#tw: childbirth effects

[ficmesideways]

Request for Anonymous Gif Source: Han

Imagine having twin girls with Han and struggling with postpartum psychosis which causes him to worry.

------- Imagine -------

The change in you had happened only a few short days after the birth. You had become distant with both he babies, refused to eat, and even began zoning out for extended periods of time. Han had expressed his concerns and although you brushed him off, he had insisted. Taking both you and the children back to the hospital to discuss your symptoms with both the OBGYN and the psychologists on staff. He had held your hand and been with you through the entire process, worry lines creasing his loving eyes.

[angel-of-the-moons]

Chocolates vs Aliens Pt. 2

Symbrock x Pregnant!Reader

TW/CW: NSFW, SMUT, PiV sex, unprotected sex, fluff, pregnancy, childbirth, anxiety, mentioned somnophilia (consented), lactation kink(?), oral sex (f! receiving)

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

Taglist: @yoink-a-doink @jayfall93 @being-worthy @theflamingraven

🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫

Every day passed meant it was another day your baby girl grew, another kick, another day closer to being able to hold her in your arms and see her tiny face.

Of course, Eddie and Venom were excited, too. You guys moved fast, but everything came in stride, as if you were together for years. Despite the strange circumstances surrounding the three of you, you were content. Eddie and Venom treated the baby as if they fathered it, and you couldn't be happier. Even if you and Venom were in a constant battle for dominance when it came to chocolate. (Spoiler: you almost always won.)

You especially loved it when Venom cradled your belly. He did it at every available opportunity he could snag. Eddie meanwhile took care of a few more mundane things, splitting with Venom the duties of helping your changing body as your due date closed in on you.

Eddie would massage your feet and swollen ankles, while Venom's inky body would surround your midsection, taking the weight of the baby up off your hips, easing the strain on your back...

But your favorite day so far has to be today.

Because right now, you were currently watching Eddie and Venom snap at each other as they struggled to assemble the crib you ordered online.

No written directions were included, merely pictures of most of the crib already assembled; and the two already had to take it apart three times to start over.

"No, that part goes to that part and that one goes there!" Eddie snapped as the symbiote held a screwdriver and a piece of the railing in a long inky tendril.

Venom growled deeply, "WE ARE NEVER BUYING ANYTHING FROM IKEA EVER AGAIN!"

"No the fuck we are not." Eddie huffed. "We're better off buying furniture at a goddamn yard sale!"

You giggled from where you rocked on your reclining chair, your belly heavy and rounded out; effectively making you look like you swallowed a melon whole.

Eddie and Venom snap their heads to pout at you.

"What're you laughing at?" Eddie asked.

"Yeah, we'd like to see you try to put something like this together!" Venom snorted.

"Nah, I already have my hands full putting together something waaaay more intricate." You snort back, looking through the cozy baby clothes you'd bought yesterday.

New Years was approaching, and you knew full well you would be due around then, and your poor tiny baby would be absolutely freezing! So you took the preemptive and bought little newborn winter clothes for your girl, including a cute little fluffy teddy onesie with a hood that had cute little ears on it.

"Oh, yeah?" Venom asked, narrowing his eyes skeptically.

"Yep." You pat your tummy, and the skin shifts as a tiny foot kicks from within.

"...Okay yeah fair point." Eddie chuckled, shaking his head.

"Yeahhh, mommy wins again!" You grin, patting your belly once more, earning yet another eager kick as you imagine it to be a high-five.

"What, are you keeping score now?" Eddie sighs, pointing the screwdriver at you.

"Damn right I am." You grin. "Mommy points for the win!"

"And how many points do we have?" Venom inquired, tilting his head.

"Not enough to beat meeeee~"

Both of them snorted and shook their heads, before turning back to the task of assembling the frustrating crib that would soon, very soon, cradle your newborn daughter.

If Eddie or Venom ever put her down, that is.

🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫

Christmas came and went in what felt like the blink of an eye. Your little celebration was small, and you even invited Mrs Chen over to join in on your festivities.

Which mostly consisted of pizza, a sandwich board, and chicken wings, plus a few homemade goodies that Ms Chen brought with her. Not the best meal idea, but it was a party, and damn those wings were good.

You and Venom even gifted Sonny and Cher a nice little seed treat you baked for them as a Christmas present for being "such good birdies".

Baking for chickens, now that was a first. But hearing their happy little clucks as Venom petted them and talked baby to them was absolutely adorable and worth the trouble. As were the large eggs afterwards!

Your mood swings had petered out about two or three months ago (you weren't sure, but Eddie insisted when you didn't break into tears watching a documentary about penguins) and unfortunately, well...

There are other symptoms of a pregnancy that you really thought you could stave off. You tried, you really did, but Venom having such heightened senses and being able to pick up on your scent and hormones? Oh, yeah. You were screwed.

Literally. In several different ways. You'd only had sex once or twice in a previous relationship, and with how disappointing that was, you definitely preferred to handle your urges yourself.

Where your ex-partner previously failed, Venom and Eddie were overachievers.

Taking great care with your belly and baby, they did whatever they could to ensure you were comfortable before making you so strung out your brain could barely form a coherent thought. Between Venom's tongue and Eddie's hands, you were a whimpering, trembling mess when the two would take you to bed.

Venom was especially ravenous in his sexual appetite. After learning more about sex and the pleasure it brought since bonding with Eddie... Where his host was a meal, you were a full-course desert that he would lose himself in.

Some nights, when he would climb through your window, he would immediately seek you out, drawn in by the lingering adrenaline from the hunt and the smell of you.

When you weren't moving about your apartment, Venom could find you in bed, sleeping fitfully. That was when he would crawl up under the blankets and find his way between your legs, not letting up until you woke up a panting mess.

Yeah, definitely the best way to be woken up, in your opinion. There were worse ways. Waaaay worse. Especially because your pregnancy-libido certainly wasn't complaining, the rush of endorphins afterwards would help outweigh the growing anxiety as the days passed.

Every day meant you were closer to your due date. Every day meant you were closer to experiencing possibly the worst pain you will ever feel in your life.

And there was the chance something could go wrong, that your baby could get stuck, or the umbilical cord could wrap around her, or she could be in a breech position...

You feel Eddie's hands gently encircle you, lazily draped over your shoulders as you sat in the shower chair, the warm water pattering over you two. It was New Year's Eve, and you two decided a calm, relaxing shower was a nice way to unwind before you poked your head out of your window to watch the fireworks people would inevitably launch to usher in the new year.

"Hey, sweets." He said to you softly, his thumbs brushing your collarbone softly. "We can feel your pulse jumping like crazy. You okay?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I just..." You sigh.

"Liar." Eddie chuckled, bringing his large hands to your shoulders to press his thumbs into your weak spots, making you shiver and drag out a soft noise from you.

"C'mon." He urged gently as he massaged you, sending delightful shivers down your back and to your toes and all the way back up again.

"You can tell us, sweets. You thinking about the delivery again?"

You deflate a little, the bliss of his skilled hands drifting away from your grasp as the weight of your baby's birth came back to your mind.

"...Yeah. I'm just... I'm so, so worried, Eddie." You say, feeling your lip begin to wobble.

"I've read so many horrible things online of how it could go wrong, and..."

Venom's head suddenly slinks around you until his strange body is stretched so he could look you in the eyes.

"But there's also good things." He rumbled. "You might have a quick birth, not having to go through it for hours or even days..."

"And hey, you might even be one of those ladies who sneezes and pop! The baby's out!" Eddie added in, making Venom groan.

You can help but chuckle at how absurd it sounded, and you knew Venom was inwardly cringing at such a naive suggestion.

"I doubt I'll be that lucky." You sigh, a smile finally gracing your soft lips.

"Hey! You never know!"

"Idiot." Venom huffed.

"Shithead." Eddie smirked.

You feel your anxieties settle a bit, at least for now.

Your hands trail over your belly, over the thin purple lines crossing your skin, your fingers gently caressing the rising and falling bumps as your baby shifted and rolled around inside your womb.

"...Willow." Venom suddenly said.

You and Eddie blinked and stared at him, brows raised and eyes large, a long silence filling the shower as the water ran over you.

"What?" You ask him.

"For a name. You're gonna be due any day now." He purred, leaning his face closer to your belly.

"Still haven't settled on one."

"Where did you hear that name, Vee?" Eddie asked, shock evident in his tone.

"In some TV show I flicked through when you two were asleep. I like it." He replied simply, pressing his muzzle to your belly, feeling the tiny feet and hands thrash out from within.

"Okay, as far as names go that's... actually a good one." Eddie murmured.

"...Willow." You repeat softly.

It was a beautiful name. And honestly... You liked it. You had yet to pick a name for yourself, indecision being your worst enemy your entire life made the process that much harder.

Picking a name was one of your fears, too. You wanted your daughter to have a wonderful one; one she could carry with pride, and the pressure you placed on yourself to pick the perfect one was what screwed you up on that.

But this name, the one Venom suggested felt... right.

"Yeah." You smile once again. "Yeah. Her name can be Willow."

Venom grinned a shark-like grin and nuzzled his face into your belly like a happy affectionate cat, purring like one, too.

"Well, I'm glad that's a weight off of you." Eddie chuckled, resuming his earlier massage into your shoulders, earning another blissful sigh from you.

Yeah... Things will work out. After all, as long as you had these two with you, you felt like you could handle anything.

You relaxed and leaned into Eddie's touch, a little whimper escaping you as his thumbs knead into a knot in your shoulders.

Venom grinned up at you, and you knew fell the glint in his eyes meant you were in trouble.

And you knew that Eddie had the same smirk.

"No point in hiding it, sweet thing." Venom growled lowly, his tongue laving out to taste the skin on your hip, tracing the stretch marks etched into your skin.

"We know what gets you going." Eddie said quietly, leaning in to whisper in your ear.

You shivered when Venom's tongue slithered lower, past the swell of your midsection and down to your twitching clit.

"It's n-not my fault..." You whined, your voice cut off by a breathy moan as you felt Venom's tongue squirm past your entrance and into your tight, gummy walls.

"Of course not." Eddie hummed, massaging your shoulders as you arched your spine as little as you could; Venom's inky body slinked around you, enveloping you and keeping you from slipping off the shower chair in the process while he proceeded to eat you out with voracious hunger.

Eddie hissed suddenly, his fingers halting in their ministrations to squeeze you softly.

"Eddie, what--" You panted.

But that's when you felt it. The water was getting cold.

"Maybe we should move this to the bed, hm?" Venom cackled.

🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫

"Eddie, fuck..." You whimpered fingers gripping tight into your bedsheets as Eddie rutted his nose against your clit, his lips and tongue dancing through your soaked folds as his hands pawed at your hips, bringing you down closer every time you squirmed away.

As Eddie devoured you, part of Venom's mass was completely surrounding his cock, sucking and stroking in time with his tongue as it pushed and pulled against your weeping cunt.

It was too much, and not enough at the same time. As much as you wanted more, you also wanted to push him away because the sensations were beginning to become too much for you to handle.

Your eyes were rolled back into your head as you felt that blissful feeling begin roll into a roaring crescendo, threatening to overtake you and make your heart patter out of your lungs.

God, you wished your belly wasn't in the way so you could see what he looked like between your legs. One day, soon.

Or, well... At least once you were fully recovered after the birth. Which would probably be a while.

You were so lost in Eddie's mouth working you over that you didn't notice Venom leering at you, saliva dripping around his fangs as his eyes narrowed to barely-there slits, focused intently on your heaving breasts; both long since swollen and sensitive as your milk came in.

You certainly didn't notice the small beads of hazy white liquid beading up and threatening to roll down the soft mounds of flesh as your orgasm approached.

"Oh, fuck--" You gasped, weakly rolling your hips to meet Eddie's eager mouth.

For a split second, you hear Venom snarl softly, before all of a sudden his mouth was on you, latching onto your pebbled nipple, his tongue rolling and squeezing your breast to get out every drop of that sweet liquid he could.

"Fuck." Eddie groaned, pulling back to breathe heavily.

Venom made sure Eddie could taste your milk as he drank from you readily, the flavor coating his tongue and flooding his taste buds to combine with the sweet taste of your nectar that coated his face and chin.

It was an intoxicating combination.

Eddie's eyes rolled a bit as he dove back in, aggressively sucking and nipping at your clit, gently prodding your entrance with his fingers as Venom proceeded to try and drain your breasts of all their milk.

All at once, the combined feelings had your mind blacking out, every muscle tensing as you came; your teeth snagging your bottom lip between them and you made a loud moan, barely able to string their names out of your mouth as they helped you ride out your orgasm.

Eddie pulls his mouth away from you and rises to his knees while Venom pulls himself free (albeit reluctantly) of your breast, licking the stray rivulets of milk that had begun to run down the sides of your tits.

"So sweet, love." He purred, licking his chops. "But we need more."

Venom's head merged back into Eddie's body, his inky mass slinking down his arms until it was comfortably arching your hips and back off the bed while Eddie rutted his sensitive cock against your sensitive cunt, still fluttering and clenching around nothing as the remnants of your orgasm waned.

But every lazy stroke of his hips sent little bolts of lightning arcing through your nerves, stretching out the little aftershocks just a bit farther as he carefully slid his cock into your hungry cunt.

"Fucking tight." Eddie hissed through clenched teeth, his eyes pinching shut.

"Not gonna last long, sweets." He rasped.

Between Venom working his cock over and edging him while he ate you out, and how your silky wet heat enveloped him so wonderfully tight, he could already feel himself getting lost in your body.

"Eddie, please..." You keened, your fingers going to grip at his wrists, your nails digging into his skin with each plunge of his cock into your needy hole.

He was careful with you, trying not to jostle you (and the baby) too much as he fucked you.

You felt the pressure build up low in your belly once more, squeezing down and sending another tight feeling down your spine as you became hyper-aware of every vein in his cock as he glided in and out of your hole.

"Almost, baby, almost..." Eddie breathed, wriggling one of his wrists free so he could brace it in the pillow by your head to give himself a bit of leverage as he rocked his hips into yours.

He could feel his orgasm climbing fast; sweat dripping down his brow as your delicate hands slid over his shoulders. The way you bit your lip and locked eyes with him only drove him further into no man's land.

"Fuck." He moaned weakly, his pace stuttering and dragging out as he felt the first volley of cum shoot out of his sensitive tip.

He had enough control to pull out, rutting his hips over your belly as the rest of his cum shot over your swollen belly and twitching pussy, his cock once more rutting against you as he came hard.

Your teeth grit and your nails dug in as Eddie buried his face in the crook of your neck, panting hard into your damp skin as you feel a sensation you were almost familiar with burst low, a fresh burst of wetness gushing from you are the pressure on your lower spine builds and tingles.

"Oh, fuck." You swallow. "Eddie."

"Yeah?" He asks, pulling back to look down at you with an almost cocky smile on his face.

"I think my water broke."

He and Venom both immediately began to panic.

"WHAT?!"

🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫

The scrambling to get to the hospital moved by you in a blur. One minute Eddie was hastily dressing you in one of your sundresses, slippers, and a pair of panties, the next you were carried like some sort of fairytale princess down to the car park.

Good luck getting an ambulance out to your place tonight...

Eddie and Venom bickered the whole time to your car, your hospital bag prepped and slung over Eddie's shoulder as he guided you down to your car.

They sat you in the passenger seat and helped you buckle in as the first set of contractions ripple through you. As the pain flashed, you couldn't help but be reminded by your earlier concerns.

You read that some women felt pain for days, or hours before their water broke. Why were you only feeling it now? Was that a bad thing? Was something wrong?

Fuck, you knew it would hurt, but... you weren't prepared for the sudden sharp stabbing. You expected it to start as a throb and build from there, not immediately start out like someone was hacking away at your lower half.

When you arrived at the hospital, Eddie had actually slipped and busted his ass on the freshly mopped floor in his haste to fetch you a wheelchair.

You would have laughed, if you hadn't been gripping the safety handle in the car, screaming as another sharp jolt stabbed through you.

A few nurses even chased him out, harping about how he could have a concussion from falling, but quieted when they saw what had him in such a frantic rush.

Your baby girl was coming, whether you were ready or not.

🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫

It had been close to four hours, and you were almost ready to deliver; nearly fully dilated, as your obstetrician cheerfully announced, a smile so cheerful and calm you almost kicked her in the face.

She was less impressed with Eddie, however, as she pulled him out of the delivery room to talk.

"We'll be right back, luv." She assured you sweetly.

"Uh... Is--is everything okay? You were saying they were okay, and--" He blurted out nervously.

"No, no, she's fine." She assured him, pushing her glasses up her nose once more.

"Then what..."

"I couldn't help but notice how hesitant she was to tell me how she went into labor. But I have to know, did she fall? Injure her belly in any way?" She questions.

"No! No, god no." Eddie said, waving his hands and shaking his head. "Nothing like that!"

She crossed her arms and tapped her finger on her bicep, a thick brow quirking upwards on her freckled brow.

"...Were the two of you having sex?"

Fuck.

Shit.

Fuck fuck fuck.

FUCK.

"Uh... I, er..." Eddie put a hand on his hip and scratched the back of his head, casting a look into the room where you were read-faced and sweaty while the nurses wiped your face with a towel while your hands gripped the handles in the birthing chair you were seated in.

He blew a puff of air out of his cheeks.

God, he wanted to crawl into a hole and die. The embarrassment of the situation was too much for him, having this teeny tiny Irish woman stare him down.

"I'm not judging you." She says flatly, not letting him escape her microscopic gaze. "But I have to tell you that there is a reason we tell pregnant patients to avoid penetrative sex, or excessive sex this late into their third trimester. It can make them go into labor."

She clicked her tongue and sighed. "You're lucky that she was so close to her due date that the baby isn't in any real danger. But it was still reckless. Regardless if she consented or not, this sort of thing can be dangerous, you hear me?"

Eddie wilted, feeling very much like a puppy who got caught wee'ing on the carpet, shame and mortification filling every inch of his body. Even Venom felt this way, cringing internally at the truths the doctor spat at them as she gave her lecture.

Her rant was cut short when you made a sharp yelp, jerking and clutching at your belly and one of the nurses came rushing to the doorway.

"Doctor O'Halloran, she's ready. We can already feel the baby's head. Looks like this baby wants out now!" She said, absolutely calm and no concern in her voice. If anything, she sounded excited!

Eddie meanwhile was frantic as O'Halloran clicked her tongue again, checking her watch with an almost bored glance. "Huh. Look't that. Well! Let's get this baby out of her! Adjust the chair so she's a bit more comfortable."

She grinned at Eddie, "Well? C'mon, Papa! You better be in here to see your baby girl!"

He felt his heart surge and flop in his chest when she said that. It was finally settling in.

Papa.

Their baby. Their baby girl.

Eddie had scrambled to behind the chair, leaning forward to wrap his arms around you.

He was glad he had Venom to strengthen his body, because god, could he swear you had suddenly gained incredible super strength as you began to push, crying and screaming as your lungs were squeezed of air, the pain so blinding you had actually fainted for a few seconds, all while not losing your inhumanly tight grip on his hand.

You had shouted more obscenities than Eddie and Venom had ever heard you swear, in between crying and apologizing for saying them and fainting like a messed up cycle.

Doctor O'Halloran assured Eddie this was normal rather calmly as you came to yet again, just to cry and scream again as your body struggled to push the baby free of your birth canal.

The smell of blood immediately had Venom wanting to surge forth, despite knowing there was nothing he could do for you currently except support you from inside of Eddie as you endured the most painful struggle of your life and he bore witness to something he'd never seen with his own eyes.

The bringing of a life into the world.

It hurt the both of them, to see you hurting so badly as you strained to bring Willow out for the world to see. Thankfully, as Venom had hoped earlier in the night, your birth was going quickly.

Not painlessly, of course, oh no. Definitely not painless.

"The moment we get home, I'm bonding with her. I know I can do it." Venom whined within Eddie as you sobbed in pain. "I want to fix her. I don't want her to hurt anymore after this."

Eddie silently agreed, hoping you would consent to melding with the symbiote to heal the damages your body was going through to birth your baby.

They just wished that you didn't have--

All at once, your body went slack and your eyes shut, but before the boys could panic any further, a tiny, ear-piercing wail filled the room.

"A girl! A nice set of lungs on her!" O'Halloran laughed as she scooped up and handed the newborn off to the nurse. She knew that Eddie (and Venom of course) were too preoccupied between staring in awe at the squirming purple body the nurse held to focus on cutting the cord.

All they could think about was her.

She was here. In front of them. Finally.

Those tiny feet that kicked out at them all this time, the little head they could feel shift around in your belly...

The nurses adjusted the chair enough to allow you to lean back, and Eddie covered your face in kisses, waking you up again with a mad grin.

And, heaven fucking bless you; amazing, gorgeous, powerful you, you smiled back. A tired, watery smile as you cried in victory.

Giving birth and being birthed was the closest thing that someone could come to dying and still come out of it. Many were not so lucky, but they were glad you were among the majority that emerged from this bloody struggle with a smile on your face and mirth in your bloodshot eyes.

The nurses wiped your baby down a bit before pulling your gown down to place her squirming, hiccuping body onto your bare chest.

Your hands weakly went to cradle her warm body, kissing the top of her head where a patch of fuzzy hair was.

"Hey, sweetheart." You sniffled, whispering against the wet fuzz.

You could barely get words out as emotions surged out of you all at once, overwhelming your body and mind as you cradled your precious child.

Almost immediately as your voice washed over her, it was as if the angry baby instantly calmed. It was like your soft, happy sobs were a soothing balm to her squirming body.

Neither could tell who moved it first, but Eddie's hand went to cover yours, Willow looking positively teeny beneath his large hand, watching in awe as her tiny, fat little fingers clawed and groped at your chest.

The sounds of loud booms from outside filled your ears, making her jump and wail once more as you coo'd and murmured to your baby.

"Hey, Eddie?" You sniffled, looking up at him.

"Y... Yeah?" Eddie asked, his throat tight as tears began to build at the corners of his eyes.

You tipped your head and kissed his jaw, weak and tired.

"Happy new year."

You were only faintly aware of the nurses cheering; both the healthy baby you birthed and in celebration of the new year ahead of you.

🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫

They kept you at the hospital for another two days after you gave birth. After passing the placenta and remaining viscera of the birth, your body felt like literal tons of strain had been lifted from you.

And of course you, at the same time, felt like you had been tackled unprotected by a professional linebacker.

So, of course as soon as Venom offered to ease your comfort and repair the damage you agreed. It would certainly save on the recovery time. Sure, it would be hard to explain during your next checkup, but you'd cross that bridge when you got to it.

Ms Chen had gone to the hospital, as she was practically the closest thing either of you had to a mother and she wanted to see the baby. She carried an armload of supplies with her, too. Including some kinda balm that frankly stunk of something akin to menthol, but whatever it did, it certainly eased the pain on your poor nethers.

And of course, she gave a shit-eating grin when you named her honorary grandma.

Even Eddie's ex, Anne, came with her fiancee to congratulate him and coo over the adorable little bundle he so proudly cradled in his strong arms.

He certainly had nurses swooning, but you knew their eyes were only for you. Especially after he cried some more when you wanted his name on her birth certificate.

Right now, you watched as Willow suckled on her cute pink pacifier that Anne had slipped down to the gift shop to buy while they were at the hospital.

She was dressed in a soft two-piece to ensure the remnants of the umbilical cord weren't too aggravated, her cute little face pinched as she grunted in her sleep, exhausted from feeding and content as you carefully swaddled her.

Eddie came up behind you as Venom's head emerged from his body, all three of you looking down as your newborn dreamt whatever dreams babies had. Probably about her next feeding time.

"She's so fucking cute." Eddie sighed dreamily.

"I know! And she's so chunky." You giggle. "I had a real meatball of a baby. No wonder I was so big."

"Nah, you're beautiful." Eddie chuckled, kissing the skin of your shoulder that had been exposed by your oversized T-shirt. One of his, for sure, but he didn't mind.

Venom purred in a near-silent content, before turning to look at Eddie with a shark-like grin, sending a thought telepathically for only him to hear.

The thought made Eddie choke and start to laugh as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

"What? What's so funny, you ginormous dorks?" You snicker.

"Ah. Eh..." Eddie said, grinning widely. "...Vee says he calls dibs on the next one."

"Next one..?" You say, your brows furrowing.

"Yeah... the next one. He wants to be the one to knock you up next time."

"Oh, my god!" You gasped, spinning around to slap at Eddie's shoulder while he and Venom laughed. "You two are horrible! Have mercy on my poor body!"

Venom leaned in, nuzzling the pulse in your neck.

"We didn't hear a no..."

[cirtusmistress]

JJK Bridgerton Inspired HC’s - Toji Zenin

an: i usually write these in batches but my bestie asked for Toji so we’re doing Toji, fuck it

tw: sexual implications

genre: historical romance

AO3 Crosspost

Gojo, Geto, Nanami

🖤 Shamed Lord Toji Zenin and the Spinster 🖤

• Toji comes from a wealthy family who had graced the ton for generations. But he is the outcast of his family. He had been excommunicated after being caught in a scandal. He was exiled to one of the family's country houses, out of the eyes of the ton and high society.

• After some time he fell in love with a local townswoman. They married to the horror of his family. As if his shame could not grow. Soon his wife fell pregnant and they had their son, Megumi. But the throes of childbirth were too much. She died shortly after.

• Toji was unwilling to raise a son alone knowing fully well that Megumi had a chance at a good life. So he surrendered him to his family. He hasn’t seen him since and his family does not write.

• He fell into gambling, primarily horse race betting. Soon he had blown through the savings and monthly allowance his family permitted him. Soon he was cut off.

• He found the only way he could make money effectively was by doing tasks others would not. Plenty of people in the ton had those they wanted gone..

• Being a hitman was both a source of income and a ticket back into society. Not that Toji wished for it, but it was easier to get work from mindless noblemen with money to burn.

• It was on one of his hits that he actually met you. You were a spinster, a woman who had aged out of the eligible dating pool. Given most men wanted younger women with potential.

• Unfortunately for you the target he was after was in fact your carriage driver.. So the only way he could get to him, was to go through you.

• People stared incredibly hard as exile Toji Zenin and the local spinster took to the dancefloor. The waltz was.. Perfect. Elegant. Passionate. You were meant to be his cover and yet he was transfixed.

• He did in fact take out your driver. After he brought you home. And after you two spent a very long carriage ride together. Past your home. Twice. Once you were home in bed safe and sound, he did his work.

• He made sure to see you again. Running into you at balls. Showing up when you were in the park. Even being at the dressmaker when you were there! What a coincidence!

• You got to know one another. Apparently you were a very wealthy Viscountess. Well, would be. Your father had been withholding money from you until you bore a son. Like Toji you had a tendency to be flippant with money. However you were still very kind, loving, and accepting. Even when he confessed he had been married, and had a son.

• You told him you’d help get his son back if he so chose, but he refused. Even if he remarried there was little chance after all this time he could give Megumi a better life.

• But you married him anyway. And he loved you. He didn’t think he could love again, and yet you proved him wrong.

• And after a year, you were blessed with a son. Your title and income assured.

• Toji did manage to ween off his betting addiction. Though you two did go together from time to time.

• Ever so often he sees a black haired young Lord being coached by that moronic crowned prince.. And when the name Lord Fushiguro touches his ears, he smiles. And a part of his heart finally rests easy.

@ list: @xxsugarbones

[letters-to-lgbt-kids]

(TW: Sex, genitalia mention)

My dear lgbt+ kids,

Sex isn't supposed to hurt. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying.

That includes all kinds of penetration: vaginal, anal, with a penis, finger or toy. "Entry pain" with penetration isn't normal and neither is pain during or after sex.

There are sadly still people out there who tell vagina-owners that it's normal to feel uncomfortable during sex, that penetrative sex isn't supposed to be enjoyable for you, only for your partner, or that you need to bear the pain (either for your partner's sake or "until you loosen up" - which is not how the vagina works!).

The idea that “you are born tight and need to be loosened up by a penis” (and that you therefore need to lie down and take the pain until you are loose enough) is a complete myth. It is easily debunked by basic biology: your vagina is a muscular canal. That means its tissue is elastic! It can stretch when it needs to, and then it bounces back (just think about childbirth! It can stretch to fit a whole baby) - and it can do that because that’s how muscles work, it doesn’t need some magic penis to come along and teach it to do that. It’s actually a pretty sexist idea that you’d need that! 

Pain isn't (and shouldn't be!) a normal, regular part of sex. If penetration hurts, it's a sign something is wrong. It's a good idea to talk to a medical professional who can help you pinpoint the exact reason.

Here are a few common causes:

Not enough lubrication. This means you are not "wet" enough. The vagina self-lubricates when aroused, the anus doesn't. So, for vaginal sex it can help to just include more foreplay to make sure you are really aroused and ready to go! Foreplay can be anything that feels good and gets you in the mood. Additionally you can use lube (this is a kind of gel or cream specifically made to reduce friction during sexual activity which are safe to apply to genitalia - please do not try to use face cream, shampoo or anything like that. If it is not made to be used vaginally, it can really irritate your skin and make the problem worse!). For anal penetration, you always need to use lube.

Certain medications (like antidepressants, birth control pills or high blood pressure pills) can decrease lubrication as a side effect. If you suspect this plays a role, please do not discontinue your meds without your doctor's approval. Ask them for advice, maybe you can switch to a different brand or dosage. Lube can also be helpful in those cases.

Urinary tract infections can cause a burning sensation during or after sex. Talk to your doctor, you may need antibiotics or other medication to treat your UTI.

Skin problems in your genital area (like eczema) can cause pain during sex. If your skin looks red or feels itchy, raw or swollen, talk to your gynecologist.

Vaginismus causes involuntary spasms of the vaginal muscles. This may be the case if you can't insert anything at all (not even tampons) without experiencing severe pain. Talk to your gynecologist. (They usually do not need to perform an internal exam to diagnose vaginismus, if you are worried about the exam being too painful). Treatment can include physical therapy (such as pelvic floor exercises) and psychological therapy.

Depression, anxiety, high levels of stress or past traumatic sexual experiences can also contribute to pain during sex. This does not mean “The pain isn’t real, it’s all in your head”! Emotional health and physical health are interlinked. For example, depression can make it harder to feel aroused (and therefore lubricated). 

This is not an exhaustive list. There are other temporary situations, chronic conditions and acute illnesses that can make sex painful - if you are unsure or worried, it’s always best to consult a gynecologist. 

With all my love,

Your Tumblr Dad

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 80

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 80: The Bloody Hand of Dread

AO3 - Masterlist

TW: Self-harming tendencies/suicidal ideation.

The day was bathed in a pleasant warmth, sunlight filtering through the occasional small clouds drifting lazily across the sky. Daenera had finally managed to convince the old hag that a small stroll in the gardens would do her some good, primarily to escape the tedious needlepoint that Mertha had insisted was ‘a way to calm the mind.’ It was far from calming, the monotonous activity only heightened the agitation simmering beneath her skin, leaving her tense and ill-tempered, resulting only in a persistent headache drumming at the back of her skull. Her restlessness had only intensified since Aemond’s departure for Storm’s End the previous morning–leaving her to wait anxiously for his return. 

She estimated that he would have arrived at Storm’s End by the previous evening, a thought that further tightened the anxious knot already formed in her stomach. She wondered how he might have been received and how long he would stay in the Stormlands to secure the alliance. It would likely span several days–days filled with feasting and strategic discussions for him, while she endured the monotony of waiting, her days marked by dull tasks alongside Mertha.

That morning she had bolted upright in bed, her heart racing and a prickling sensation of dread lingering at the nape of her neck. Her pillow had been damp with tears that clung to her eyelashes, a testament to the terror that had gripped her in her sleep. The only fragments she could recall from the nightmare were the deafening roar of thunder that seemed to reverberate within her chest and the sinister glint of teeth. The dream had left her disoriented and confused, its clarity slipping between her fingers like wisps of smoke. 

A nagging sensation had tugged at her consciousness ever since–a feeling akin to having misplaced a vital memory, the frustrating, elusive brush with something important she couldn’t quite grasp. The intangible loss gnawed at her, leaving her with a residual sense of unease. 

As she wandered through the garden, her thoughts repeatedly drifted back to that nagging irritation, to Borros Baratheon, and her certainty that he would accept the betrothal. How could he refuse? The alliance would infuse House Baratheon with more royal blood, significantly increasing their influence and power, and crucially, it would bring a dragon to their House–an offer Borros Baratheon could hardly dismiss.

Daenera considered the implications further: had she fallen pregnant with Boris’s child and provided House Baratheon with a male heir, perhaps Borros might have hesitated. Yet, even then, he would likely have consented. A marriage between one of his daughters and a prince held a far greater advantage than one between his brother and a princess. If his daughter were to bear a son, Borros would alter the line of succession to favor this child, effectively pushing aside his brother and any potential offspring of theirs. It would establish a more direct line of succession, an heir with Borros’s own blood. 

It was perhaps for the best, Daenera mused, that she had not become pregnant with Boris’s child. Not only because such a child would inherit nothing, but because she was certain the childbirth would have killed her. Her death would have been for nothing. 

Despite the fragility of her alliance with House Baratheon, Daenera found herself without regret over her decision to have Boris killed. After all, she knew Borros Baratheon would have preferred an alliance through marriage between his daughter and a prince, rather than maintaining the existing alliance made through his brother and a princess–who lacked the advantage of a dragon. 

“Did you hear what I just said?” Lady Mertha demanded pointedly, her voice shrill and biting, which only served to grate on Daenera’s already thinning patience. 

“Something riveting, I’m sure,” Daenera replied, casting a glance towards the terse woman whose face was set in a perpetual sour expression, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. She briefly wondered whether the older woman’s perpetual uptight demeanor was a result of the tight bun at the back of her head, which flattened her hair and seemed to pull at her scalp. This hairstyle only accentuated her age, hardening her features and deepening the frown lines that etched her face. 

“Don’t be obtuse.”

“Why not?” Daenera challenged flatly, fully aware that her response would only further irritate the old hag. 

“Because it’s not proper,” Lady Mertha retorted scornfully. “You’re a princess, and I am aware that your mother has allowed you some liberties, but she should have taught you to behave like a proper princess.”

Daenera rolled her eyes in exasperation. 

“It is why the Queen Mother deemed it appropriate to assign me to you,” Lady Mertha stated, her hands folded neatly before her, her spine as straight as a wooden plank, her head held high with pride. “So that I might teach you how to behave properly.”

“Your husband must be thrilled that you’ve been assigned to me,” Daenera drawled snidely. “It frees him from your company, and more importantly, from the marriage bed. That is, assuming you are married. Have you been a lady-in-waiting all these years?”

“Now you’re being rude,” Lady Mertha snapped. “I am married if you must know.”

“Hmm, I pity your husband, having such a dusty old shrew for a wife–”

Before she could finish, Mertha’s hand clamped around the flesh of Daenera’s arm. Her gnarled, bony fingers dug into her skin with bruising, punitive force. She gripped her like one might an ill-tempered child throwing a tantrum, stopping her in her tracks and forcing her to face the consequences of her impertinence. “I will have you dragged back to your chambers if you continue this insolence.”

Daenera stared at her blankly, head tilting in challenge. “And cause a scene right here in the gardens?”

The gardens were alive with others enjoying the sunny day as well. Ladies sipped iced tea under the shade of the pavilions, while others strolled leisurely along the garden paths. Mertha glanced around warily before prying her fingers from Daenera’s arm, her eyes burning with reproach. 

A petty smile curled at the corners of Daenera’s lips in response. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Daenera caught a glimpse of pale silver that instinctively drew her gaze. Helaena was sitting beneath the shadow of a tall tree, leaning against its trunk. Her pale blue eyes were fixed intently on her hands, an absorbed expression on her face as her fingers danced through the air, seemingly lost in a world of her own.  

Ignoring Mertha, Daenera charged forward, gathering up her skirts and stepping briskly over the flowerbed onto the grass. She had only managed a few steps before Mertha’s shrill voice rose again, filled with reproach. 

“Where are you going?” Mertha chirped sharply. “Get back here! This is improper! You cannot just wander off; there’s a path!”

Daenera turned to see Mertha towing the edge of the flowerbed, her hands clutching her skirts tightly, her face contorted with a deep scowl. Nearby, the guard who had followed them stood awkwardly half-way between the gravel path and the grass, one foot planted on each side of the flowerbed. He shifted uneasily under Mertha’s scolding glare, seemingly unsure how to respond to Daenera’s blatant disregard for taking the conventional path and Mertha’s insistence on it. 

“You may take the path laid before you, Lady Mertha,” Daenera retorted with a notable edge of insolence in her voice. “I will make my own.”

Turning her back on Mertha, Daenera walked determinedly towards Helaena. Behind her, she heard Mertha grumble to the guard,” Get back here Oliver. We’ll take the path.”

With a long, almost theatrical sigh, Daenera gracefully sank to her knees and then let herself flop onto the grass, resting her head in Helaena’s lap as they had done countless times before. Helaena offered only a small smile in response, her attention hardly shifting from her hands as the small ladybug crawled over her fingers. The moment held a gentle  intimacy, marked by their comfortable silence, and Daenera inhaled deeply, her eyes fluttering open to gaze up at the canopy above. The green leaves swayed gently in the breeze, filtering streaks and rays of golden sunlight that danced with the soft shadows they cast. 

The grass tickled against her palm as she swept her hand over its surface, finding solace in the light touch. 

“Your Grace,” Mertha greeted Helaena with a nod, her tone courteous yet unable to mask the tightness of reproach as her eyes drifted towards Daenera. “Get up, Princess, we’re returning to your chambers.”

“No. I wish to stay,” Daenera replied, her eyes closing in defiance. 

“No?” Mertha repeated, her voice rising in disbelief. “This is not–”

“Lower your voice,” Daenera interjected, her eyes snapping open to give the older woman a scornful glare. She gestured towards the lightly babbling Maelor, who was preoccupied with sucking on a silver rattle, his little feet kicking while he rested in his basket. “With your shrill voice, you’ll leave the baby in tears.”

“Princess…” Mertha began again, her voice low and warning. 

“I wish to stay here. It’s such a nice day after all, why not enjoy it?” Daenera stated, fixing Mertha with a steady, calm gaze that met the older woman’s muddled gray eyes. “Give us some privacy, will you?”

Mertha gritted her teeth, her grip on her own hands tightening with anger. She took a step back, then another, as if that small distance was enough to offer them semblance of privacy. Yet her shadow still touched Daenera, she was still too close for comfort. 

“You’re still too close, move further back,” Daenera commanded firmly. When Mertha stubbornly refused to move an inch, Daenera decided to invoke higher authority. “The Queen will agree with me that there's no need for you to be so close.”

The subtle smile on Helaena’s face widened just a touch, a small change meant only for Daenera to notice–and notice she did. She seemed to find a quiet amusement in Daenera’s defiance. The tightness in Mertha’s face intensified, her lips pursing as if she had tasted something incredibly sour. 

“You may step away, Lady Mertha. Thank you,” Helaena added softly, her voice gentle yet dismissive, effectively releasing the older woman from her duties for the moment. 

“Perhaps you can wait for me down by the path. I believe there are benches for your to sit on–for your knees, of course,” Daenera called out as Mertha turned and began to head towards the path she had come from. At Daenera’s words, Mertha paused and turned back to glare at her, her jaw clenched tightly, before continuing on, finally giving them some space. 

“Must you provoke her ire?” Helaena inquired, her head tilting slightly as her eyes followed the bug darting over her finger, letting it pass from one hand to another. 

“Yes,” Daenera responded petulantly, closing her eyes against the rays of sunlight piercing through the canopy of the tree. “If I am to endure her company, I will ensure she suffers mine in return, and it’s the only entertainment I am allowed. I am sick and tired of needlepoint. If I see another stitch, I might just sew my eyes shut.” 

Daenera rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palms, letting out a frustrated exclamation, “She won’t even let me touch a flower! Every time I reach for one, she slaps my hand away. They keep me from the gardens, confining me to the path. If Mertha had her way, I’d be confined to only visit the Sept.”

“They fear you’ll poison someone.”

“How much harm could I possibly do with a single flower?” Daenera retorted, her voice thing with exasperation. 

“I imagine a lot,” Helaena murmured as she watched the small, red bug crawl across her skin, seemingly amused by Daenera’s misery. 

“Do you have any idea how many flowers I’d need to gather to concoct something that causes more than just a stomach ache? Sure, I could pick a bunch of hydrangea, but poisoning someone isn’t as simple as just mixing flowers into someone’s meal–and with those, you’d only get very familiar with the chamber pot,” Daenera continued on, rambling as Helaena chuckled. 

“Like you did with Aegon?” 

Offering a wide grin, Daenera hummed with feigned innocence. “I have no idea what you’re insinuating. Your brother must’ve caught something in Flea Bottom.”

“Mhmm…” Helaena responded, her tone rich with amusement.

“Most flowers aren’t potent enough to be deadly–and those that are, you can’t very well hide away into someone’s food…” Daenera continued musing, her fingers absentmindedly playing with the ruffles of her dress. “But to truly kill someone, I’d need access to the herbal garden at the very least. Which, of course, I don’t have.” She let out a weary breath, then continued, “I could theoretically use apple seeds to make poison, but do you realize how many apples I’d have to consume just to gather enough seeds? If an apple has five to ten seeds, I’d need about two hundred apples to collect a lethal dose. Then I’d need to crush the seeds into a fine powder, and imagine the volume of that–it would hardly be inconspicuous. If I had my tools, I could refine it into a more potent form, just a few drops would suffice.” Daenera turned her head to look up at Helaena, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Of course, there are other seeds that are poisonous as well…”

Daenera knew that even cherry seeds or peach pits contained a certain amount of poison, yet the task of gathering and crushing enough of them posed its own challenges. If she were inclined to poison someone, she would prefer a quicker and less laborious method–perhaps using a few berries from one of the bushes in the herbal garden or the root of some of the flowers. However, such options were beyond her reach, as she was kept under strict observation at all times. Even now, Mertha sat at the edge of the clearing, her gaze fixed pointedly on Daenera, and the guard, Olliver, stood just behind a nearby tree, ever watchful. Helaena, now that she was Queen, also had her own entourage keeping close watch. Two ladies-in-waiting were positioned at a nearby table, attentive yet discreet, and a member of the Kingsguard stood steadfast by their side, ensuring the queen’s safety with vigilant eyes. 

Daenera thought he must’ve been cooking inside his armor. 

“Sounds like you’ve given this some thought,” Helaena chuckled softly. “This is why they keep you away from the gardens.”

“Well, they give me plenty of time to think about it when they have me stuck doing needlepoint all day,” Daenera grumbled, releasing an indignant huff and scowling even with her eyes closed. “I have never encountered anyone as infuriating as that old hag.”

“Not even Aegon?” Helaena challenged lightly, her tone playful as if she were teasing a child. 

Daenera opened her mouth, poised with a sharp retort, but paused, her words catching as she actually considered the comparison. She drew in a deep breath, pondering, then replied, “No, not even Aegon. At least Aegon isn’t as dull as her. He’s a drunken fool, but at least he isn’t dull.”

The amused smile on Helaena’s face widened slightly, adding a mildly wry expression to her features. Helaena let her vent. 

“I mean, truly, I pity her husband. He’s married to a right old cunt–dry, I’m sure, and filled with dust,” Daenera continued with a sharp edge to her voice. “I would rather sit silently in a room with your grandfather than be forced to endure more needlepoint in her company. If this continues, I will surely go mad and pull all my hair out!”

“Don’t pull your hair out,” Helaena advised with a chuckle. “You wouldn’t look good with tufts of hair missing. You’d just look…well… insane…”

Daenera laughed in response, a genuine, light sound that felt almost foreign to her ears. It had been days since she had truly laughed–days since he had found anything to genuinely laugh about. She blinked against the sunlight to look up at Helaena, noticing how the fine strands of her silver hair gleamed in the light, the faint blush of amusement coloring her cheeks, her pale blue eyes bright and present, even as they remained fixed on the bug. 

Helaena drew in a measured breath, her head tilting slightly. “Mmm, I don’t think you’ll go mad yet…”

“Yet,” Daenera repeated, a bemused smile tugging at her lips. 

“Do you think you know when you’ve gone mad?” Helaena asked, her tone light yet tight, as though it were a genuine concern for her. 

Blinking up at Helaena, Daenera looked at her in puzzlement. “I think it depends on what kind of madness you have.”

“Is it madness, or is it grief?” Helaena mused, her voice humming with curiosity. “Could madness be just another form of grief?”

Concern nibbled at Daenera’s fingertips, but she remained silent, allowing Helaena to ponder as her eyes tracked the tiny creature scampering from one palm to the other. Just then, Maelor emitted an unsatisfied grunt, the chime of his rattle hanging precariously in the air as he kicked and twisted, his face reddening with discontent. Daenera sat up, gently lifting the baby from the basket and cradling him against her chest before lying back down again. Maelor’s head rested against her sternum, his chubby little fingers clutching the fabric of her bodice as he nestled into her, visibly soothed by the contact. Her head then fell back into Helaena’s lap, finding comfort in the familiar and reassuring presence. 

“He misses you,” Helaena murmured softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Daenera’s gaze instinctively drifted down to Maelor’s head, observing his pale wisps and delicate curls. He nuzzled against her, his chubby little hands playing with the soft fabric of her dress. She could feel his weight against her and found an unexpected comfort in it. 

“I don’t think he’s capable of missing anyone yet,” Daenera responded, her palm resting on his back, her thumb gently soothing him. 

Helaena hummed lightly in response, a knowing tone in her voice. “You miss him too…”

Daenera looked up at Helaena, confusion furrowing her brow. “The baby?”

Helaena’s lips quirked at the misinterpretation. “No, Aemond.”

“Ah,” Daenera exhaled, her voice trailing off as she fell into a pensive silence, a new weight settling in her heart. Around them, the garden continued its gentle melody; leaves rustled softly above, the warm breeze caressed her skin, carrying with it the sweet fragrance of flowers and a hint of salt from the sea. Bees buzzed busily among the blooms, and butterflies languished in the warm sunlight. 

Daenera’s voice emerged again, small and almost fraile, “It’s not as easy as that… Missing him, I mean. I should hate him…”

She wished she could muster hatred for him. Hatred would simplify everything, an easy path to clarity, she thought. If he were merely her enemy, all would be straightforward. But emotions were tangled, and her heart seemed to rebel against such simplicity. 

Helaena’s gentle smile faded, her expression becoming distant as the ladybug spread its wings and flew away. “You will…” Her hands remained in the air, fingers twitching a little as though prickling to catch some invisible string in the air. “There’s two kinds of hatred, I think. One, a frigid flame, pure and desolate, offering nothing but cold…” Her hands fell to her lap. “The other, a fierce counterpart to love, both seated as equals, dining at the same table of passion. A hatred that burns with fiery intensity may blaze bright, but like most wildfires, it too will eventually burn out… And what is left when hatred has turned to ash, is the nature of love and its ability to grow. Love is such a strange thing, isn’t it?”

Daenera could feel her heartbeat, hard and quick, like the wings of a bird caught in flight, and she lifted her eyes to meet Helaena’s, asking tentatively, “Is it love?”

“Is it?” Helaena echoed, leaving the question to hang between them, light and gentle. Her hand brushed through Daenera’s hair, eyes reflecting a soft blue challenge. 

Shifting uncomfortably, she wrestled with the truth that clawed at her heart, demanding to be acknowledged. Suppressing the rising emotions and locking them away deep inside, refusing to acknowledge them, she murmured softly in an attempt to change the subject, “I had a nightmare.”

“Tell me about it,” Helaena responded, her voice humming with a gentle curiosity. Her hand found its way into Daenera’s hair, brushing it back and twirling strands around her fingers–a restless motion, as if she sought comfort or needed something to occupy her hands while anticipating the depths of the conversation.

“I only remember the crack of thunder and the gleam of teeth,” Daenera replied, her thoughts drifting back to the dream. She could still sense the persistent itch in the back of her mind, the nagging feeling of something forgotten, something pivotal that had yet to fall into place–the itch of having lost something. “And a cruel laugh.”

“He fed it, and now it will feed upon him…” Helaena mused, her gaze turning distant, as if lost in a mist that Daenera couldn’t quite perceive–adrift in what seemed to be the haze of dreams. “It shall feed upon you too, vengeance hungers… A curse is a beast with no master, it will heed its calling, once unleashed upon the wind and it will see the task for which it’s pinned. None may hope to bind it twice, without yielding something in sacrifice.” Her voice trailed off into silence, her mind seemingly enveloped in a fog, her eyes distant and tinged with sadness. 

Drawing a deep breath, Daenera chose to set aside her questions for the moment. Instead, she decided to draw Helaena back from her distant thoughts. “We’d travel along the channels of Braavos and visit every single one of the Hundred Isles. Then we’ll meet with the Sealord of Braavos, and he will grant us a palace. Within the palace courtyard, we’ll eat supper there and watch the stars and have music played at all times. 

Helaena blinked, her focus returning to Daenera, a soft smile slowly spreading across her lips. I thought we’d go to Lys.”

“We could go anywhere,” Daenera responded, her voice filled with the gentleness of a dream. 

They fell into a shared silence, warding off the intrusive thoughts and unspoken concerns that threatened to invade their peace. They created a sanctuary in their secluded corner of the garden, deliberately ignoring the looming red walls of the Red Keep and the scheming minds within. In this quiet sanctuary, they allowed no shadows to darken the clear patch of grass around them. 

Maelor, resting peacefully on Daenera’s chest, brought her a tranquility that the restless nights had denied her. She surrendered to the warmth of the afternoon sun, letting it lull her into a brief respite. It was only as the sunlight began to wane, casting long shadows across the garden, that she stirred from her repose. Her eyes fluttered open just as a shadow swept overhead–a tangible reminder of the larger world beyond the seclusion of their garden sanctuary–as Vhagar returned, its massive wings beating a steady rhythm, bringing them back from their journey to Storm’s End. 

Daenera sat up, carefully transferring little Maelor into Helaena’s waiting arms. Helaena stood, wrapping the child snugly in a soft blanket, and tenderly kissed his cheek. A damp patch marked Daenera’s bodice, a testament to Maelor’s peaceful slumber and occasional drooling. Maelor, his chubby fingers waving, gurgled happily as Helaena carried him back towards the Keep. 

Following closely beside Helaena, Daenera walked shoulder to shoulder with her, with Mertha and Oliver trailing along. Mertha muttered under her breath, a continuous stream of terse grumbles filling the air. As they walked back, the towering shadow of the Red Keep loomed ahead. 

As they made their way into the courtyard, the walls appeared to close in around Daenera, and the familiar weight of unease settled back into her stomach. The restlessness returned, creeping under her skin, intensifying as she bid farewell to Helaena and Maelor with a kiss to their cheeks. The two headed back towards Maegor’s Holdfast, Helaena musing lowly to her son as they went. Daenera then climbed the steps to the Keep, positioning herself on the landing that overlooked the courtyard and the gates. 

“We should get back to your chambers, Princess,” Mertha said tersely. “Edelin will have prepared supper by now.”

“I will have supper later. I wish to see Aemond,” Daenera responded firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument as she remained steadfast on the landing. 

Her gaze settled on the Bronze Gate, her heart pounding anxiously as she twisted the rings on her fingers–a mix of anticipation and dread churning within her. A nagging sensation clawed at the back of her mind, persistent yet intangible, deepening her unease into a palpable dread that settled heavily in her stomach. 

“Princess,” a voice called out, snapping her from her troubled reverie. 

Clenching her jaw tightly, Daenera reluctantly shifted her focus away from the gates, turning to face Ser Criston Cole as he ascended the steps towards the Keep. His armor caught the golden rays of the setting son, casting a harsh gleam that seemed almost foreboding, while his dark eyes fixed on her with a chilling, steely gaze. 

“Ser Criston,” Daenera acknowledged the greeting with a dry tone, taking a deep breath before fixing her gaze fully on the knight. “I suppose congratulations are in order on your rise to becoming the new Lord Commander. Though…” Her head tilted slightly as she scrutinized him. “It begs me to wonder what happened to Lord Commander Westerling. Did the same ill luck befall him as it did Lord Lyman?”

Ser Criston’s smile was cold as he reached the top of the landing, his dark eyes locking with hers. “Lord Commander Westerling was relieved of his duties due to his uncertain stance on who the true successor to the crown really is.”

“Is that so?” Daenera responded, her voice dripping with skepticism. “It seems to me that the Lord Commander’s honor is the only one that remains incorrupt.”

“And what do you know of honor, Princess?” Ser Criston challenged, his tone sharp and laden with disdain. The veiled insult hung heavily in the air between them, each word a barb. 

“I know that you lack it. If you possessed any, you wouldn’t have killed a woman who had already surrendered,” Daenera retorted, her words edged with her own scorn. It was one thing to kill in battle, another entirely to kill someone who had laid down their weapon. It had been murder in cold blood–dishonorable and contemptible, and she would not forget it, could not forget it. 

Daenera vividly remembered the widening of Joyce’s eyes, the shock and pain etched onto her face as the blade sank deep into her flesh, emerging bloodied and cruel on the other side. She recalled precisely where it had struck–directly in the stomach, a deliberately painful and slow way to die. The warmth of her blood that had touched her skin was unforgettable, as were Joyce’s quick, shallow breaths. She had watched as Joyce paled, her life ebbing away while the pool of blood around her expanded. Later, her body had hung beside Lord Caswell’s, limp and heavy, dark blood-stained dress, her eyes half-lidded, empty of life. Daenera remembered it–saw it each night as she closed her eyes. 

Ser Criston’s dark eyes narrowed, his gaze as sharp as the blade he had used to end Joyce’s life–a life taken not in fair combat but in a cruel bid to wound Daenera. It had been an act of sheer cruelty. Now, as she confronted him, she noted a slight shift in his posture, a sheepish, defensive tightness that spoke of a man uncomfortable being forced to face his own dishonorable actions. 

“I killed her in self-defense–” 

“She had dropped the blade–”

“She had not,” Ser Criston countered firmly, his voice unwavering as he attempted to rewrite history. “Your servant woman–”

“Her name was Joyce,” Daenera interjected sharply, her voice edged with a cold precision. “You should remember the name of the woman you killed in cold blood.”

Ser Criston stepped closer, his voice lowered to a menacing whisper. “Your serving woman wouldn’t have met her end had you simply compiled and surrendered from the start. Her death is on your hands, not mine.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” Daenera asked, feeling a surge of rage burning within her, the injustice festering like a bitter wound in her gut. 

“It is the truth,” Ser Criston replied flatly, his expression unyielding. 

“Is that what it is?” Daenera challenged him again, her voice raw and quivering slightly with emotion–with rage and grief. “It seems to me that you tell yourself that to believe you possess some semblance of honor. But we both know that’s a lie.”

“And what lie do you tell yourself, Princess?” Ser Criston retorted, his eyes scanning her face with a cool detachment. The way he emphasized ‘princess’ carried an insult that stung like the crack of a whip. “That you are free of dishonor?” His voice dropped to a dark timber, meant only for her ears. “That it doesn’t run through your veins? That your marriage was free of it? Do you understand what duty and sacrifice it requires?” His gaze bore into her, placing himself above her. “Honor is not innate. It’s something you earn, it is something you uphold.”

Daenera’s scowl deepened, her eyes narrowed as she responded with biting callousness, “You seem to mistake your ambition for honor.”

“I have no ambition beyond serving the King,” Ser Criston declared, holding his head high. “Something we should all strive to do.”

“Is that who you serve?” Daenera shot back, questioning his allegiance and the true nature of his so-called honor. It wasn’t truly the King that Ser Criston served, though he might believe so. In truth, it was the Queen Mother to whom his loyalty lay–and he served her not out of genuine allegiance but to cling to some semblance of honor, to uphold his own idea of what honor should be. Ser Criston’s allegiance to the Queen Mother stemmed not solely from duty but from what she represented to him and what she offered; she was a mirror, reflecting back at him the values he believed was to be right and pure. Moreover, his deep-seated hatred for her mother found a resonant echo in the Queen Mother, making her not just a ruler to serve but a companion in his disdain. 

“I serve the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms,” Ser Criston reiterated firmly, his tone leaving no room for doubt in his declaration. 

“A dog cannot serve two masters,” Daenera asserted sharply, her voice laced with contempt. “And a dog as dishonorable as you should not have been made Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. It seems to be your luck that you continue to rise despite your failures.”

The Bronze Gate opened with a resounding thump, instantly capturing Daenera’s attention, even as Ser Criston fumed beside her. He sifted on his feet, leaning in close to whisper harshly, “Was it honor that had you abandon your men to be killed? Will honor be enough to save those you have left?”

His words struck her like a slap in the face, a sting she hardly had time to process before he brushed past her, his cloak sweeping against her skirts as he strode into the Keep. Daenera swallowed thickly, her gaze shifting to Aemond as he dismounted his horse and handed the reins to a stable boy. With determined strides, he approached the Keep, taking the stairs two at a time. 

“Aemond…” Daenera called out, her voice faltering as he brushed past her without a glance, his expression set in a hard, unreadable mask–cold as ice and seemingly carved from it. His hair, though dry, had the slight curl characteristic of his mother’s, a departure from the usual straightness of it, which spoke of him having met rain on his journey. She frowned at his blatant disregard, a growing sense of dread tightening in the pit of her stomach, unease crawling under her skin. 

Daenera turned on her heels and followed him inside, despite Mertha letting out a sharp exclamation of displeasure, urging her to stop. “What happened? Who does Storm’s End stand with?”

Her skirts whispered across the floor as she hurried after him, his pace fast and unwavering even as he began to ascend the stairs. Daenera pressed on, demanding answers to her questions, her growing anxiety fueled by his silence. Had Lord Borros Baratheon defied expectations and chosen to align himself with her mother? Had he rejected the proposed marriage alliance? Or had his demands exceeded what Aemond had to offer? Did he seek additional alliances through not only one marriage but two? Or, more grimly, had he demanded Daenera’s head? 

These questions swirled within her mind, growing in the absence of his answers. The tension seemed to thicken with every step they took, and amidst her spiraling thoughts, Daenera could almost hear the ominous crack of thunder resonating in the back of her mind, mirroring her growing unease. 

“Where does Storm’s End stand?” She repeated, needing to know the position her mother was in. 

When he refused to answer again, Daenera reached out, her hand brushing against the leather of his sleeve as she grasped the crook of his arm, trying to halt his progress. He pulled his arm free and continued up the stairs without a backwards glance. The sting of his rejection was palpable, and Daenera’s frown deepened as she followed him. 

“Stop, Aemond,” she called after him, feeling the slight strain in her lungs as she attempted to keep up with him, reaching the top of the stairs. 

When he showed no signs of slowing down, she positioned herself directly in his path, effectively blocking him and forcing him to confront her. She looked up at him, noting how his jaw clenched tightly, his teeth gritted, his gaze fixed stubbornly on a point just above her head, refusing to meet her eyes or acknowledge her presence. 

Something had clearly gone wrong at Storm’s End–something that rendered him either unable or unwilling to meet her gaze. 

“Tell me, Aemond,” she implored, her voice soft yet insistent, almost pleading as she attempted to coax an answer from him. His jaw tensed further, muscles flexing visibly as he continued to bite down, refusing to meet her eyes. His expression was hard and cold as the steel at his hip, seemingly carved from the same iron resolve. His complexion was pale, showing no signs of the flush that might have lingered from his flight, suggesting the gravity of whatever news he carried. 

There, at the collar of his leather coat, on the pale column of his neck, was a smear of dreadful red–a detail she hardly noticed at first, barely processing it as her heart thundered within her chest. Daenera’s gaze was fixed intently on his face, searching desperately for answers he was unwilling to provide. 

“Please,” Daenera murmured, her voice barely audible as he brushed past her, slipping through her fingers like smoke as he made his way towards the council chambers. Her eyes tracked his every movement, watching helplessly as he opened the doors and disappeared inside, sealing away all the answers she desperately sought. Her heart throbbed painfully within her chest, a sense of dread tightening around her as she stared at the unyielding doors. 

Mertha abruptly stepped into her line of sight, her face set in a perennial scowl. “Come, let’s get you back to your chambers.”

“I don’t want to go back,” Daenera protested, grimacing as Mertha’s fingers dug into her arm with the same harsh grip she had used in the gardens. She was determined to remain stationed outside the council doors, to wait for him to emerge so she could demand the answers she needed–so that she could force him to look at her. 

“You’ve been quite unruly today, and I will not have you loitering outside the council chambers demanding answers for matters that are not your place to inquire about,” Mertha grumbled, shaking Daenera slightly as if she were a misbehaving child who had just thrown a tantrum. “I’ve allowed you more than enough liberties for today. Now, come.”

Daenera forcefully wrenched her arm free from Mertha’s grip. “You’ve missed your calling, Lady Mertha. You should have been a septa. You certainly have the countenance for it.”

Despite her reluctance, Daenera allowed herself to be guided back to her chambers, where she ate her supper in dreadful silence. It wasn’t long after that she sent Edelin with a message to Aemond, requesting his presence. She then spent the evening pretending to read a book by the hearth, her thoughts adrift and her patience thinning as she waited anxiously for the door to open and reveal Aemond. Mertha sat beside her, diligently mending one of Daenera’s skirts, lips pursed in concentration. 

“You’ve been reading that page for a long time,” Mertha observed, her voice carrying over the rhythmic creaking of her rocking chair–a sound that only heightened Daenera’s irritation. “If you’re not going to read, you might as well work on your needlepoint. The gods know you needed the practice, and it helps keep the mind from wandering too far into restless pondering…”

Daenera glared up at Mertha, poised to retort sharply, when the doorknob turned, the door creaking open. She stood abruptly, dropping the book as she turned expectantly towards the door, only to feel a wave of disappointment wash over her when she saw that it was just Edelin. The girl’s expression was sheepish and apologetic. 

“Aemond?” Daenera asked hopefully, clinging to a sliver of hope that Edelin would convey some promising news. 

“I’m sorry, Princess,” Edelin replied gently. “He’s not coming tonight… I believe it’s been a long journey and he may need the rest. 

Daenera nodded, managing to mask her disappointment with a soft smile for the girl. “It has been a long day for me as well. Best I get some sleep too…”

As soon as the gates creaked open, Aemond’s gaze was mercilessly captured by her presence–her figure sharply silhouetted against the bleak setting of the landing, her features twisted into a scowl. Her eyes locked in a fiery exchange with Ser Criston Cole, her cheeks flushed with a hue that spoke more of irritation than warmth. A cruel ache wedged itself between Aemond’s ribs, his heart contorting at the sight of her waiting for him. 

The painful stirrings of longing mingled with a gnawing sense of foreboding as he urged his horse forward, forcefully tearing his gaze from her as he dismounted with a swift motion. He handed the reins to one of the stableboys, his movements brisk and impatient. Turning to another, he issued a sharp command, “Inform the Hand and my mother that they are to meet me in the council chambers.”

“Yes, my prince!” The younger stableboy replied eagerly, dashing off to carry out the order without delay. 

Aemond steeled his expression into an impassive facade, like ice over stone, effectively masking the inner chaos churning beneath his calm exterior. He marched toward the Keep, his stride purposeful and heavy, each forceful step on the gravel propelling him up the steps two at a time, narrowing the distance between him and Daenera–and the impending confrontation her presence promised. 

“Aemond…” Her voice faltered as he brushed past her without pause, his gaze fixed determinedly ahead, refusing to meet her eyes. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to stop, not to falter, and especially not to look back at her. 

“What happened?” She asked pointedly, seeking clarification. “Who does Storm’s End stand with?”

He clenched his jaw tighter, feeling the muscles work under the strain as his hands curled into tight fists. With a relentless place, he stormed up the remaining steps and pushed into the Keep, the sound of rustling skirts and quick footsteps echoing behind him. Despite his resolve, he was acutely aware of her following him, her presence as palpable as the tumultuous emotions he struggled to suppress. 

Aemond pressed forward, the clatter of his boots resonating along the staircase, determined not to stop or show any signs of what had transpired at Storm’s End. Despite her persistent inquiries, he kept moving, almost reaching the top of the stairs when he felt her hand slip into the crook of his arm, an unexpected touch that sent a jolt through him. Instinctively, he wrenched his arm away, unable to allow even a moment’s pause. 

“Stop, Aemond,” Daenera’s voice echoed up the stairwell, tinged with urgency and a hint of desperation. Her plea hung in the air, but Aemond hardened his resolve and continued his ascent. 

Aemond felt her presence block his way as she positioned herself squarely before him, her hand firmly grasping his arm. He could feel the intensity of her gaze, probing his expression for clues, her eyes imploring him to meet hers. He maintained his focus just over her head, fearing that any direct eye contact would betray the inner turmoil he harbored–feared that she would shee the culpability that stained him, fear that she would recognize the monster he felt he had become. 

He stood frozen, his heart pounding against the rigid armor of his chest, as Daenera’s voice softened to a whisper that carried a dangerous appeal. “Tell me, Aemond.”

Aemond clenched his jaw tighter, the muscles in his face straining as he fought against the urge to succumb to her plea–her tone had weaved a threat of desperation around Aemond’s heart, tugging at him, threatening to pull his gaze down towards hers. If he spoke now, if he allowed himself even a glance towards her, he feared that the truth would spill forth unbidden. He couldn’t afford to reveal everything, not here, amidst the prying eyes and ears that haunted the corridors of the Red Keep–news would reach them soon enough anyway. 

“Please,” Daenera’s voice was a whisper, yet it struck him with the force of a gale, chilling his heart with its desperation. 

Yet, despite the monster he had become, he wasn’t completely devoid of compassion–he would find a moment to tell her, in privacy, away from the walls that seemed to listen. With a painful effort, he swallowed the burgeoning confession, feeling it burn like acid in his gut. He moved past her with a brisk, determined stride, his path unyielding as he made his way to the sanctuary of the council chambers. 

Aemond let out a deep sigh as he shut the council chamber doors behind him, the solid wood providing a temporary shield from Daenera’s probing gaze. He was almost relieved. Almost. Leaning back against the sturdy barrier, he allowed his head to rest against it briefly, thumbing it softly in a mixture of frustration and exhaustion. With his eye closed, he took a deep breath, regaining the icy composure he had meticulously pieced together on his long journey from Storm’s End. 

Straightening up, he pushed away from the door, stepping deeper into the council chambers. The room was draped in shadows that stretched long and eerie as the sun sank below the horizon, casting the chamber into a dramatic scene painted with strokes of orange and red across the sky, almost mirroring the tumultuous thoughts swirling within him. The setting sun seemed to bleed forebodingly into the horizon.

Aemond’s heart thrummed uneasily against his ribs, a rhythm too forceful, too revealing of the turmoil within him. He despised the sensation–it laid bare his vulnerabilities. Tightening his hands into fists, he tried to quell the tremor that threatened to unmask his inner conflict, but the effort proved futile. The golden band encircling his finger felt constricting, a metallic grip that seemed to tighten with each beat of his heart. 

Lifting his hand to catch the dwindling light of the sin, he uncurled his fingers and ran a thumb over the ring’s lever. With a soft click, a needle-like blade sprung forth, its surface catching the last rays of the setting sun, transforming into a lethal sliver of light. The ring was diminutive, almost innocuous, yet deadly–a fitting emblem of their union as much as the scar that slashed across his palm. She had trusted him with its secret–a trust that now felt both precarious and perilous as he contemplated the path that lay ahead. 

The ring had become a dark emblem of her influence–a potent reminder of the poison that had, in a way, seeped into his own life. 

Her poison had seeped into his being, becoming something beyond its initial form–a torment on which he became dependent, both lethal and intoxicating. It was inherently a poison, yet it had evolved into something far more consuming and intricate. It was love–a force as perilous and all-encompassing as any poison, weaving through his very essence with devastating potency, reshaping everything in its wake. 

Now, Aemond grappled with the ruinous loss of that love–a love he had decimated with his own hands in the pursuit of vengeance. Part of him yearned to erase the memory of having ever known her intoxicating affection, to forget the sweetness of her poison, the comfort of her touch, and the profound connection of being truly seen. 

Aemond traced the needle’s sharp point with his fingertip, careful not to press too hard. His thoughts flittered to whether any of her deadly poison lingered on its edge, even after all these months, and if, by pressing harder, he might release it into his own blood. Could such a trace be lethal, even now?

He applied more pressure, the delicate skin of his finger bowing under the strain, nearly punctureing. The needle’s tip hovered menacingly close, threatening to break the surface, and as he pondered the grim possibility, the doors of the council chambers swung open, abruptly pulling his attention from the lethal contemplation. Swiftly, he clicked the needle back into its hidden sheath within the ring and clasped his hands behind his back to compose himself. 

The Hand of the King entered first, setting the pace for the others who followed closely behind. His mother, always dignified, made her way inside, accompanied by Aegon who made his way directly to the side table. The King poured himself a cup of wine with a casual indifference before taking his seat at the head of the table. 

“We didn’t expect you back so soon,” Otto commented, his gaze narrowed as he took his place with a practiced grace, settling into the chair. Alicent settled beside the King, at his left, turning to look expectantly upon Aemond.

The chamber filled quickly, the air thick with tension of the impending deliberations as Aemond readied himself to reveal what had transpired at Storm’s End, his heart still beating an uneasy rhythm.

“What did the fat stag say?” Aegon asked and reclined in his chair, his gaze shifting from his brother to a marble ball he spun idly in its holder, the grating noise of it echoing slightly in the chamber–a display of restless impatience, or even childish impertinence, that grated on Aemond’s nerves. 

Aemond moved closer to the table, his hand finding the back of a chair for support as he declared, “Storm’s End stands with us.”

Otto Hightower leaned back, a cautious approval evident in his posture, though his expression remained shrewd and calculating. His gaze lingered on Aemond, expectant. 

Aemond continued, his fingers fidgeting nervously, betraying his otherwise composed demeanor. “House Baratheon has pledged its swords and banners to us, sealed by a marriage alliance. Daeron’s bride has been chosen, one suitable and to his liking, I should think… And the dowry is agreed upon; we merely need to finalize the remaining terms.”

Otto Hightower’s voice cut sharply through the room, “You should have stayed at Storm’s End to secure the agreement. Why return prematurely?”

Maintaining his posture, Aemond faced his grandfather’s stern gaze, “As we neared finalizing the agreement, an envoy from our sweet half-sister arrived. She sent one of her bastards. Lord Borros did not take kindly to being reminded of his father’s oath and sent the bastard back to his mother.”

As Aemond fretted with the skin beside his thumbnail, a tangible sense of unease churned within him, intensifying as they edged closer to the disclosures of what had occurred at Storm’s End. He tried to suppress the growing anxiety, swallowing it down hard, allowing it to fester into a more familiar sensation–resentment and bitterness that simmered beneath his calm exterior. This nervous habit of his, often unnoticed, became a visible testament to the turmoil brooding inside as they awaited his next words. 

“Lucerys Velaryon is dead,” Aemond stated, his voice cutting clearly, his tone void of emotion. The impact was immediate–his mother’s face blanched, her eyes widening in shock, her lips parting as if to protest, but no words came. Even Aegon, usually indifferent, halted his fidgeting with the marble ball, his features tightening into a grimace that quickly twisted into a smirk of dark amusement. 

“I offered him a chance to settle his debt, to choose an eye, which was more than he ever afforded me,” Aemond continued, his gaze icy as he recounted the encounter. “But he fled, proving himself the coward I knew him to be, unable to face his fate.”

“What did you do?” Alicent muttered, hand fluttering to her mouth as her eyes widened in horror. “What did you do, Aemond?”

“I chased after him…” He began, feeling that thing with teeth and claws within him stir, felt the bitterness coil in the festering pit of his stomach. 

Aemond had only meant to instill fear, nothing beyond that–a mere echo of the terror he had endured when his eye was taken. He suppressed the admission, burying it deep within the recesses of his mind where it churned silently beneath the surface. 

His glance shifted towards Aegon, whose expression mixed surprise with dark delight, the kind of amusement that comes in witnessing another's misfortune, relieved to be free from the weight of judgment for once. 

Aemond endured their scrutinizing gazes, the weight of their judgment pressing heavily upon his shoulders. As he faced them, a cruel and calculating resolve crystallized within him. He refused to confess to any loss of control, to any unintended consequences to his folly. He had wanted Lucerys dead, and now he was. He forced any conflict–any hesitancy and emotion–out of his voice as he spoke, “I killed Lucerys.”

Alicent’s response was a whisper, a prayer of disbelief and dread mingling in the air. 

“Mother have mercy on us all,” she murmured, her hands rising to cover her face, fingers threading through her hair in a gesture of despair. Her body seemed to fold inward, embodying the shock and grief that Aemond’s actions had wrought upon them. 

“You only lost one eye,” Otto muttered, his voice laced with exasperation and his gaze sharp and unforgiving. “How could you be so blind?”

The accusation cut deep, sending a sharp pang through Aemond’s head. He clenched his jaw, forcefully swallowing the sharp bite of his pain as it ebbed away almost as swiftly as it had surged. 

“Do you grasp the magnitude of your actions?” Alicent’s voice trembled as she lifted her head, her expression etched with despair. She shook her head slowly, her eyes locked onto her son with a mixture of disbelief and sorrow–a dejected look that almost seemed as though she didn’t recognize him. “There will be no negotiations now–no surrender. This means war.”

“War was inevitable,” Aemond stated, repeating the words that had become all too familiar, as if using it as a shield against his mother’s reproach. He was convinced of it, certain that conflict would have erupted whether Lucerys had lived or died. In his view, his actions had merely accelerated the inevitable. 

“We may have been able to avoid war had you not–” Alicent interjected, her words trailing off as she shook her head more vigorously, her lips pressed tightly together in frustration. She glanced upward, as if seeking guidance from the gods, her expression one of exasperation.

Aegon reclined in his chair, absently swirling his goblet of wine. He watched the liquid dance within the glass before speaking nonchalantly, “I fail to see the cause for such uproar. The best kind of bastard is a dead one–and now we have one fewer to worry about.” 

Alicent turned sharply towards him, her voice sharp with urgency, “Rhaenyra will not be swayed by reason now; she will seek vengeance for the son he slew. And she will seek your crown with the same kind of fervor. There will be no peace now, Aegon, no compromise.”

Dragging his gaze from the crimson swirls in his goblet, Aegon lifted his eyes to meet his mothers, musing, “Good. I want them attained, I want them arrested and I want them dead.”

Alicent sighed deeply, her gaze flickering back to Aemond with a mixture of frustration and concern. “No sin weighs more heavily than that of kinslaying. And no man is so accused as the kinslayer.”

He watched his mother’s hands twist together in an agonized plea, her knuckles white as she seemed to silently implore the gods for clemency on his behalf. Yet, in his heart, Aemond felt a disconnect; he was convinced that any divine favor had long since abandoned him–years ago, when they seemed to have punished him for claiming what was his to claim. 

Alicent’s voice quivered with a mix of desperation and realization as she broached the potential escape from the damning truth. “If we claim it was an accident, a mere folly gone awry–” Her tone betrayed her as she spoke, conceding that no such admission could soften the grim reality of his actions. 

The mere suggestion irritated Aemond, even if it was the truth. His response was sharp, his voice slicing through the tension, “I pursued him. I killed him. To claim otherwise would be a falsehood.”

“It would brand you a kinslayer!” 

“He would be a kinslayer no matter the circumstances,” Otto said, his voice cutting through the tense air as he fixed his cold gaze on Aemond. “It is better to be a kinslayer than a boy who cannot control his dragon.” 

Alicent’s eyes snapped up, gaze narrowing at her father, “You cannot mean that.”

He returned her gaze, exhaling slowly, “Soon, the realm will hear of Lucerys’ death,” he turned his eyes to Aemond, “And your role in it. Whether it was your intention or a mishap, you will bear the title of kinslayer.”

Aemond bit the inside of his cheek to the point that the metallic taste of copper spilled onto his tongue, the new epithet searing into his identity as fiercely as ‘Aemond One-Eye’ once had. Now, he would also be known as ‘Aemond the Kinslayer.’ In the eyes of the realm, he was now marked as a kinslayer, reduced to a single, damning term that would overshadow all else. The intricacies of his motives, whether his encounter had been seeking justice for what had been done to him or a lapse into vengeance, were immaterial to those who would judge him–and all would judge him.

“We must prevent any rumors that we cannot manage our dragons,” Otto continued, his words almost an indictment against Aemond–as though he could see the lie hidden beneath his mask. “How can the people trust us to protect them if we appear unable to control our own beasts? This would only lend credibility to Rhaenyra and her bastards should it get out, and it would cast a pall over our legitimacy to rule.”

His gaze was icy as it locked onto Aemond’s. “You made a choice, Aemond. You killed Lucerys Velaryon, and your actions have reshaped the very nature of this conflict. This is no longer a mere war of ravens; it will be fought by dragons now.”

Silence engulfed the room as the full weight of the situation descended upon them, the sky outside transitioning into a deep twilight, the fiery hues of sunset extinguished. The chamber was shrouded in a gathering gloom, each figure lost in contemplation. 

Otto leaned back, his demeanor outwardly calm but a finger rhythmically tapping the armrest betraying his inner turmoil–or perhaps it was the restlessness of a mind at work. Alicent, overwhelmed, buried her face in her hands, elbows propped on the table, her posture one of defeat. Aegon, on the other hand, grimaced as he peered into his empty wine goblet, his brows arched in a mixture of frustration and resignation, tipping the goblet to watch the last few drops swirl, evidently displeased it offered no more solace. 

Aemond maintained his composure, suppressing any internal chaos beneath an impenetrable facade of stoicism, like entombing turmoil deep within a crypt, sealed in a casket of stone. He pushed down his emotions, ignoring their desperate clawing from within their confinement, threatening to break free.

If judgment was to be passed for the blood on his hands, Aemond resolved to wield it like armor–a shield, a mask, a sword if he had to. Throughout the long ride back to King’s Landing, he had felt the mask he so meticulously crafted mold into his features, its edges and contours fitting to his face with an icy steeliness. It seemed to cool his expression, hardening something deep within his core. 

He would grow to fit the mask, he thought, and at some point, perhaps, it wouldn’t chafe as it did. 

“Daenera will seek vengeance for this.” Alicent raised her head, her hands falling heavily onto the table with a thud that echoed her resignation. Her eyes, weary and filled with a somber realization, met Aemond’s as she spoke, “The marriage cannot go through now–”

“Who else would have him? No respectable lord would marry his daughter to a kinslayer.” He paused, his gaze piercing as he continued, “The marriage must proceed as arranged for now.”

Aemond traced the rough texture of his cheek with his tongue, feeling the sting where his teeth had bitten into the flesh, the copper taste of blood mingling with his bitterness. His hand slipped from the chair’s back to rest at his side, toying discreetly with the hidden lever of his ring’s needle. A painful twist clenched at his heart, and he pressed down harder, forcing the lid of the coffin of his emotions to remain shut–pressed down on the lever, letting the needle spring forth.

“But she will kill him!” Alicent exclaimed, her voice sharp with frustration, almost bordering on desperation. “Once she learns he’s responsible for her brother’s death, there’s no doubt she’ll seek vengeance. She will kill him.”

Aemond barely registered his mother’s voice echoing through the chamber, lost as he was in the sharp, oddly comforting sensation of the needle puncturing his skin. He gently pressed the pad of his finger against the fine point, increasing the pressure gradually. His skin yielded to the sharpness, and as the needle sunk deeper, he noted the sting, familiar and curiously distant. The pain was not immediate, rather it crept slowly, a nagging throb that was almost soothing in its presence. As the needle embedded itself further, a fleeting thought crossed his mind–how potent would any remaining poison be, and how quickly might it act, if at all?

Otto remained undisturbed by his daughter’s concerns, and remarked coolly, “We still hold her men in our dungeons.”

“Daenera won’t be swayed by threats against her men or even herself; she will stop at nothing to avenge her brother’s death,” Alicent said, her voice trembling with urgency. 

Returning his focus to Aemond, Otto spoke with calculated firmness, “This is your responsibility. You will tell her of her brother’s demise, and you will make it clear that the marriage is still set to proceed. Make sure she understands the full implications of any rash actions against you.”

Aemond responded with a terse nod, withdrawing his fingers from the needle’s sharp embrace. A bead of blood welled up at the puncture site, staining his skin as he clenched his fist tightly, the crimson trace marring his pale flesh. 

“Come morning, the realm will have been altered to the vents at Storm’s End,” Otto continued with a grave, weary tone. “Lucerys Velaryon’s demise will create a divide. Your longstanding animosity with the boy will frame this as an act of vengeance. However, we must assert it as a legitimate conflict, one in which you emerged victorious. The name ‘kinslayer’ will be attached to your name, regardless. We must brace ourselves for the backlash, and prepare for Rhaenyra and Daemon’s retaliation.”

Aegon expelled a theatrical sigh, heaving himself from his seat. “All this talk of kinslaying and marriage is moot! We should be celebrating, brother. I shall host a grand feast in honor of your victory!”

“You will do no such thing,” Alicent countered, her voice laden with sharp disapproval. “Celebrating your brother with a feast for the demise of your nephew would be seen as a grave insult. It would be viewed as callus and vile, an act of sheer cruelty. Rhaenyra will perceive it as nothing less than further provocation!”

Otto added his own thoughts on the matter, “I would strongly advise against such an action–”

“My brother won a great victory, did he not?” Aegon interjected, his voice rising in challenge against his grandfather and mother. “I desire to honor my brother for slaying the bastard who maimed him. Aemond faced our enemy and triumphed; he is as much a hero as he is a kinslayer. It’s one less bastard to worry about.”

Aemond was torn between gratitude and dread at his brother’s show of support. Aegon approached him, clapping a hand on his shoulder with a firm squeeze. 

“Well done, brother,” he said, his voice carrying a mix of pride and challenge. Aemond felt the weight of the gesture, knowing it tied him even closer to the actions that had transpired at Storm’s End. 

Otto rose from his chair, his voice carrying an authoritative undertone as he announced, “I will notify the council and summon them for a meeting at dawn.”

The council chamber began to empty, with Otto exiting first, his steps resolute. Alicent followed, her face etched with weariness and concern, casting a lingering glance back at her sons. 

Aegon lingered beside Aemond, pausing until the heavy doors clanged shut behind their mother. He leaned in slightly, his voice a low rumble. 

“The bastard had it coming,” he offered. “It was justice.”

Aemond remained silent, his eye searching his brother’s face for his intent. 

“It was bound to lead to war soon or late,” Aegon added with a shrug, his tone pragmatic. “We struck first blood, and we’ll be the ones to strike the last.” 

With another pat on his shoulders, Aegon turned and strode out of the room, leaving Aemond alone with his thoughts. He stood motionless, his gaze fixed through the window overlooking the sprawling cityscape with Blackwater Bay shimmering along one edge. Below, the city lay in innocent ignorance of the grim shadow cast by his actions. They were still on the precipice, the full reality of war not yet upon them. To them, he was still Aemond ‘One-Eye,’ the moniker of ‘Kinslayer’ not yet whispered through the corridors or shouted in the streets. Yet, the damning title was already branded deep within him, scorched into the very essence of who he was as indelibly as the scar that marred his face. 

Aemond left the council chambers, the heavy doors closing with a thud that echoed down the deserted corridors. He half expected to find Daenera standing outside, refusing to move before she’d gotten the answers she was looking for. The quiet of the Red Keep enveloped him, a stark contrast to the earlier tension. The evening’s chill seeped through the stonework as he walked towards Maegor’s Holdfast, the twilight shadows casting long, dark figures against the ancient walls.

The silence persisted, heavy and expectant, as if the castle itself held its breath, unaware of the storm brewing in its halls. He ascended the grand staircase of the Holdfast, his footsteps resounding with a solemnity that matched his mood, reaching the corridor leading to his own chambers when a hesitant voice broke through his contemplation. 

“The princess wishes to see you, my prince. She insists,” a young servant girl said, her voice a whisper against the stillness. Aemond paused, turning to face her. Her eyes darted nervously under his gaze, her stance uneasy as she waited for his response. 

Aemond’s gaze wandered down the dimly lit corridor, his heart constricting with the dread of the news he carried to Daenera. The mere thought of the anguish that would cloud her features as he spoke chilled him to the marrow. He swallowed hard, the weight of his steps heavy as he approached her chambers. Pausing just outside her door, his hand lingered over he handle, hesitating. 

Inside, Daenera remained ignorant to his actions–her world was still whole, her brother still alive in her mind. She would greet him with those gentle blue eyes, still untainted by the shadows of grief. The thought of shattering that peace held him frozen at the threshold. Not yet, he thought. He couldn’t bear to tear away her bliss just yet. 

Aemond retreated from Daenera’s door, the act of turning the knob and facing her too daunting. He considered it a small act of kindness–to spare her the crushing weight of the truth for just a little longer. He would grant her one more night of innocence, one final evening of peace before the storm of grief struck–before he would have to confront her inevitable fury, before he would witness the light within her eyes dim with the realization of his cruelty. Aemond knew the time would come when he must face Daenera and see the trust they had nurtured crumble into dust. This dread settled heavily in his chest, a prelude to the storm of accusation and pain that would soon sweep through her, extinguishing whatever warmth had once flickered between them.

With a heavy heart, he turned and made his way back down the corridor towards his own quarters. Behind him, the voice of the servant girl hesitated, her tone tinged with confusion and concern, “My Prince? The–the princess…”

Her voice trailed off as he continued walking, lost in his own tumultuous thoughts, leaving the echoes of what was yet unsaid hanging in the cool air of the hallway. 

Aemond didn’t halt his stride until he was safely inside his own chambers. With a deep sigh, he shut the door behind him, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet of the room. Methodically, he began to shed his attire; first, his coat, then the sword and belt which he laid carefully across a chair. Finally, he removed his leather doublet, letting it fall with a soft thud onto the same chair. Left in only his billowing white tunic, he felt the fabric’s coolness against his skin. 

Aemond poured himself a cup of wine, desperate to wash away the bitter, metallic taste that clung to his tongue. He stared at the cup, the wine swirling within, contemplating the temptation to drown his unease as Aegon often did–finding comfort in the bottom of his cups. His throat tightened, his mouth parched by the thought, yet he forced himself to swallow the wine. It was a vain attempt to wash away the acrid taste that seemed to permeate his senses. The wine almost burned down his throat and settled heavily in his stomach. Setting the cup down with a decisive clunk, he moved towards the water basin. 

He tossed his eyepatch onto the table beside the basin, the leather landing with a soft thud. Leaning over, he scooped up handfuls of cold water and splashed it against his face, trying to cleanse away the day’s grime and the weight of his deeds. 

The water ran in rivulets down his scarred cheek, each droplet stinging his skin like fire. Ever since the moment Vhagar had closed her jaws around Lucerys and Arrax, his scar throbbed incessantly–a relentless reminder of the horror he had wrought. The pain seemed to seep deeper with each heartbeat, as if the dragon’s fire still lingered beneath his flesh, a smoldering ember that refused to be extinguished. 

Exhausted, he leaned heavily against the edge of the table, his gaze lifting to meet his own reflection in the mirror mounted above. He stared into his own eyes, confronting the harsh line of the scar that cruelly slashed across his face–through muscle and bone–a visible mark of brutality. He studied the jagged scarring that framed his sapphire eye, catching the icy gleam within. 

Lucerys had branded him a monster long before; was it any wonder, then, that he acted as one?

Aemond tried to convince himself that it had been justice, what he had done. He had offered Lucerys the opportunity to atone, to rectify the past, to repay the debt of pain. If only the bastard had possessed the courage to accept the consequences of his actions, to suffer as Aemond had, then none of this would have been necessary.

He wouldn’t have had to pursue him, wouldn’t have had to exact the justice that had been denied to him for so long–if only his father had possessed the fortitude to administer justice when it mattered, then perhaps the gnawing sense of injustice wouldn’t have fermented into a dark, vengeful force with claws and teeth, a beast birthed from years of pain and humiliation–a monster with a taste for cruelty. 

Lucerys Velaryon had made him into this. First, with a dagger that left him permanently scarred, and now, with his death. 

Aemond consoled himself with the thought that had Arrax not provoked Vhagar by attacking her, Lucerys would still be alive. In his mind, it was Lucerys’s own actions that had sealed his fate, not Aemond’s. This rationalization served as a cold comfort–not a comfort at all–a way to swift the burden of guilt from his own shoulders.

Vhagar had delivered the justice he had been too restrained to claim for himself. There was no room for regret over the act itself in his mind, yet the repercussions it would have on Daenera haunted him.

His gaze dropped to his hand, noticing the smear of blood, not diluted by water, where the needle had pierced his skin, leaving a mark resembling a bruise. He was still alive–not poisoned then. With deliberate pressure, he pressed his thumb against the small wound, breaking the skin anew. A fresh drop of blood emerged, which he methodically smeared across his finger. 

The inevitability of losing her was almost too much to bear. He dreaded the moment she would look upon him and see the monster he had become. Those beautiful blue eyes that had once gazed at him with warmth, that had seen past the blood on his hands and the scar on his face, would turn cold and dim. These were the eyes that had sparkled with amusement in lighter moments, that had flashed with fiery challenge during their spares. Now, he feared, they would only reflect back his monstrous deeds. 

His heart contorted with pain, as if invisible claws were tearing into the soft tissue, shredding every fiber with ruthless precision. The chilling dread of Daenera turning away from him, seeing him as only a monster, was nearly unbearable. He clung to the slim consolation he could provide–one more night where, in her world, her brother was still alive. 

It was the only mercy he could afford her now, and even that felt like a coward’s gift. 

He was a kinslayer, marked not just by the world, but by his own damning reflection. 

The stone coffin of Aemond’s suppressed emotions cracked, unleashing a tempest of chaos and pain that felt like poison coursing through his veins. Resentment ignited within his chest, and fear and despair coiled tightly around his lungs, constricting his breath. 

Blinding  pain erupted behind the sapphire, beginning as a vicious scratch within his skull before it transformed into an explosive force than nearly crippled him–it reminded him of the pain he felt when they had reopened the wound to remove the festering eyelid and limit the scar tissue, scraping at the inside of his socket to clean it out. 

Overwhelmed by this onslaught of agony and frustration, Aemond lashed out in a fit of fury. His arm swept across the table in a violent arc, colliding with the basin with such force that it crashed to the floor, sending water splashing across the stone. 

Aemond clutched the edges of the table, his knuckles whitening as he resisted the surge of pain that throbbed through his head, vivid enough to make the wine in his stomach churn. With a grunt, he pushed away, staggering towards the cupboard. He fling its doors open, his movements frantic as he searched the shelves. His fingers finally close around the cold glass of a small bottle. 

Returning to the table, Aemond poured another cup of wine, his hands unsteady. He then carefully added a few drops from the green bottle into the dark liquid. The relief he once found in Daenera’s touch was a distant memory, replaced by this bitter necessity. 

He knocked back the wine, wincing at its newly acquired earthy bitterness, reminiscent of wet leaves rotting on the forest floor. Setting the cup down with a clatter, Aemond massaged his brow with the heel of his hand, the other hand bracing against the table. 

He walked slowly back to his bedchamber, each step a battle against the pain. Collapsing onto the mattress, he lay back, eye staring at the canopy above as he willed the pain relief to drag him into a deep, dreamless slumber, far from the reality that awaited him in the morning. 

[juliakristeva]

ed tw and discussions of weight/weight loss

i have recently been thinking about beginning to take my recovery more seriously: to be fully honest, i am approaching thirty, the cycles i go through are starting to take a really serious toll on my body as i lose my resiliency, but its kind of insane because the world around us literally engages in this constant sadistic abuse of women with eating disorders, lol. i know exactly why i have an eating disorder. i can date exactly when it started. but every time i have sought help for it professionals, the industry of fixing eating disorders, is more interested in getting me to eat, or getting me to a healthy weight (whether that is losing or gaining weight), getting me to be a functional participant in the very culture that is perpetuating my problem in the first place, than they are in inquiring why i starve myself. people, and especially people on tumblr, really do not like to have these conversations, but patriarchy is a system that makes your body reducible to labour value. your body is a marketplace. especially if you have a uterus, or you perform your gender in a way that traditionally approximates having a uterus. womanhood, with everything that it entails- from childbirth to sex to being thin to how we dress- is effectively a labour marketplace that we are forced to participate in on top of other forms of labour, like having a job or keeping a roof over your head. unfortunately the systems put in place to help people recover from eating disorders, and to treat mental health disorders too, participate readily in that marketplace in the sense that they are more interested in creating functional, viable workers and exploitable resources (worker suggests you are still seen as a person, a resource is just a thing to be used, which women's bodies are regardless of agab) than they are in healing people. they want bodies that are commodifiable in the marketplace, that work right and look right, not actualized people.

[fallershipping]

Some thonks about old headcanons and "Fankids or Zero Fankids" endings

TW: Miscarriage and Pregnancy talk

It's funny to think now I have it be that the moment Looker and Anabel try for a baby, pregnancy happen almost immediately for comedic effect.

I used to have it differently when I first started shipping them, actually. A lot of things were overly dramatic; eloping, going off the grid, etc etc. But one of the ideas was that Looker and Anabel trying to have a child together was turbulent and filled with so many "failed" attempts. Eventually this culminated in a miscarriage that kinda shook them both and put them in a rocky state of their relationship.

I... Do not like this idea at all nowadays. It feels like dramatics for dramatics, and a very surface level view on miscarriage.

Honestly? Through my point of view, I don't think Anabel would be hard pressed on getting pregnant quick or even have much of any grief from a miscarriage. Her and Looker wouldn't really be in any rush... Which also applies to the idea of "The Good Ending can be With or Without Biological Children"

Sure Looker noticing her pregnancy early is a bit of a jumping of the gun. but it's more like "HAHA MY INTUITION IS RIGHT, I still got it!" comedy. Both of them are very aware that early stages means that the embryo or stem cells could pull an oopsie. Like baking a cake, but forgetting a crucial ingredient. Nothing worth announcing until the embryo for certain has passed through critical forming stages without natural accidents.

Albeit, this is a lot of Vergo opinions and Vergo indulgence. I feel like if I were to go through a miscarriage, I would not feel all too upset. I don't believe that I failed, that my dreams were crushed, because my view on childbirth is that 'If I want one, I'll have one, but if it doesn't happen, I'm perfectly fine too.' To me, death is happening inside my body all the time; death blood cells, dead skin cells, death and rebirth and death and rebirth, a constant cycle. So.. I apply this to the characters I like and my view of fankids in general.

Of course, birth and kids is also part of the 'forced femininity' BS I encountered all my life from society, so I like having my own reigns on my own thoughts and feelings on this aspect of the human experience.

[sparrow-mask22]

The Umbrella Academy Story of The Mothers (7/8) umbrella edition: Tatiana

TW: childbirth, blood, mentions of chronic illness

October 1, 1989. Moscow, Russia. 18 seconds before noon. (Also please forgive me for misgendering Viktor since this is chronologically meant to be before he transitioned)

Tatiana Barinova was a 14-year-old girl with a knack for mathematics. She was standing in front of the gates of the Moscow State Pedagogical Institute, waiting impatiently for her best friend, Katya, to arrive. It was a cool autumn day, and the air smelled of leaves and wet concrete. Tatiana shifted from foot to foot, tugging at her oversized sweater. She didn't like being late, but her parents' old car had broken down again, and she had to take the bus.

For context, Tatiana had severe Juvenile Idiopathic Arthritis (JIA), which caused her joints to swell and made it difficult for her to move. At first she was administered joint injections every week, but she experienced negative side effects, so her doctors switched her to a aquatic physiotherapy program. It was a long and arduous process, but it was the only way for her to keep her condition under control.

As Tatiana got on her swimwear, she could see her friend approaching. Katya, who was only two minutes late, was already out of breath. "Sorry, Tanya," she gasped, "I had to run the rest of the way." She held out her hand to help her friend up. "Are you sure you don't want me to walk with you?"

Tatiana accepted her friend's help and winced slightly as she stood up. "No, no, I'll be fine," she said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. "Let's just hurry up and get to class."

As they walked side by side, Tatiana couldn't help but steal glances at Antony, a boy in their class who she had a crush on. He was tall, with messy brown hair and a crooked smile that lit up his entire face. He was talking to some of their other classmates, and every time he laughed, Tatiana felt a warmth spread through her chest. She wished she could muster the courage to talk to him, but her shyness always got the better of her.

"So, Tanya," Katya said, breaking into her thoughts. "What's new with you?"

"Oh, you know," Tatiana replied, forcing a nonchalant tone. "Just the usual. Math, physio, trying not to get lost in the halls. How about you?"

Katya rolled her eyes. "You know I meant something exciting, Tanya. Come on, you're always so quiet about your feelings. Spill it."

Tatiana hesitated, her cheeks flushing slightly. "Well, I was thinking of applying for a summer program in Leningrad," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "They have this amazing music school there, and I've always wanted to become a violinist."

Katya clapped her hands together in excitement. "That's fantastic, Tanya! I knew you could do it. You've always been so talented with the violin. I bet you'd get in too."

Tatiana's cheeks flushed with excitement as she and Katya continued their walk to class. The prospect of attending a summer program in Leningrad was exhilarating, and she couldn't help but feel a sense of determination welling up inside her. She knew that getting into the music school there would be no easy feat, but she was willing to work hard to make her dream a reality.

Once everyone was in the pool, their swim teacher, Miss Olga, instructed them to pair up and practice their synchronized swimming skills. Katya and Tatiana found themselves partnered up, and after a few moments of awkwardness, they began to follow Miss Olga's instructions. As they moved through the water together, their bodies forming graceful shapes and patterns, Tatiana couldn't help but feel a sense of freedom and joy. For a brief moment, her discomfort with her arthritis disappeared, replaced by the sheer exhilaration of being able to move like this.

She glanced over at Antony, who was swimming with a girl named Svetlana. They seemed to be having a good time too, laughing and joking as they performed their routine. Tatiana wished she could be as confident and outgoing as Svetlana, but she knew that her shyness often held her back.

"Hey, Tatiana," Antony said, swimming closer to her as they waited for the teacher to give them a new instruction. His voice was deep and smooth, making her heart flutter. "You know, you're really good at that violin. I've always wanted to learn how to play."

"Oh, thank you," she replied, her cheeks flushing. "And you should! It's never too late to start. You'd be really good at it."

Antony grinned at her, his eyes twinkling. "Well, maybe I'll ask you to teach me someday. I hear you're pretty good at it too."

"Oh, I'm not that great," Tatiana demurred, blushing again. "But it would be nice to have someone to practice with."

Antony grinned and splashed her playfully. "Well, I'm sure I can find something we can practice together after class. Maybe something less...wet," he teased.

As they continued their routine, Tatiana couldn't help but feel a connection with Antony. He was charming and attentive, and she found herself losing track of time when they were together. It was a welcome distraction from her usual worries about her arthritis and the pressure to succeed academically.

She jumped in the pool, the cool water enveloping her body and sending a shiver down her spine. The pool was deep, and the water lapped gently against the sides, creating a soothing rhythm. The sun beat down on her skin, warming her up, and she felt her muscles relax as she began to swim. As she glided through the water, her strokes fluid and graceful, she couldn't help but feel a sense of freedom. For a brief moment, she forgot about her arthritis, her worries, and her responsibilities.

But then, the twelfth bell tolled, and something shifted inside her. As she broke the surface of the water, her breath caught in her throat. She was no longer surrounded by blood. The water around her was crystal clear, and the only thing that seemed out of the ordinary was the fact that she was...heavier. Very heavy. She tried to move her arms, but they felt numb and awkward, as if they weren't connected to her body properly. Her belly protruded outwards, swollen and round.

"Tatiana!" called out Antony, his voice alarmed. "Are you okay?"

Tatiana tried to speak, but only a gurgling sound came out. Her heart raced as she felt another contraction begin, her belly tightening uncomfortably. She reached down between her legs and felt something warm and wet, the water around her pooling around her feet. Fear gripped her as she realized that her water had broken.

Soon, the whole class was encircling her, their faces filled with a mix of awe and concern. Some of the women had already called for help, and the pool manager was rushing over with a phone in one hand and a towel in the other. As the contractions became more intense, Antony moved closer to her, his hands steadying her as she leaned against the edge of the pool. Her legs glistening from the water, she let out a sharp cry, her body tensing as the pain coursed through her.

The baby was immediately wrapped in a soft, warm blanket. Her mother, still basking in the glow of her miraculous birth, looked down at her child with awe and wonder. The room was filled with a sense of serenity and peace, as if time itself had paused to witness this momentous occasion.

The pool manager, having already called for medical assistance, busied herself with making sure everyone was comfortable and attended to. She glanced over at the new parents and smiled warmly, her eyes twinkling with tears of joy. "Congratulations," she said, her voice filled with genuine emotion. "You've just brought a beautiful soul into this world."

A girl was sent to the nearest GUM to pick up garments for the baby. She arrived with a bag full of soft, fluffy clothes, carefully chosen by the new parents. The baby, now clean and warm, was dressed in a pink and white onesie with a delicate lace trim, and a blue hat to match. As the GUM girl handed over the bundle, she couldn't help but marvel at the sight of the mother, still basking in the glow of her miraculous birth.

(The colors of the baby's clothes is also foreshadowing of his eventual transgender identity.)

As Tatiana caressed her child’s hand, she looked around the room, her eyes filling with awe and wonder. The women who had gathered around them were like a coven of ancient priestesses, their faces etched with the wisdom of countless births and the strength of countless loves. She felt a newfound sense of belonging in this circle of life, a connection to something greater than herself.

"Miss Olga, there’s some old mushroom faced man here," announced the front desk girl. "He says it's important." Miss Olga sighed, already feeling irritated by the interruption. She motioned for the man to enter her office. As he stepped inside, she couldn't help but notice his dapper appearance: the expertly tailored suit, the crisp white shirt, and the perfectly knotted tie. It was almost as if he'd stepped out of a 1950s movie poster.

"Good morning, Miss Olga," the man said with a warm smile, extending his hand. "My name is Reginald. I was hoping we could discuss something in private." Miss Olga hesitated for a moment, her curiosity piqued. She took his hand and led him to a comfortable chair in the corner of the room.

"Now, what is it that you wish to discuss?" she asked, sitting down across from him.

"Well, Miss Olga, I'm here on behalf of an old friend of mine. You see, he's rather...old-fashioned. He believes in traditional values, and he's always dreamt of having a family. He's even prepared to adopt, if necessary. But he's always been rather fond of the idea of having a biological child, and I believe that your Tatiana's newborn daughter might just be the answer to his prayers."

(Likely story)

Reginald paused, choosing his words carefully. He leaned forward in his chair, his gaze steady and earnest. "Now, I understand that this is a delicate matter, and I'm not here to pressure you or the mother in any way. But I thought it was worth a shot to at least discuss the possibility. My friend is more than willing to provide a loving home and all the financial support necessary for the child's upbringing."

Miss Olga listened intently, her expression thoughtful. She knew that the adoption process in Moscow was notoriously strict, and she wondered if Reginald's friend truly understood the challenges they might face. Still, she couldn't help but feel a spark of hope in her chest. Perhaps this could be a solution for Tatiana and her newborn daughter.

“You have six babies with you already," Miss Olga pointed out. "All of whom are languishing in a hot car while you're here. I'm not sure what you expect me to do with another child."

Tatiana's heart skipped a beat as she overheard Reginald's proposition. A sense of dread filled her, and she felt her grip on the baby tighten. She looked around the room, searching for any sign of support or understanding. But the other women were busy tending to the other infants, lost in their own worlds of love and loss.

Miss Olga, the swim instructor, was the only one who seemed to register Tatiana's discomfort. "I'm afraid you misunderstand," she said, her tone gentle but firm. "This is not a marketplace, Mr. Reginald. These children are not commodities. They are precious lives, entrusted to our care until they can find their forever families."

Tatiana's heart was racing as she listened to Miss Olga speak. She knew that the woman was right; these children were precious lives, not mere commodities. But she also couldn't deny the desperation she felt, the fear that her baby would never have a home or a family. She glanced down at her daughter, still wrapped in the blanket, and her resolve began to waver.

She entered the room, meeting Reginald's stare with a mixture of defiance and despair. Tatiana was hardly more than a girl herself, her body still bearing the weight of pregnancy despite the newborn nestled against her chest. The other women in the room, all older and more experienced, exchanged knowing glances as they tended to the six other infants scattered about the floor. But it was the look on Reginald's face that unsettled her the most.

"I understand your situation, my dear," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "Times are hard, and I can't even begin to imagine the desperation you must feel. But I assure you, I am not here to take advantage of you."

Tatiana looked at him skeptically, her eyes darting back and forth between him and her precious daughter. She wanted to believe him, but the desperation was like a weight pressing down on her chest, making it impossible to think clearly.

"If you were to give me the chance to raise your baby girl, I could promise you that she would grow up in a loving home, with all the opportunities in the world. (You forgot to mention the part of ostracizing him from his siblings and calling him “ordinary", but oh well!) I would give her the best education, introduce her to the finest arts and literature, and make sure that she knows just how special and loved she is. I would be there for her every step of the way, guiding her through life's triumphs and tribulations."

Tatiana's heart ached as she listened to Reginald's words. He seemed sincere, but how could she be sure? He was a stranger, an old man who currently had seven children languishing in a hot car. Still, the thought of her daughter growing up in a loving home, with all the opportunities Tatiana could only dream of, was almost too much to bear. She glanced down at her daughter, still wrapped in the blanket, and felt a tear trickle down her cheek.

"I... I don't know what to say," she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's just... I want the best for her. I want her to have a good life."

Reginald nodded, understanding the depth of her emotions. He reached out and gently took the blanket-wrapped bundle from her arms, cradling the tiny form against his chest. "I understand that, Tatiana. And I promise you, if you were to entrust your daughter to me, I would make sure that she has everything she needs to live a wonderful life. She would grow up knowing that she is loved, and that her future is bright."

Tatiana's heart ached as she watched Reginald hold her daughter, but something in his words, in the way he looked at her child, filled her with a sense of peace. She took a deep breath and tried to steady her trembling hands. "Okay... okay," she whispered. "I... I trust you."

The weight on her chest seemed to lift a fraction as she watched Reginald nod, his expression softening. "Thank you, Tatiana," he said quietly. "I promise you, I will never bring harm to your daughter. I will love her and cherish her as if she were my own." (Yeah, I'm sure the other six kids in the car will feel just as cherished.)

"But you must not contact her," Reginald said, his voice gentle but firm as he met her gaze. "It would not be safe for either of you. The world is a dangerous place, Tatiana, and people like you and I... well, we can't always protect those we love from its harsh realities."

Tatiana bit her lip, the conflicting emotions warring within her. On one hand, she desperately wanted to keep her daughter safe and close, but on the other, she knew that Reginald was right. She couldn't keep her in hiding forever.

"I... I understand," she managed to say, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'll find a way to live with that knowledge. Just... please, take care of her. Make sure she has a good life."

Tatiana forced herself to let go of her daughter, relinquishing her last physical connection to the child she had carried for nine months. As she watched Reginald place the blanket-wrapped bundle into the TRUNK of the car, she fought back the urge to stop him, to take her baby back and run away. But she knew that it was too late for that. The world outside was too dangerous for them both.

(Though the fact that the other six kids got to sit up front in the car and Viktor was stuffed in the glove compartment probably didn't help with the whole "cherished" thing.)

[abundantsnow]

Hisato Nagafuchi's rough story/backstory/...outline?

Idk it explains him being a half demon and like. everything from birth to a little bit after he becomes the Ice Hashira. thats because when following the plot, he would first appear during tanjiros trial, where all the other hashira are introduced.

Also! Breathing styles are visible because I fucking said so. There is literally no reason they shouldn't be it is a SHOUNEN ANIME. my god.

When I talk about Hisato and any other character using their breathing style, just know that it is visible to anyone who uses breathing styles. A normal person can't see it, but if they wield a nichirin sword or use breathing styles themselves, they can see the visual effects.

TW for SA briefly mentioned in the very first line 💔💔

◇▪︎◇

Hisato was the product of a demon sexually assaulting a woman. No one would support or believe the woman, and she would die a few days after childbirth. In these few days, she was weak and suffering from blood loss and starvation. She managed to wrap her baby up and leave him with the former Water Hashira, Sakonji Urokodaki. She explained her story to him weakly, and she knew no other person would take in something like Hisato. Urokodaki agreed to take him in and used the same method he used on Nezuko to make sure that Hisato never eats another human. It was fairly easy to do this since Hisato was only a baby.

Urokodaki quickly figured out that Hisato doesn’t catch fire in the sun. Rather, he gets up to 2nd degree sunburns within roughly an hour of being exposed to the sun. He’s not immune to the sun, but he doesn’t die in the sun. He just has to stay covered up during the day. Urokodaki made him a mask and special haori pretty early on to help him stay protected in the sun. He also learned that Hisato can consume normal food and drink, but if he goes too long without human blood at the very least, he will become incredibly weak. He cannot die from blood-starvation like a demon can. After a small accident when Hisato was a toddler, he learned that his pain tolerance was low, his regeneration was slow, and that he could consume his own blood. Hisato could self-cannibalize to sustain himself if necessary.

As Hisato got older, he learned and grew like a normal human being. His speech was not impeded, and his capacity of learning was actually a lot quicker than most humans. By the age of 8, he could speak and understand complex sentences and words; he spoke and acted like an adult. Around this age, Urokodaki started to tell him about his mother and his half-demon blood abilities. He explained the history of Muzan Kibutsuji, what demons do, and how they survive. He also told Hisato about the Demon Slayer Corps, Urokodaki’s former Hashira title, and the special nichirin swords that Demon Slayers use to kill demons. He taught him demon anatomy, their weaknesses, and the Blood Demon Arts they possess.

Overwhelmed by everything, Hisato runs away. Urokodaki is unable to stop him, and he anxiously awaited his return. He couldn't go out to try and hunt him down, seeing as he was retired and unable to do that job. He didn't want to notify the corps, knowing that a Demon Slayer would kill Hisato immediately. So he waited. He waited, and waited, and waited. Days became weeks, weeks became months, and suddenly, it had been two years since Hisato's disappearance. Urokodaki had given up hope that he was still alive, but wanted to hope that he'd come back. He couldn't stop the deep hurt inside himself that the closest thing he'd had to a son is now dead.

Another few months pass and Urokodaki is still lonely, he's set up a shrine for his... son, that only made the ache in his heart hurt worse. He's putting down flowers and lighting incense whenever he hears subtle footsteps. It was Hisato.

He didn't look right, though. He looked filthy, numb, and empty. Something happened to him in the two and a half years he had been gone, but he refused to tell Urokodaki what it was. Either way, Urokodaki quickly embraced his son whenever he croaked out a broken, "dad?" and held him close, crying as his prayers were answered.

It didn't take long before Hisato was back to his usual self from so long ago, something still felt off, but when Urokodaki asked Hisato about what happened, he'd look at him with an empty, soul-piercing stare. Urokodaki feared he had killed and/or eaten another human, but that was the only thing that Hisato would deny. Eventually, the only thing Hisato would say was that he was taken by someone and locked away somewhere bad. He would never bring it up again, nor would he ever say anything else on the matter

By eleven years of age, Hisato wants to fight. He wants to become a demon slayer to find a way to become a full human and to avenge his mother. Urokodaki decided to make Hisato his tsuguko. He taught him water breathing, but he never seemed to grasp it properly. He could never get the flow and concentration needed to conform like water. He was always rigid. He learned to adapt his movements and ended up creating Ice Breathing. He furthered his breathing style by learning his Blood Demon Art. When he did so, he managed to turn the breathing style into something much more dangerous, but also something incredibly helpful. His demon-ice seemed to have healing properties; he could transfer his regeneration abilities through the ice to heal someone else's wound. As long as the wound isn't fatal, he can heal it. This means he can repair severed limbs, as long as the limb isn't destroyed or lost. This takes up an incredible amount of his energy, however.

In just two years time, Hisato had become incredibly powerful. Urokodaki sent him to the Demon Slayer Entrance Exam at 13 years old with a specially crafted mask and one of his haori's. The mask had some sort of spell casted on it that helped with keeping his identity a secret from ordinary people. It was a little bit after Hisato left that Urokodaki also took in Sabito and Giyuu, they were both 11. Neither of them knew of Hisato’s existence.

Hisato passed the entrance exam. He killed a few demons, and never came across the hand-demon that had taken so many of Urokodaki’s children. He made it up the mountain on the seventh day and turned out to be the only one to pass the exam that year. The twins knew immediately about him having demon blood, and took him to the Master before anything else.

The Master knew of his presence beforehand due to Insight. Once Hisato was in front of him, he immediately pardoned him, surprising Hisato. He thought he would be executed on the spot by a Hashira for being a half-demon. The Master told him he was in contact with Urokodaki, so he knew what he needed to about the boy. Hisato asked that his existence in the Corps not be revealed to the Hashira until he himself had become a Hashira. He believed that no one else but the Ubayashiki family themselves would allow him to stay in the Corps knowing he was a half-demon. The Master agreed to this and let Hisato pick out his ore for his nichirin sword, since Hisato was the only one to pass the entrance exam that year.

Hisato never returned to Urokodaki, though. Once he was assigned his Kasugai Crow, Yukikumo, he sent a message to Urokodaki that he was alive, but would not be returning to that estate, and that he would live on the road. He also told Urokodaki not to tell anyone of his existence and that he would live in secrecy. He wasn’t bothered by not having a home and liked the aspect of living from mission to mission. The message returned to him was simply Urokodaki wishing him well and that he hopes to see him again one day.

So at 13 years old, Hisato was now a Demon Slayer at rank Mizunoto. He climbed the ranks pretty fast, learning a lot about Muzan along the way. At 18 years old, he was already at the top of the ranks, at Kinoe. During a mission around this time, he found Lady Tamayo. She was extremely fascinated by Hisato’s genetic makeup and his body’s unique abilities. He agreed to give some of his blood to her for her to study. In a few months time, Lady Tamayo told him that he was the first half-demon to exist and that Muzan most-likely has no idea Hisato exists. His blood also causes him to be unaffected by Muzan’s Curse. His mother's DNA altered Muzan's blood in the womb, allowing the connection to be severed and his blood to be unique to him.

Either way, Hisato still had generous amounts of physical enhancements that normal humans don’t have, and used them to his advantage over demons. Most demons who realized he was half-demon had tried to get away, but Hisato had slain them all. He kept this up upon learning he had no connection to Muzan, as to assure that Muzan never learned of his existence. If Muzan never knows, Hisato can sneak up on him.

At 20 years old, Hisato became the Ice Hashira. During his crowning, it was revealed to the other Hashira that he was a half-demon. Of course, this did not go well and was a near catastrophe. However, his saving grace was the fact that the crowning took place in broad daylight, where Hisato was kneeling, unharmed. He still had his mask on, the same mask that Urokodaki had given him, (which did not go unnoticed by Giyuu) and seemed to be perfectly fine. He was asked by the Master to explain his self-sustaining abilities, his semi-immunity to the sun, and his Blood Demon Art/Ice Breathing to the rest of the Hashira.

He explained his upbringing and that he trained under the former Water Hashira, and that he could vouch for him. Giyuu’s attention was fully caught, and he wondered how he never knew of Hisato. He recounted his unique abilities, and even the things that Lady Tamayo had told him, with permission from the Master (who knew her, which came as a surprise to Hisato). As he finished speaking, his throat felt sore from overuse, and he felt like he was overheating. The Master asked that he retreat under the shade of the mansion to heal himself.

It was here that the Wind Hashira, Shinazugawa Sanemi, made it clear of his distaste. He sliced his arm open and drizzled his blood in front of Hisato.

"I'm afraid that... doesn't have the affect on me you think it does, sir. Also, are you... a marechi?"

"Yeah, and what the hell do you mean it has no effect? You're a demon."

"I said I am a half-demon. Your blood smells nice, but I have no urge to drink it or devour you. Not to mention, I drank my own blood this morning. I'm not hungry."

It shocked the entirety of the Hashira, and was clear proof of Hisato's humanity.

The Hashira reluctantly accepted him. A few made it clear their distaste for Hisato, but some were more open to get to know him.

He requested that he get a new nichirin sword, a special one that suits his fighting style a bit more. He was taken to the swordsmith village where he talked to the Chief, who learned about his blood and decided to take on the challenge (albeit a little easier than Kanroji's whip sword or Iguro's snake sword) of crafting a thin, straight katana that fit into a saya specially made with a detachable parasol.

The early stages of his nichirin sword were strange, but it didn't take long for him to have a custom designed sword that matched his mask and haori.

Speaking of haori, he had long since outgrown the haori that Urokodaki had sent him off with, and has been purchasing new ones along the years. It was the Sound Hashira, Uzui, that had noticed this first. Him and his wives had gotten together to create a haori that matched his mask. When gifting it to Hisato, he burst into tears, making Uzui and his wives realize just how much humanity he really does have. He started wearing it immediately, eventually, he had adapted to wearing umanori hakama pants and a special hakamashita kimono over his uniform top. The kimono was purple, and his pants were the same color as his uniform. He also started wearing geta and tabi as a tribute to his snowy nature.

It was after his outfit was solidified that he finally settled on a design for his parasol. The paper was a darker blue with snowflakes, and it was draped with tassels and gemstones on the ends that make lovely sounds when blown in the wind or while walking. The other Hashira have noticed that even with his geta, his tassel earrings, and his charmed parasol, he is able to sneak up on people without making a sound. They all think it has something to do with his mask being able to hide his features in plain sight. And when it comes to Hashira meetings, he has been given permission to kneel with his parasol open to protect him from overheating.

So far, the only one to have seen his face besides Urokodaki is the Ubayashiki family. No Hashira, no Corps members, and no strangers have ever laid eyes on his unmasked face. He doesn't really appear in front of any Corps members anyway. He knows he has to be around strangers all the time, as part of his job, but he stays away from other members for fear of revealing his identity and causing a scare.

He doesn't talk much anymore, not like he used to before he became a Demon Slayer. His voice doesn't give him away as a demon, but he's been told that it doesn't match his appearance. People say he gives off an elegant, delicate, and even feminine aura. It came as a surprise whenever he spoke with a smooth and rich, deep voice. He stopped talking to anyone other than the Hashira and the Master so that he could keep up that delicate appearance and hopefully bring peace of mind to the people he rescues during missions.

◇▪︎◇

thats all!! sorry if the pacing is worse than hashira training arc, like i said, this is a very rough outline for his backstory. i promise im better at writing and pacing LMAO

[redrum-alice]

Please tell me Silco's role in the arcane/tangled au I need to know

So like...forgive me, Im trying my best to write :'3

Jinx/Powder wasn't a royalty or anything, she was supposed to be given to Vander (some sort of family friend) for adoption along with Vi after their parents died, with the mother dying from childbirth or sumn

TW: parental death/death via childbirth

Anyway, while their mom was pregnant with Powder, she needed somekind of pain reliever from the labor (and given Zaun's condition, she might've been suffering from other ailments as well). Silco was distributing shimmer (just like the series' plot), but this time convincing people it was medicine. Powder's mom was desperate, so she took some of the concentrated shimmer solution. To Silco, this was an experiment with both the mother and child as test subjects; it did save the baby, but the mother died from the side effects. Singed somehow convinced Silco to keep the infant for further research which was against Vander's wishes. He was succesful in kidnapping baby Powder nonethless.

Just like in the series, the chemical binded with the infant's blood cells which mutates her in a way; the mutation manifested in the growth of her hair somehow(?). Singed found out they can use her as a source for shimmer aside from mining. Silco kept her hidden from public to keep their operation running in secret.

In short, Silco is like a parental figure to Jinx after years of being kept in a tower for tests and experiments. He only saw her as nothing more than a lab rat for Singed to research on, but he gets attached to her like a father over the years of raising her.

That's my take for this AU, nothing grand TvT

[lilacartsmadsion]

I’m bored have some Ghosts of Our Pasts AU Info dump

Tw: Child Sacrifice, Death by Fire, Slavery, Racial Discrimination,abuse and multiple dark themes

(If you already know what Ghosts of Our Pasts was and we’re the lucky few to have read the story…and you don’t remember it being THAT dark, then jokes on you it is actually THIS dark is that I just didn’t execute it well)

BitterSweet/SugarSweet Village

Main Lore

Locals call is ‘SugarSweet Village’ however the name was always BitterSweet Village.

The Village was founded by two cookies gifted the power of dragons.

The Village is actually not so sweet as it as they enslave those with bitter ingredients.

The enslavement started with The tale of the Founder and Foundress, The Founder placed a curse on the Village so that a Bitter Cookie would gain it and destroy the village.

This causing the enslavement of bitter cookies and multiple ritualistic sacrifices using bitter cookies.

The village was destroyed by Dark Cacao Cookie, there were barely any survivors, and If they were they were mostly bitter cookies.

Most of the Bitter Cookies were Coffee Cookies

Actually the former leader of the Coffee Village was a Coffee Cookie from the BitterSweet village

Most Coffee Cookies are from Bittersweet village which is why most of them hate sweets.

The reason no one interfered when the dragons started fighting years later is because Bittersweet village was turned into a legend, revering Dark Cacao as the hero who controlled the dragons and destroyed the village freeing the slaves from captivity.

Some cultural things idk

The denizens of the village actually refer to the dragons as gods, how ironic really-

Milk is very rare in the village and is usually save for newborns

Not sure what else to add, cause the village was a one-off thing

The Founder and Foundress

The Founder and Foundress are the founders of Bittersweet Village

Caramel Choco Cookie and Baking Soda Cookie (I never really confirmed their names in the original story I just called them ‘The Founders’)

No shipping them, they are brother and sister.

Baking Soda Cookie is the Older Sister, having a 4 year age gap with her brother Caramel Choco Cookie.

Both have the ability to shift into dragons, and at sometime referred to as ‘The Yin and Yang Dragons’

Caramel Choco’s form is that of a black dragon with caramel streaks

Baking Soda is that of a White Dragon with Black Streaks

The Legend of how Caramel Choco cursed the village is actually fucked up a lot since the village is not only biased but also somewhat racist.

The legend passed down from the village on how Caramel Choco ended up cursing the village is that he grew jealous of his sister’s popularity that he ended up going mad and attacking the village in his dragon form, the two siblings had a fight and Baking Soda Cookie removed his powers from him, then the village burned him in order to seal his spirit for good, but Caramel Choco Cookie uttered the curse at the last moment, with him dead, they were unable to free the curse at all.

The REAL story however is that a few years after the founding of the village, The Founders decided to give away their leadership but live on as the village’s protectors, the village leader at the time fell in love with Baking Soda Cookie, however, she didn’t reciprocate her feelings to him, as retaliation he made a love potion so that she was in love with him, however the love potion had a side-effect, that Baking Soda would not love someone else, even platonically, she was still kind, but she would not love anyone else. When Caramel Choco found out, he was enraged and begun attacking the village in retaliation, due to the love potion’s influence, Baking Soda battled her brother and then the village killed him by burning him.

Baking Soda Cookie died of childbirth a few years later.

The story isn’t the only thing fucked up by biased, it was even their names, since due to the opposition of their personality (Caramel Choco had a blunt personality and was rather hard to get along with while Baking Soda was kind and sweet, both were the opposite of their ingredients) they thought that Caramel Choco was a bitter Cookie and Baking Soda Cookie was a Sweet Cookie.

The names changed as Caramel Choco was actually dubbed ‘The First Dark Cacao Cookie’ while Baking Soda was named ‘Vanilla Frosting Cookie’

(Maybe I shouldn’t have added the ‘Add’ feature for the transparency colors on IbisPaint)

These two are the main spirits of Ghosts of Our Pasts

Caramel Choco Cookie doesn’t have arms (Originally he was also going to have no legs, but I chose the arms instead) this is due to the circumstances of his death, which was burning.

Baking Soda Cookie had a very regal funeral, which is why she’s dressed the way she is (This is not the official design, I just can’t remember how I designed her because I drew it down a book and I left said book at home, why can’t I get the book once I get home? Because I’m staying at my cousin’s house currently-)

The love potion did not last in the afterlife.

Caramel Choco Cookie still persists even after Dark Cacao permanently removes the curse from himself. He’s the negative voice in Dark Cacao’s head that causes him to doubt himself.

Baking Soda Cookie is the one who guides him to get rid of the curse, albeit in her own manner, as she grew to become less interested in helping cookies anymore…

Baking Soda Cookie is also the one who crowned him king.

Caramel Choco Cookie doesn’t talk to Dark Choco, he’s permanently stuck to Dark Cacao.

The Dragons of the North and South are Caramel Choco’s Children

Dark Cacao Cookie

(Finally the main cookie himself)

Dark Cacao is roughly 13-14 in the flashbacks which is why he looks different from the Might of Heroes flashback. (It’s also the reason he has a soft spot for Gingerbrave, no plot armor here Gingerbrave, you have too much of that already)

Dark Cacao was the son of the Village Leader

That’s not good, cause he received ‘special’ treatment…in the form of abuse.

Dark Cacao was enslaved like everyone else, except since he’s the village leader’s son, he received more work than anyone, and often times got thrown in a cellar under the leader’s house.

Dark Cacao was named that way because he actually looked like Caramel Choco.

He had rough scars from being chained by the hands and feet for too long.

Dark Cacao was Chosen by the curse because he was actually the most bitterest Cookie in the village next to another cookie, Coffee Bean Cookie. The other reason is that he was hopeless and actually gave up hope that Bittersweet would ever change

Dark Cacao actually has a cracked face on the covered part of his eye, he still does to this day actually, but Baking Soda Cookie used a spell so that no one would be able to see it.

It was inflicted upon his father when he threw him too hard against a wall in the cellar.

Dark Cacao destroyed the village out of vengeance not like Dark Choco Cookie who was heavily under influence of the curse.

Dark Cacao has more control over his curse.

Dark Cacao is the creator of the Strawberry Jam Sword. It was an attempt to remove the curse from himself.

He cannot destroy the sword

Dark Cacao actually wandered far off where he met Pure Vanilla during his pilgrimage, Dark Cacao meets him again a few years later. Without his sword.

Dark Cacao actually finds his Soul Jam as an attempt to rid the curse. It worked, but only if he has the sword in hand

Dark Cacao has the ability to control the dragons of the North and South, they cannot deny him under any circumstance.

Dark Cacao actually battles the Dragons but does not show the ability to control him, lest he blow his cover as ‘The Legendary Hero of Bittersweet Village’

Dark Cacao doesn’t see himself as a hero, not even as an Ancient. Which is why he’s protective of the Ancient Heroes, he sees himself as an outsider and the rest are the true heroes.

Dark Cacao momentarily lives in caves, even as he is an Ancient Hero, he does this because Caramel Choco again, used to be able to become a dragon, and thus giving him the instinct to sleep in caves.

Dark Cacao got Dark Choco from the Sugar Swan (how? He asked how cookies were made without the need of another spouse and Sugar Swan sent him to Blueberry Yogurt Academy, then he asked White Lily to make him a son and specific ingredients) he actually wanted a sweet son, because he was afraid the curse was hereditary

Present Time

Dark Cacao’s crown is a protective seal given to him by Baking Soda Cookie. It allows him to not get affected by the curse

Dark Cacao figured out a way to permanently remove the curse from himself, however it was with the help of the Soul Jam, though he wonders if the curse was really removed or that he just sealed it away to the deepest darkest depths of his soul

Dark Cacao can lift the Strawberry Jam Sword without being affected by just simply wearing his crown.

Even if he didn’t have the crown, Dark Cacao would have better control over the curse than Dark Choco.

Dark Cacao’s eyes are a side-effect by the curse

Dark Cacao can still hear the voices.

Berserk Form is the Combination of Dark Cacao’s curse and the Soul Jam. Pomegranate just awakened it.

Despite having left behind the abuse, Dark Cacao will still freeze up every time his hands are cuffed.

Most traitors of the Dark Cacao Kingdom are exiled or killed, imprisonment is not an option. Due to Dark Cacao never speaking a word of his past trauma, anything that gives him flashbacks from his time at the village is banned from the Dark Cacao Kingdom.

Dark Cacao’s diet is actually a habit he gained from Bittersweet village as Bitter Cookies were not given any sweets at all. He doesn’t really exert so much of this rule to his subjects, the rule existed to actually save for the kingdom’s poverty at the time. (It’s still in poverty because trade routes to the Hollyberry Kingdom were closed due to the Licorice Sea and no one knows where the hell Golden Cheese is)

Dark Cacao still gets nightmares.

The curse

The Curse is actually a combination of two Curses: The Curse of a Thousand Voices and The Dragon’s Curse.

The Curse of a Thousand Voices is what Dark Choco experienced, a curse that speaks and controls you, the curse is actually the thousands of bitter cookies that have died in BitterSweet village, this only applies to those who were born in the village, since Dark Cacao destroyed it, no new spirits were made but the ones that remained are the angry souls of the dead.

Dark Cacao actually has a portion of this curse, but that is because of Caramel Choco, who just grabbed a bunch of spirits with him, they come in the form of self-doubt and self-loathing, which is why Dark Cacao is always in a state of ‘Flight or Fight’

The Curse of a Thousand Voices mostly consists of Angry Spirits, so far there is only one known voice that doesn’t hold a grudge on the village but remains with Dark Cacao, its the reason he hasn’t gone mad yet.

The Dragon’s Curse allows the user to Mind Control the Dragons of the North and South, it’s different from Dark Cacao’s usual control. His usual control is that of commands and they can’t deny it under any circumstances, however there are some they can deny, because of Caramel Choco.

The Dragon’s Curse allows full control over them and they cannot deny any command even to deny their father. This means that the Dragons could so easily be tamed if one were to control them as so. They can also be summoned at will without the need to hear a spirit’s call for help in order to be summoned.

No other cookie can actually be affected by the curse, which is why Dark Cacao though that even if the Sword was found, it wouldn’t affect anyone, unfortunately it affects anyone with ‘Bittersweet village DNA’ (or whatever is the equivalent to cookie DNA) and it was able to influence Dark Choco because of Dark Cacao’s genetic background to Bittersweet.

Dark Choco however, only scratched the surface on what the curse could do, as he was not a bitter cookie.

The curse can only show its true potential and power by the cookie being A.) Genetically related to anyone from Bittersweet Village B.) Being a bitter cookie, which is what Dark Cacao is.

The curse is only red because it was made with the hatred of Caramel Choco’s heart. Dark Choco having red eyes is genetic coincidence…

The Voices tell Dark Choco to kill his father because they see him abandoning them and making a son that’s sweet as betrayal.

Extra Abilities

-Lightning: Lightning was heavily used because Caramel Choco’s dragon form could control weather.

-Enhanced Physical Strength and Speed: One can be physically strong to bust down walls and fast enough to avoid enemy targets

-Spirit Attack: This is mostly a taunt tactic, it is usually used to scare cookies, it doesn’t do much.

-Shattering Quakes: The sword can actually break apart the earth if struck down had enough. Dark Cacao did this multiple time which is why he was able to ‘Shatter the Earth and Sky and Divide Night by Day’ in his legend of when he founded his kingdom.

-Healing Block: Getting hit by the curse actually makes it hard to heal the injured wound, you can still heal, but it’s agonizingly slow.

-Chain Creation: This actually drags a person down to hell. No legit.

-Jam Manipulation: Y’know Katara? Yeah imagine that but the Jam is on the Sword and he can turn it into a weapon.

-Fire Manipulation: This one was not used a lot, but he definitely had this.

Dark Choco Cookie

(His details might be small, so I won’t include the design, he still uses the cottage-core design he has.)

His chest scar was a reaction made by a watcher when he started attacking the Citadel. He did not flatter due to the sword’s influence

His scar caused by his eye was caused by himself, after running out of the Citadel, he fell off a cliff and ended up gauging his eye on a rock, that’s when Pomegranate found him

The scar on his eye didn’t heal because a bloody spirit placed a bit of the curse’s power on that eye, which is why Sovereign of Darkness has a gem on his eye. (So He’s legit missing an eye in this AU)

Dark Choco still has that bit of the curse to this day because he ain’t pullin’ out his eye.

That’s it, you can leave any questions later Imma sleep

[caelcstis]

headcanons !! // @notfrsale hc + love (for Jupiter) TW: topics of drugs, alcohol, depression, suicide/suicidal intentions are mentioned

love in many ways is quite FOREIGN for jupe.

yes he grew up with a very loving and adoring brother who raised him, but his home life still wasn't perfect. his brother did a lot of illegal shit when he was growing up and jupiter had to sometimes witness the effects on it. it's why he has issues involving drugs, even if it's own prescriptions or something as simple (at least in the states where he grew up) as weed, and he doesn't enjoy drinking out or a lot anyways. he'll have a glass or two of wine and that's his limit.

his dad also abandoned them, his mother passed from childbirth, so his brother was really all he had - and his brother was hardly home until he was the age of 15. jupiter also grew up in a hostile school environment where he was bullied often, and his transition helped nothing. he eventually grew into a very angry and depressed child - he had attempted to take his life a few times in different ways. some left more outward and physical marks than they did inward. it's sad to say he saw his brother most when he had to wake up in the hospital strapped to a bed, crying or eyes red from just getting over crying.

jupiter's dated here and there, had hook ups, but they never really lasted long. he couldn't find himself becoming attached the way they wanted, and sometimes his temper could be a bit too much for the other person. he goes to therapy for it, along with his depression, but it still creeps on him sometimes. he also travels a lot for work, so sometimes his partners disliked that about him, but his work made him happy and peace, he couldn't just give that up.

there is a very empty part of jupiter that he wants fulfilled, he wants to be loved, but he is also very reluctant to it. he sees his brother, who's now married and happy and healthy, and he craves that - but he still keeps his feet stuck in this tar that clings to him and tells himself that love isn't meant for him.

he's stubborn to change, and a lover is that in his life - so anyone who pursues him has a long road ahead of them, but they can crack open parts of him that he doesn't let anyone and sometimes himself see.

[kismetharborapps]

ooc information

name: nadine

character information

name: Amayah Fontenelle

faceclaim: Nathalie Emmanuel

gender & pronouns: she/her

age: 35

birthday: march 2nd 1989

place of birth: Castries, Saint Lucia

occupation: unemployed

neighborhood: cresthill meadows

time since arriving in kismet harbor: returned in 2023

filling a wanted connection?: none

biography:

tw: death, pregnancy, child loss, depression

Amayah's first hours in the world had been spent in the arms of a stranger. A nurse holding on to the prematurely born baby girl, seeing as her mother could no longer give her warm skin to skin contact, having died during childbirth. As sickly as she was, she received all the love on a daily basis from all the nurses working in the hospital on the small Caribbean island. It didn't take long for Amayah to be assigned through adoption to a loving couple living in Kismet Harbor, Oregon who came to pick her up as soon as she was declared healthy at four months old, bringing her home to the United States.

Her family was most certainly not comparable to that of most people. She wasn't related to anyone by blood, but by bond and love. All of her siblings originated from different corners of the world, as well as her parents and their home reflected just that. They were taught multiple languages, hobbies, sports, religions and more, being taught that commitment was both important and rewarding on its own. By the age of twelve, Amayah was fluent in four languages, was able to play symphonies on the piano by fourteen and was a competitive fencer by the age of eight til sixteen. The fact that Amayah was able to achieve such feats were impressive, as she was often described as having her head in the clouds, dreaming of fantasies and thinking of geography while she was supposed to be focusing on biology. Whenever she put her mind to something and actually focused, got well into the zone, it was hard to pull her out of it. A trait that eventually helped her through her future academic career.

Since a young age, and no doubt thanks to her busy home life, Amayah was a social butterfly, helping out whenever she could and making conversation with strangers on the bus. She was often the first to befriend the new kid in the class and sit next to the lonely student, even if it was just to give them company without talking. Despite this, Amayah could appreciate some quiet time, rarely knowing a calm moment in her busy home of eight. Though as much as she focused on friendship, Amayah was never really busy with boys, befriending them rather than dating them. All that changed when she met Wesley Levitt. The boy with the charming smile that made her jumble all of her words and lose her thoughts. It didn't surprise her parents that as soon as she announced she had a boyfriend and brought him home with her for dinner, that they were in for the long run.

She left the comfort of Kismet Harbor to travel with Wesley to university. Pursue her passion for the arts, no doubt inspired by her father's profession as an archeologist. She expanded her knowledge from the Minoan era, to the bronze era. From the first intermediate period to the ptolemaic period, Amayah was terribly fascinated by it all, and in particularly focused on the history of her hometown, the local museum having been a place she wanted her father to bring her to as much as they could. Rounding off her studies, life seemed to be on a fast track for Amayah, finding that she was pregnant in her early twenties rather than in her early thirties, as she had always imagined her life with Wesley to look like. Overcoming any fears and doubts, Wesley remained her rock, even going as far as to propose to her so that they would all, eventually, would carry the Levitt name. Her pregnancy had been one the doctors baptised as the perfect pregnancy. Right on schedule, none of the side effects and her skin glowed, her hair was full of volume and if she had to complain about something, it was about discomfort on her feet and back from the weight hanging from her waist.

Except Amayah knew no happy ending where she would have her bundle of joy in her arms after a textbook birth. She drove home after a party with Wesley, similar as to any other car ride. Being the designated driver, the two were talking as they drove home, laughing about a comment of one of their friends making a fool of themselves that Amayah hadn't seen that another driver wasn't giving them leeway where they should've gotten it, and ended up being driven off the Kismet Harbor bridge. The last thing she remembered was how the dark water came closer in a rapid pace before a flash of pain and everything went dark. She woke up nearly twenty hours later, her body bruised and aching, barely responding to her willing to move her arms. She had noticed her belly wasn't as large as it was before she lost consciousness, but was confirmed it wasn't a trick of the mind when confirmed to her that they had lost the baby. The fact her memory played games on her, from both the trauma and the fact she had been deprived of air for so long, they had to break the news of her little girl being gone at least a dozen times before she stopped forgetting, each time as heartbreaking as the last. She had held her treasure in her arms before they took her away, but Amayah can only recall her tiny perfect face from the pictures taken by her family.

Weeks went by and turned into months where she wouldn't leave her bed, couldn't stand the daylight and the smell of fresh air made her want to spit, losing herself to the tragedy of her life. She needed time, needed a chance to get over the trauma her mind and body went through. At the time she didn't understand why Wesley stayed by her side the one day and left her the other, urging her to leave and join her family to her father's digsite near Cairo, Egypt. She went from having everything to nearly nothing, and with tears in her eyes, she watched how the state of Vermont grew smaller and smaller until she could no longer recognise it as she flew to her new home across the world.

Cairo took some getting used to. She was nowhere near ready to live a normal life and forget what had happened. But day by day, Week by week, the change of scenery and the different culture helped Amayah overcome the pain her hometown held for her. She slowly gained more interest in her father's finds, in his enthusiasm until she adapted and joined him. A year later, she was able to start her new studies at the university in Cairo for archeology, focusing on preserving and studying relics and artefacts rather than digging them up, even though she enjoyed that aspect just as much. Having two phds to her name, she worked with the best that Cairo (and the world) had to offer. Her father's job, that was supposed to last two years, turned into four, which turned into eight, which turned into a permanent position as more and more digsites were unearthed.

Amayah thrived, becoming her old self again, even if she would never forget the darkest days of her life and for a long while accepted that she was able to live a life in Cairo of all places, with its heat and long days. Sure she explored the world, traveling to countries in Europe, Africa and Asia, but wondering to herself when she would make the decision to go back to the place that held so many memories for her. The chance came in the form of an invitation to a wedding, one that made her decide that she was happily going to close her current chapter and continue the one she was never able to close on her own terms. In the end it was the right decision to be made. She was welcomed back by all of her loved ones, rekindling her relationship with Wesley to the point they got back to being engaged again, moving in a new home together.

other:/

pets: /

town activities: joyous journeys, knit happens

draw of luck: yes

character blog url: @amayahxfontenelle

[ivqks159]

-

[goddessofroyalty]

Slade helping Dick through his labor was amazing, and it’s giving me ideas about other Bats giving birth. What if Tim, Steph, Dami, or maybe even Cass wound up pregnant and in labor while in a bad situation? You’ve stated that Ra’s wouldn’t be there for the birth if he knocked up Tim, but I could see Luthor and Mercy helping Tim deliver a baby while Kon’s reluctantly busy with a Crisis, because Luthor wants his grandkid and potential heir to be as safe and healthy as possible. (P1)

           Damian arguing with Harley but in the end she actually does have medical certificates and no history of hurting babies, so he reluctantly lets her help while he waits for his family to come. Shiva semi-reluctantly assisting Cass and having unpleasant flashbacks, much to the discomfort of both parties. Steph gave birth the first time in a hospital with Tim at her side, but if she got pregnant again who knows how it would end? Maybe Selina could help, but for angst factor it would be her dad. (P2)            

Thank you - I’m glad you enjoyed it.

I mean… there are situations where Ra’s would be there. Just, if he was in complete control he wouldn’t be.

I feel like Tim probably is in the most distressing (? this is the word I’m using for “overall suck factor”) situation of all of them. Just because while Luthor would want his potential-heir born healthy he is also very much not above kidnapping them the second they are born. Like doing that well fits within his motives and it is kind of the perfect opportunity to do so. And Tim would be very aware of that fact. So he is very much aware that while no harm will come to him or the child he might have them taken from him while he’s exhausted from the birth and therefore less able to stop it. And Lex is clever and resourceful enough that if he does take the child it was be a task to get them back. So Tim feels like he can’t drop his guard at all until someone he trusts is there to keep an eye on Lex & Mercy and make sure they don’t try anything.

The others don’t have that fear as much.

Like Harley wouldn’t hurt or take the baby. She has no reason to want to take the baby (especially seeing this would almost certainly have to be A WHILE after she split with Joker and he’d be the only possibly reason she would want to) and, yeah, isn’t known to hurt them either. Objectively judgement she’d actually feel good knowing Damian and the baby are healthy - like she’d be happy Batman’s getting a grandchild and the kid she watched grow up now a parent. Subjectively from Damian’s perspective those facts don’t matter because he’d father it not be her delivering his child but he does know she isn’t a threat and has a level of medical qualification (which, yeah, different field, but she would of had to have at least 1st aid training considering some of her workplaces and childbirth is covered in that).

Also, quick joking side comment: If Ivy’s around Damian might actually get some chemical-pain-relief. (Although whether or not he would accept it is a whole different question)

With Cass and Steph the distress is a lot more based on their relationships with the other person (if going with Shiva & Cluemaster). The fact that if their lives where more like ‘normal’ peoples are they would actually be a person they would want as support through childbirth. But their lives aren’t ‘normal’ so instead having them there makes the situation more stressful. For Shiva there’s also her own stuff effective it as well yeah.

And okay, Selina would blame Bruce for her ending up in the situation of her having to help one of his effectively-children give birth. If she hand’t met him this wouldn’t have happened. Which TBH if she said it out-loud Steph would probably agree just agree with it because, hey, feeling like you can blame someone for it makes the situation slightly better. Also I feel like the circumstances leading up to the two of them ending up in that situation would somehow be connected to Bruce and/or his crusade - so while overstating his role in it they can technically tie him to the blame.

[doll-r-t]

Lost Pearl Part 19: A Snow Day

Viking!Syverson x reader

TW: sexual tension, Sy being possessive

You snuggled deeper into your pillow. It was getting colder by the day and if you thought it was freezing when you first arrived it was nothing to now. Winter was here and you had no idea how you would survive it. Syverson had noticed your almost constant shivering and yesterday he had come to your room late in the evening. He had something in his hand that looked like a bedpan. But it turned out to be a bed warmer. You put in hot coal and stick it under the blanket on the far end of the bed. It will heat up your bed and keep you warm for the night. Syverson had clearly instructed that if you use it to either get him or Gisla. He was scared you would burn yourself. Once he had put the hot coal in he put it underneath your bed sheet. “If you need anything else please come to me anytime.” He bowed slightly before kissing your hand. 

    Ocre had been observing Syverson’s behavior. He was giving you gifts and was showering you with all kinds of affection. For anyone in Warhorse, it was obvious that he was courting you. As it was the northern tradition to prove to the woman of your affection that you could provide for her. Not only with gifts but also with affection and listening displaying that he will respect and protect her. It is also important for the woman to know that a man is a good listener in case she dies in childbirth so he can tell the child about its mother. Yet, it seemed like all of this was not obvious to him. Ocre had to admit it was funny seeing the otherwise though Captain follows you around like a lost puppy waiting for approval of his gifts. And even funnier that you were so oblivious to it. Ocre could not wait to see how this turned out. He just hoped he did not have to lock you two in a closet. 

As it turns out he did not need to as another opportunity presented itself. One that was more effective - A snow day. 

You had slept through the night, cozy and warm. The only problem now was waking up. You did not even have your warmer dress on. It was not needed and you were so happy. You hated sleeping in thick closing. Prefer to sleep in a small shirt that only covered your breasts and a skirt that sat on your hips flowing down to your ankles. It was made of pure linen. You had not slept in it for a while and finally because of Syverson’s gift you could. But now you had to drag yourself out of bed and face the cold air. Something you definitely were not happy about.                                                

Gisla came into the room and chuckled at you. You were glancing at her from underneath your blanket, only your upper face was visible. “I will get a fire started.” She handed you a warm mug of coffee. “You will need the new shoes Syverson has given you and the gloves. It snowed overnight and-” But you did not hear more. You did not care that the cold was creating goosebumps on your arms and legs. You jumped out of bed. Slipping in the pair of houseshoes you kept next to your bed and ran out of your room. 

You ran past the guards and some stunned servants. In record time you were outside. You gasped. The entire town was coated in white, like a blanket. You took a tentative step forward, halting right in front of the snow. Slowly you squatted down. It was sparkling like thousands of pearls. Hesitantly you reached out, but before you touched it you halted. What would it feel like? You did not know. You pressed your hands in the snow and withdrew them quickly. It was so soft! and cold. You looked at your hand. Instead of the white pearl, you had expected to be on your hands you saw water droplets. It was melting quickly on your hand. You were so fascinated that you had not even realized that Syverson and Ocre rounded the corner. You touched the snow again looking at the imprint it left. “Having fun?” Ocre called out. You turned to them. “It snowed look.” You pointed at the snow in front of you. And if they could not see it you scooped some into your hands and walked over to them. “See?” Syverson had not said a word yet. The snow melted so you quickly said. “Oh, there is more.” You ran back to the spot where you had picked up the snow and took some more. “Here.” You looked at Syverson, your eyes were bright and shining with excitement. “Is it true you can make a man out of snow? Rosamund told me. I have never seen snow. It is so cold” You rambled on. “Oh, we see that,” Ocre smirked. This pulled Syverson out of his trance. He cleared his throat and with a death glare, he pushed Ocre away from you. You looked at him confused but then Syverson took off his coat. He quickly put it around you. He barked at the guards that had come closer to you and at Ocre. “Do you not have anything to do? How about night duty for a week and taking care of the stables? Go now.” Syverson’s eyes were sparkling with furry and his chest was pushed put. It made you tingle. He seemed even more enormous. He had left his arm around you, pushing you up against his chest, covering your front with his body. 

Syverson had been so stunned when he saw you first. It was like everything around him was non-existent. He had never seen you so scarcely dressed. Your skin had goosebumps all over but he nearly choked on air when you turned and he saw your nipples pushing against the fabric. He could almost make out the color around them. He felt a tightening in his pants. They looked so inviting and he would love to keep you warm in bed with this cold. Your hair was not pushed back in a bun but open. You looked so beautiful. In a simple two-piece dress, hair all-natural, no jewelry. Your legs looked perfect, whether you wished to have them around his hips or head he did not mind. He would like to trace every aspect of your body with his tongue. Your hips looked like they were made for him to wrap his hand around. Then he saw how all the other men around him looked at you. He was ready to pull their heads off, even though he was looking at you the same. 

He breathed easier now that you were in his arms again. “Yes, we can build a snowman, my Princess. But first.” He grabbed you and lifted you into his arms. “Have I not given you warm clothes?” He asked bemused. “Oh.” You looked down at yourself feeling your face heat up. “I got a bit too excited. I never saw snow.” He chuckled, kissing you on your cheek. “Well then get dressed quickly and we can go out again. Although I do think you are very beautiful right now.” They passed a guard who looked at part of your exposed legs. Syverson grabbed you tighter to him. “Although too many others appreciate it too.” You giggled. “And what if I like their appreciation,” You teased. He practically growled at you. “Well, then I will not have time to build a snowman with you. I will be far too busy fighting every single man in Warhorse.” You shook your head smiling. He opened the door to your room. “I doubt it.” “Do not challenge me, Princess.” He promptly threw you on the bed. You yelped. But before you could scold him, he was climbing on top of you. He held you down by your arms. “Do you wish to challenge me?” His breath caressed your lips. It made you unable to think straight. “Maybe you should proof your strength to me.” Without hesitation, he laid himself fully on you making you feel his entire body weight, all the strength he had in his body, and how much bigger he was than you. He interlaced his hands with yours holding them above your head. “You are the most dangerous woman I have ever met.” You glanced from his lips to his eyes questioning him. “You are smart, cunning, strong, witty, and beautiful. This should be forbidden. It would make everyman’s head spin. Especially when you smell so intoxicating.” Your body felt like it was on fire, you were squirming underneath him. Willing him to do something. He leaned down, getting closer and closer to your lips. 

Yet, he forewent them and traced your cheek with his nose down to your jaw. He kissed there, slowly down to your neck. He gave a small nip and soothingly licked over it. You could not help and moan out. You had never felt such a thing. “Dangerous indeed. You taste as good as you smell.” With that he went on to your ears, nibbling there. He still held your hands squeezing them once in a while. Syverson was trying so hard to stay still. His pants were so tight and all he wanted to do was lower them and lift your skirt. To feel your warm heat around him. 

You lay breathless underneath Syverson. His smell is surrounding you. You could not think straight. You had never felt like this before. What was happening to you? A couple of months ago you would be appalled at this thought. Yet, now you reviewed the attention this big broad man gave you. Every inch of him screamed dangerous, fighter, who could kill you easily but all you wanted to do was fall into his arms. As you had never been held as gently by anyone as Syverson held you. If you had not seen him fight you would not believe that he was such a beastly bear in the battlefield thinking him more of a teddy bear. 

Your heart was beating wildly, and for the first time you came to the North, your body felt like it was too hot. You could not help but push your chest against him. To caress his buzzed head, and trace your thumb on the side of his beard, down along his neck to his shoulders, hugging him tightly to you. Syverson let up a bit. Pulling back to look into your eyes. “You are so beautiful.” He caressed your eyebrow with his thumb down to your cheek. Cupping your face, he leaned in pressing his forehead to yours.

He wanted to say more but he was at loss for words. His body was burning with what he was not sure but now he understood how his father always dotted on his mother, the constant need to touch her. 

He pulled away kissing your forehead, lingering for a while. Your heartbeat had calmed down a bit. You closed your eyes breathing him in and the feel of his warm, a bit copped lips on your forehead. And you thought you had never felt something so gentle in your life. Your father always kissed your mother on the forehead. It was not common to kiss openly in court but so your father reverted to kissing your mother on the forehead to show his admiration. 

Syverson’s kiss made something bloom in your chest. 

The heat of the moment was gone and all there was left was a quiet intimacy. Like a soft breeze on a spring day. You pulled your arms from around him putting them on his chest. Syverson took it as a sign to move off you, even if this was not your intention. To your relief, he laid down next to you. At once you both started to laugh, like children. You turned to your side while Syverson just turned his head. His long legs were dangling off the bed. This is how you spent the rest of your morning. Talking quietly, sharing stories and you asking a million questions about snow. Syverson would make you constantly laugh with his stories about his mischievous self. 

“One time I and Ocre had the bright idea to get my father’s war horse and two pieces of flat wood. We bound it to the horse and made it run. As you can imagine we did not get far.” You giggled at the thought of Syverson falling face first into the snow. “But like the idiots we were we did not give up and turn back to the warm hall.” “Oh no, Sy please tell me you did not further torment that poor horse.” You reached out touching his arm. It was the first time you had called him Sy and neither of you had noticed. It was so natural. “Sadly we did. We got on the horse and we rode to a nearby hill. We rode up and then tried, and failed too many times to go down standing on the wood.” You shook your head thinking to yourself boys. “Why did you try and stand on it? Why did you not sit on it? Would that not have been easier?” Syverson frowned for a moment then turned to you again with a glint in his eyes. “See this is why I need you here,” he laughed, “Can you imagine what mischief we could have done if we grew up together?” “Well I certainly know my father would have even more grey hairs and Armand would have died of shock.” Syverson snorted. “Yeah, probably better we did not.” Throughout your conversation, Syverson’s hand had inched closer and closer to yours finally lazing it together. “Will you try going down the hill with me?” You whispered, suddenly feeling shy. “Sitting of course.” You hastily added. Syverson looked at you his eyes widened. Had you just asked him to do an activity? He did not think you ever asked him for anything. It must mean he was doing something right with his courting. For a while, he felt unsure, and a bit scared that you would not like his courting but now it seemed that he was doing something right. “I would love to.” He glanced down at you. “But you will need to put on warmer clothes.” He smirked at you. Instead of feeling embarrassed like you usually would you just laughed. “Well, this is the first time a man has asked me to put on clothes.” You had no idea where it came from but it was worth seeing Syverson’s jaw open in shock.

PLEASE leave comments

Taglist:

@tumblnewby @irishprincess89 @wheretheriversrunintothesea @amberangel112 @sofiebstar @omgkatinka @enchantedbytomandhenry @snowbellexx @daddys-littlewhitegirl @pjkimrn @zealoushound , @lunedelorient ​, @tragicphoenix13 ​, @alexa-fangirl-forever ​, @vhjlucky13 ​ @bourbonwithice