

Saphron: It's a little big to be another coupon book.

Terra: Don't be like that... I remember you getting a LOT of use out of those coupons.

Saphron tore open the gift and opened the boxed. A confused look crossing her face. She sets the box down and pulls out a set of knitted mittens and a matching scarf, both done in red and bronze wool. A spear a shield emblem on the right mitten and one end of the scarf. Matched with a double crescent emblem on the other left mitten and the opposite end.

Saphron: I don't get it.

Terra: Oh, no. I think Joan may have accidentally sent the wrong gift to us!

(Back at Beacon)

Joan tried to enjoy the rest of the little gathering, but she was just not in the mood anymore. She gave the excuse of being tired and wanting to lay down. Everyone knew the real reason, and all silently vowed to have a word... with the Invincible Girl.

Joan entered JNPR's dorm and moved to her bed. She sat facing Pyrrha's bed, and wondered what was wrong with her gift. She never heard the creak of the bathroom door opening, nor the soft padding of bare feet across the floor.

Joan: *Sniffle* I really though she would have liked my gift.

Pyrrha: *Huskily whispering into Joan's ear* I love your gift Joan. In fact I'm wearing a pair of them right now... just for you.

Joan blushed as one of Pyrrha's toned arms slid around her waist.

Pyrrha: *Huskily whispering into Joan's ear* I think the label said these ones were... cherry flavored. Do you want to find out if they really are?

Joan's face went cherry red, as she finally caught on to what Pyrrha was referring to. That was the gag gift she was going to send to Saphron and Terra. A flavored variety pack of edible underwear, and she gave them to Pyrrha, her partner, and crush by accident!

Pyrrha: *Nibbles on Joan's ear before once again whispering* I already texted Nora and Ren... they're going to go into Vale for the rest of the day...

Joan: I... um...

Pyrrha's free hand rose up holding an orange-yellow pair of nearly see through panties.

Pyrrha: *Still whispering* These are supposed to be Sun-kissed Orange... I think they would look delectable on you... darling.

Joan shivered... but she wasn't sure if it was in anticipation or in fear.

/=====/ To EVERYONE... I wish you a SAFE and HAPPY HOLIDAY SEASON!!

[rabbitenn]

I loved the hcs for what it'd take for Tenn to fall for someone!! Could I request the same prompt for one of Re:vale or both? ^^

RE: FALLING.

Like a midnight sun coming out of nowhere, he finds his heart magnetized by your every action.

ft. Momo, Yuki x gn! reader.

cw/genre: fluff, romance.

hello, lovely anon! Thank you so much for your request and for enjoying the Tenn headcanons with this prompt enough to ask for more <3 it makes me very happy! I hope you like these too, my apologies it took me so long to work on it…

♡ MOMO

— For Momo to fall for someone, I believe they’d have to be a determined person, with a certain degree of confidence in themselves as well.

— He would admire a partner with those attributes. Momo is someone who fights for his dreams. We see this in the way he never gave up on Yuki and begged for him to keep singing every single day.

— So, a s/o who is bent on doing everything in their hands and giving their 110% for their passion would be a good match for Momo.

— Despite the cheerfulness following him everywhere, Re: vale’s idol is someone very observant and kind. So, a lover who is introverted and doesn’t really express their emotions or troubles right away could be a very good match for him.

— Momo would take on the challenge to break through your walls; of course, without ever making you uncomfortable or overstepping any boundaries, he is very considerate.

— In turn, I believe a more reserved partner would feel at ease around Momo’s bubbliness, helping them open up more. His bright and peppy demeanor is surprisingly gentle and nurturing towards those he holds most dear, like demure rays of an autumn’s afternoon sun.

— Momo mentions his ideal type of lover himself: someone he can laugh and share his joys with.

— Taking that into account, loving and with a sense of humor to some degree would be favorable qualities for him to fall for you.

— Kisses that end in laughter when your noses brush together, his cute little fangs visible as your eyes can’t help but regard him in a rose colored dazed.

— Chuckles leaving your lips when he does something silly or fawns over you (or Yuki), cheeks tinting in the peachy hues of pink sunset skies.

— Moments like these, when a melody of shared joy seems to surround you, are his favorite. A song he could forever dance to.

— Momo would be attracted to someone collected and reassuring, able to stay calm under pressure.

— He gets nervous during solos, and even if he smiles through it, he’s afraid to hold his groupmate back, as he sometimes doesn’t feel good enough to stand next to Yuki.

— That is why someone who can comfort him in these trying moments, letting him know how amazing he is and showing him his worth, would be perfect for him.

— Hold his hands in yours, squeezing them softly. The warmth of your trust in him will give Momo the courage to believe in himself as well. Your touch is the lighthouse that guides his doubting soul into tranquil waters; the sunrise putting an end to a dark night of hesitation.

♡ YUKI

— For you and Yuki to get along, I think you’d have to be a patient and persevering partner.

— He is not one to open up easily, nor is he very adamant or adept at expressing his emotions. Someone who keeps trying, not to the point of overwhelming him, of course, has more options to get to know his true self.

— He is pretty serious, despite his more savage side. If you ask me, I’d love to see him with a sunshine-like partner (I mean, he gets along super well with Momo and he fits that request, so…).

— It’s adorable, to see his cool and composed facade splitting into smiles and blushy cheeks when you do something cute or are affectionate with him.

— Yuki would be happiest with a s/o who can be appreciative of music and the arts.

— He pours his soul into the songs he writes, no matter if people don’t like him, Yuki just wants everyone to love his work.

— That is why it would mean so much to him if you cherish music and songwriting as much as he does.

— You and Momo would always be the first to hear Yuki’s new songs. He also bases some of them on you; you are his muse and his biggest inspiration to create new melodies.

— He also likes watching the dramas and films he stars in, since he enjoys learning from the way he is edited in them. So, if you are into acting or cinema too, that would create the perfect opportunity for compelling and stimulating conversations about the topic.

— Someone easy going and friendly would help the idol socialize and interact more too. Yuki is very cool, even intimidating sometimes to his juniors (he’s just teasing them, but you get it). Thus, if you’re able to balance out his distant demeanor, chances are you’re highly compatible with him.

— A little of a bold streak would also go very well with Yuki. He has his daring moments, so if his partner were to match them, it would make for quite the witty banter between you two.

— Being open minded and emotionally flexible are traits that Yuki would value a lot from you.

— He’s totally a free spirit, he likes doing what he pleases or feels like at a given moment. So, if you can go with his flow and adapt to his preferences, the probability of you and him clicking is higher.

— Also, someone trustworthy would attract Re: vale’s handsome idol attention as well.

— It is quite obvious Yuki is not one to trust or rely on others easily.

— Show him your loyalty, be there for him in the moments he needs it but doesn’t say so. Please, prove to him you love him for him, not only for his pretty face and heartstopping fan service.

— You’ll get to see the warm aurora borealis in his usually icy stare the moment he gives his heart to you. And let me tell you, oh it is worth it.

[anolis3]

"Flower", by Thatgamecompany.

"I wandered lonely as a cloud, That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.", from Daffodils, by William Wordsworth.

"Softly they sway, suspended in the air, The chimes of serenity, whispering a prayer. Gently they sing, melodies so sweet, Invisible, hands strumming, a gentle heartbeat. Soothing the soul, in their melodic embrace, Through zephyrs and gusts, they find their place. A chorus of peace, carried on the wind, Bringing tranquil moments, where worries rescind.", from Chimes of Serenity, by Grace Adams.