#when he can convince himself it's not actually his decision

[magicalbats]

Persist and Resist (Sunday x Reader)

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 7730

Warnings: afab!reader, handjob, cum eating, a pinch of femdom, canon typical Catholic guilt

A/N: Happy Valentine's everyone! I actually started writing this one in response to an ask I got back when I was working on last years kinktober but at some point in shuffling the text around from here to Google docs it seems Tumblr ate the initial message, which is a big bummer. I do, however, recall that the sender wanted to know what I liked about Sunday ... and the answer to that is clearly 7730 words long! lol Please enjoy the fic and if you're still around, anon ... this one is for you. ❤️

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“Just relax,” you murmur, ignoring his startled gasp when you lean in from behind to rest your chin against his shoulder. “You’re always so stiff. That’s not good for your health, y’know.”

He hesitates, seems to think about it. Deciding how he should react. 

Forcing himself to draw a slow, carefully measured breath this time and further betraying his feelings on the matter, Sunday grits out a terse laugh. It’s soft and quiet. A barely there chuckle that carries with it only a very small fraction of the self assured confidence he’d displayed back on Penacony. 

You knew now that the real Sunday was not quite so sure of himself or as comfortable in his own skin as he’d first appeared, although he still tries very hard to hide that insecurity from you despite being far, far away from his old home. Like some sort of defense mechanism meant to protect and shield the delicate fragile parts of him from threat of the outside world, but it doesn’t work. Not when you were sitting so damn close to him as to feel every stuttering beat of his heart.

Pressed right up against his back like this, there’s not much he can keep from you, in fact. You’re keenly aware of even the most imperceptible shift in him, from the steady expansion of his lungs down to the loose flex of his hands where they’re resting across his lap. His body language makes it clear that he’s not accustomed to sharing such close proximity with another person and he’s not quite sure what to do with it. Right down to the molecular level it’s obvious he’s way out of his comfort zone given his subtle fidgeting, as if he just couldn’t help himself.

He was nervous. Maybe even a little scared, too.

“How interesting.” He finally murmurs. “I wasn’t aware you filled the important role of medical expert on board the Express. I’ll have to make note not to end up in need of your services again.”

Turning his head, Sunday pointedly looks elsewhere in your new room on the train, much preferring to focus on anything other than its owner at the moment. 

Situated above the party car and effectively cut off from the more heavily used common areas, the privacy here is absolute and precisely why you’d extended an invitation to him. There was more than enough room for you to share this space with the wayward traveler who, as far as you could tell, had been sleeping on the bench seats in the car below while you worked to get everything set up to your liking. But he never complained about it or tried to demand better accommodations even though you were certain it was a drastic downgrade in the comfortability he was used to. Like some self flagellating martyr, almost. 

The thought that he might be using the Express’ lack of additional rooms to further punish himself, convinced he deserved that or even less, was what ultimately swayed your decision to open your door to him. You wanted to show Sunday that there were still good things in this world that he could have, things he could enjoy and appreciate the same way he had in his previous life even if they weren’t quite as luxurious or posh as he was accustomed to. 

You also wanted to show him that you were willing to forgive him and, in the process, maybe even convince him to forgive himself. 

“Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“No.” He insists, just a bit too tightly for it to be believable. “But I’ve seen you in action before. You’re not exactly what I’d call a gentle hand, and this … bedside manner is beyond me.”

That makes you smile into his shoulder as you wind your arms more securely around him, gently nudging Sunday back against your front. Still, he refuses to relent though. Staying perfectly motionless and straight as a board now, he almost feels like a statue made of solid granite sitting on the edge of the haphazardly made bed with you. Would have, were it not for the slightest hitch in his chest.

You realize in a distant, immaterial sort of way that his subconscious reaction was in response to your breasts pressing into his spine. He must like it then, even if he was loathe to say it. This was admittedly something you found to be charmingly cute in its guileless unassuming but it also made you want to tease him even more for it at the same time.

“That might be for the best,” You softly coo at him, keeping your voice light and barely more than a whisper as you trail a single hand higher up to pull at one of the clasps on his jacket. “I don’t have a medical license, after all.”

He sucks in another inhale, sharper this time. “You’re shameless.”

“That may be true, but I don’t see you trying to stop me.”

A strange little sound puffs out of him, something equally torn between indignation and fluster.

He either can’t or he won’t bring himself to reject your advances though, and he just sits there while you make careful work of unfastening his cozy coat. Idly, you wonder if this was the first time he’s ever had someone touching him like this. But he’s either making an attempt to be more polite than he otherwise would have been when someone was invading his personal bubble like this or, more likely, he considered it another facet of his penance. Further punishment for a sin he’s already been punished for twice over in your eyes. 

Sighing a quiet sound against his neck, you tentatively slip your hand into the inner layer of his shirt once you’ve got it nudged up enough to reach inside.

The skin along his stomach is enviously soft and smooth when you brush your fingers against it, and he outright jolts at that first hint of contact. Even then he still does not protest or try to pull away, though. His breathing deepens, coming slightly harder and faster now, but he makes no move to disengage from you, and you finally rouse yourself to tip your face up at him in question.

“I was only joking, Sunday. You can tell me if you don’t want me to keep going.”

“So you can hold it over my head later? I think not, Miss Stellaron. Against all odds, I still have some pride left in me.”

You frown at that. “I wouldn’t do that to you. You’re not a prisoner here and I’m not your jailer, so you’re free to make your own choices. I just want to help you.”

For a drawn out moment it doesn’t look like you’re going to get any kind of response from him, and you’re just a bit disappointed about that. But then, ever so slowly, he turns his head to cautiously glance back at you. The deeply embarrassed flush staining his cheekbones manages to surprise you, making your brows climb up to your hairline before you can suppress the reaction and stop it.

“I fail to see how this could be in any way helpful to me.” He intones, keeping his wing tucked forward across the lower half of his face so he can hide his mouth from your line of sight. Acting as a final barrier in case you were to decide to take that last inch from him. 

“I thought this might help you relax. You are pretty stiff, you know. I wasn’t joking about that.”

That defensively tucked in wing gives a brief flutter to make the soft feathers ruffle slightly, like a helpless bird trying to puff itself up to look bigger. It would have been adorable had his eyes not narrowed at you in warning in the same breath.

“I’ve never heard of such a method for relaxation. This isn’t how the Family does things.”

“But you’re not part of the Family anymore, are you? It’s okay to do things differently now.” Holding the air in your lungs, anticipating the coin drop, you slide the hand inside his shirt a little higher up to rub over a tiny nipple. “Let me show you, Sunday. Please?”

He twitches at the touch of your fingertips and quickly swings his attention back around to avoid having to look at you any longer. You can feel the shudder that runs through him but he still refuses to utter the one word that would make you back off. ‘Stop’. That’s all he needed to say. And you would, if he really wanted that. 

Something told you he didn’t completely hate what you were doing though, and it’s not like he’d ever admit to liking it anyway.

So you take your time softly petting over the petite bud, coaxing it to full stiffness which even then doesn’t leave much for you to play with. Every part of him was so slim and compact that as you feel over his chest you find yourself wondering if he was perhaps malnourished despite the life of relative luxury he’d lived back on Penacony. He shouldn’t have had to go without food, at the very least.

Deciding to find him a slice of cake in the kitchen after this, or at least a cookie, you redirect your hand to the opposite side of his chest to tease that nipple as well. Sunday stiffly arches against you in response, nudging his narrow chest up at the sensation even as he whimpers a quiet noise into the still room. He was slowly getting more and more fidgety, like he wasn’t quite sure how to react to what you were doing. How to process it or how to reconcile any of it in his mind. 

But a simple glance down at the front of him tells you everything you need to know without having to break the static charged silence by asking him how he was feeling. He wouldn’t have been honest with you anyway, of that you were certain, so there would have been no point in it.

The reluctant tent pushing up through his pants speaks for itself though, and this part of him could not lie. No matter how much he tried to fight it or wrestle it back under control, there was simply no subjugating the natural urges of his body. He couldn’t fully control it no matter how much he might want to and you can tell that bothers him a great deal in the way he softly seethes under his breath.

He was supposed to be disciplined and steadfast, not easily swayed by the compunctions of flesh and blood. And after rejecting it for so long, stuffing it down into a sealed box in the back of his mind where he wouldn’t have to look at it or think about it, he was now quickly succumbing to the full brunt of his neglected sensitivity. All you’ve done so far was tease his nipples a little bit and his cock was already needily flexing up into the placket of his slacks as if with a mind of its own. A hungry beast that couldn’t be contained no matter how hard its master might yank on the leash trying to bring it back to heel. 

It’s a little sad, in a way. You can’t help feeling sorry for him and all the simple pleasures he’s denied himself for the sake of exerting some amount of control over his own existence when he otherwise had none, but you also feel a sharp stab of arousal too. There were so many things you could teach him, if given half the chance. So many different avenues of pleasure and satisfaction, and intimacy that the two of you could explore together if he’d just allow himself the freedom to experience them for once in his life.

In truth you’d found Sunday quite interesting from the moment you first set eyes on him in front of the check-in counter of the Penacony Grand Hotel, like there was some sort of magnetic force at work urging you closer into his orbit. You knew now that at least part of that compulsion was a result of the Harmony and the other was his natural charisma as a Halovian. But there’s something else there too, something not so easily explained or written off.

He was not that much unlike you, was he? Someone who was so utterly bereft of a home to call his own in this vast cosmos that the nomadic existence of a star-bound wanderer was the only feasible option left to him. Everything from his identity right down to his own sister had been taken from him and he was alone now, save you and the rest of the Astral Express crew. You could understand that well enough even if you didn’t have any memories of what you’d lost before ending up here, just the same as he eventually had.

But you wanted to show him what having that freedom was really like, even if it was just a tiny glimpse of what awaited him on the other side now that he was free of Penacony’s slumbering birdcage.

“Do you trust me, Sunday?”

He tries to laugh again, fails miserably at it, and all that comes out is an odd little croak instead. “I don’t see that I have much of a choice in the matter, do I?”

“Of course you do.” 

Carefully sliding your hand out of his shirt, you reach down to tug at his belt buckle with deliberate slowness, giving him ample opportunity to protest. He just groans the most threadbare little sound you’ve ever heard though, and finally allows himself to reluctantly ease back into you. Still unfalteringly stiff and halting, but at least you were making progress.

With a brief clink and a rattle, his belt comes loose. You set your sights on his pants next, fumbling with the top button just as slowly so as not to spook or startle him. He really was like a defenseless bird caught in the sights of a much larger predator and unable to fly, to flee or to fight. He remains passive in your arms, luckily, but the building anticipation of what you were doing does make him start to squirm. He quickly forces himself to stop and be still though, merely watching what your hands are doing with his face tipped down towards his lap.

Soon enough you have those neatly pressed slacks open and you slip your fingers inside to feel along the band of his underwear before trailing even lower. You find his straining cock easily when it’s already stiff and rigidly pushing up from his body, giving it a gentle squeeze through the last layer of laughably thin cotton, and he responds with a tortured, half choked gasp.

“M - Miss Stellaron …”

You can hear the hoarse rattle in his voice as much as you feel it where you’re pressed right up against him like you are. At some point your breathing seems to have synced with his and you find yourself quietly panting right along with him as you work to nudge his pants down far enough to free him from them. 

Clearly picking up on your intent, Sunday hesitates to do it and he sways almost unsteadily between your arms before he at last manages to shyly angle his hips off the edge of the mattress to help you in your endeavor. He whimpers softly while he does it, and you consolingly coo at him as you press your face into the crook of his elegant neck to breathe deep the smell of him. Soap and clean linen, and a hint of downy fuzz that makes your head feel light with the impression of warmth. Perfect for cuddling. 

“Shh. Just relax for me. I promise I’ll take good care of you. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Tipping forward, you place a tender kiss to his drooping wing and you’re delighted by the sensitive inhale he sucks in at the sensation of your lips brushing against the feathers. You’d always wondered if they were as delicately receptive as they looked and you were glad to have your answer even as you tug at his underwear to slide the band underneath his straining length.

And it immediately springs up into the air, already flushed and leaking as it weakly twitches in his lap as if in a desperate bid for attention. You’re amazed at not only how beautiful his cock is, average in size at best and yet so perfectly shaped as to look somehow beyond the pale of mere flesh, but also at how satiny soft and smooth it is. The flawless texture almost makes it look like something made of alabaster, and you eagerly reach around to take him in your hand.

“Oh!” His back dramatically arches against you, his hands flying up where they hesitate over yours for a harrowing moment before he allows himself to latch onto your wrists. It’s the first hint of reciprocity on his part, intentionally touching you instead of remaining a bystander as he had up until now, but you still hold your breath as you wait to see what he’ll do next.

If he was going to push you away this would be the time. The situation had clearly escalated beyond what could be excused as simple platonic affection and you brace for his reaction. His rejection. 

To your genuine surprise, however, Sunday just holds onto you by the wrists and weakly rolls his hips up in a shuddering, painfully stiff thrust. The motion sends his cock stuttering across your fingers before pulling back when he eases down to sit fully on the mattress again, wheezing softly at just that brief stimulation. You sorely wished you could see his face again but Sunday’s attention remains down and that fluttering wing stays an ever present screen for him to hide behind as well. 

No matter though. You didn’t really have need for visual cues when you could feel everything in stunning high definition through the point of contact between his body and yours. 

Closing your fist tighter around his cock, you gently begin to pump him, hand dragging from the base where ticklishly coarse hairs tease your knuckles straight up to the tip to make his foreskin bunch over the head. You can hear the sticky wet click of precum but it’s quickly lost under the harsh, frazzled gasp he raggedly pulls in. And it almost manages to surprise you, how sensitive he really is and how vigorously he twitches at your ministrations. There was some part of you that hadn’t been sure if he was even able to put on such an animated display, thinking he’d fight tooth and nail to keep up that implacable facade no matter what manner of duress he was made to endure. 

That is not what happens though. 

Instead he suddenly comes alive, unable to stop himself from full on shuddering and twisting his narrow hips against your hold. Hissing an overwrought sound into the otherwise still and silent room, he clutches at your arms in such a tight deathgrip that the leather of his gloves softly creaks. Not to stop you or to push you away, you dully realize when he groans your name like a plea. But because it felt good and it overwhelmed him, and he needed to hold onto something or risk shattering into a million pieces right then and there. 

Stealing another quick, almost giddy look down at the cock gripped in your fist, you don’t think that’s going to help him or stop the inevitable though. He’s flushed pink and raw from nothing more than just a few brief pumps of your hand, and you can feel the intense throb of him pulsing under your fingers. Not only was he going to cum quick and hard, considering how fiercely he shakes for you, but it was also going to take an embarrassing lack of effort on your part to get him there. 

“Oh, Sunny. Are you enjoying yourself now?” You purr into his shoulder, delighted at how abruptly he’d changed his songbird’s tune. From proud and immovable to a writhing, pathetically whimpering mess in just the blink of an eye. And all it had taken was the firm hold of your hand on him. It was in many ways astounding. “I always knew you had it in you.”

“I told you — nnghn! Not to … not to call me that.” 

Humming a low sound of agreement, you slowly drag your hand back down the length of him to peel away his foreskin in a tortuously stilted motion. Another sticky click hits your ears and he grunts a harried noise of distress when the cool air wafts against his exposed glans unimpeded, making him judder wildly in response. But you keep him held tightly against you even when his back dramatically bows, using your anchoring arm wrapped around his flexing stomach to keep Sunday pressed into you while the opposite hand gives his base a pinched squeeze to stave off his release. It wouldn’t hold it back for long but you were happy with even just those few extra seconds you’re given to admire him. 

And admire him you do. He’s sticky with an excess of eager, dribbling precum that coats the glistening head in a filmy sheen, inviting you to reach out and rub him there. You knew that would undo him in alarmingly short order though, so you hold off for the moment. Rather, you gently smooth your touch down to caress over his balls and wrap your fingers around their delicate weight, cradling them in the palm of your hand. 

Surprising you a great deal, Sunday outright yelps at the sensation and jolts as if you’d just electrocuted him despite how careful you’d been in handling his testes. Slim chest heaving on an uncontrollable, stuttering rhythm, he heavily leans back into you and tips his head to keen up at the ceiling. The sound itself as much as the volume of it makes your heart leap into your throat where it threatens to suffocate you. He was getting much too loud, wasn’t he?  

Your thoughts immediately flash upon the idea that someone might be just downstairs in the party car but you aren’t sure how well sound travels between the two floors, and that makes you nervous. Would they be able to hear him clearly and figure out what was happening just over their heads, or would it only seem like muffled and distant noise? Hell, even if one of your other crewmates wasn’t down there Shush almost certainly was. That damned robot hardly ever moved from behind the polished bar unless it was to pester someone with its awful jokes. What would it even say about the things it could hear going on up in your room? 

Quickly deciding you really didn’t want to test fate like that, you unlock your arm from around his middle and reach up to lightly palm over the graceful line of his throat instead. His Adam’s apple bobs thickly under your hand with the rough inhale he pulls in, swaying between your thighs when he turns his head to blink at you as if he were drunk and seeing double. But at least it looked like you had his attention again. 

“You need to watch your volume. If someone hears us, that's going to make having breakfast together way more awkward than I’d like.” You warn him, keeping your voice gentle and soft. For someone who’d acted with such overwhelming confidence on his home turf he’d quickly proven himself skittish and easy to fluster once you got your hands on him. You didn’t want to scare him off after all the effort you’d had to put in just to get this far. 

“I … I’m sorry.” He mutters with no shortage of Herculean effort. Gone are the impeccable manners and lofty words of the head of the Oak Family, and in their place there was now only a raw vulnerability you hadn’t expected to see in him. “It seems I’ve — forgotten myself. How embarrassing. I - I’ve never …”

“Been touched like this?” You supply, giving his balls a featherlight palpitation for emphasis. 

It’s enough to make Sunday hiss through tightly clenched teeth though, squeezing his eyes shut against the sensation as he turns his head away. “Yes. I mean n - no. This is my … first time.” 

That makes you smile. “I can tell. You’re so sensitive, Sunny. Haven’t you ever thought to touch yourself before?” 

His little wings flutter in response, flapping an irritable rhythm that makes the feathers softly smack against your face as if to bat you away. It’s hard to say if he was offended that you would even think to ask that of him in the first place or if it was because you’d used that insufferable nickname again but either way his reaction makes you laugh. 

Yes, there were a great many avenues of mischief the two of you could get into. It would be fun exploring them together, and this was only the first activity on a very long list of things you wanted to introduce him to. It was a bit out of order but maybe you could try kissing next. 

Your own excitement grows at the thought, and you eagerly swing your attention back around to Sunday’s lap. Giving his balls one last, gentle squeeze, you curl your hand upward so you can wrap it around his shaft and feel that silken skin under your fingers again. The seething noise he makes sounds suspiciously like that of a tea kettle getting close to boiling but he makes a valid attempt to keep his voice in check when you offer that rigid length another slow, savory tug. 

Unfortunately he quickly loses hold of that threadbare control as you reach the glans and the drag of your fist makes his foreskin slide up to bunch over the fleshy slit. The sensation seems to nearly bowl him over and he judders helplessly, squawking an oversensitized sound. Even with the threat of discovery an ever present danger, you still can’t quite stop yourself from grinning at his decidedly innocent, unassuming reaction. 

“Oh, Sunday … what are we going to do if someone comes knocking on the door because they heard you? Something tells me that look on your face would give us away no matter how we tried to explain ourselves.” 

He full on whimpers at that, sounding sad and deeply ashamed in at the implication of guilt. It’s clearly getting harder for him to maintain his usual cool the longer your hands are on him though, and you realize you’re going to have to do something to help him out. He was much too sensitive, too easily overwhelmed to roll the dice in this particular situation when getting caught together could mean the end of everything. 

Licking your lips, you momentarily consider choking him just enough to cut off his air supply and make it impossible for him to cry out. Your fingers idly flex around the bobbing curve of his throat at the thought. Although it’s certainly a tempting idea you ultimately think better of it, sliding your hand higher up to brush over his jaw instead. 

Finding Sunday’s mouth, you slide your palm over it and press down firmly to elicit a startled yet blissfully muffled sound from him. He jolts and lurches in your hold, as if only just now realizing the true scope of the danger he was in, but it’s much too late. 

Readjusting your hold on his cock in the other hand, you firmly drag your fist down and then back up, settling into a steady rhythm that continuously works the foreskin over his receptive glans. Back and forth, back and forth, up and down; rubbing, sliding, sticky slick clicking in your ears. And Sunday outright shrieks behind your fingers, twisting and tossing his head like a wild animal caught in a trap. His belt rattles softly where it’s spread open across his thighs, still twisted up in his pants, and his wings slap a furious beat that has you turning your face into his shoulder to avoid the full brunt of his ratcheting alarm. 

He’s hard to keep ahold of like this, especially when he digs his heels into the floor and tries to wrench himself free, but your physical strength proves greater. Despite being a man and in spite of having a few inches on you in height, he just isn’t equipped to fight you off. Not when you’ve got his cock in one hand, stroking it with the continuous glide of your palm over all of that sinfully smooth flesh, and the halfhearted way he shoves at your arms quickly morphs into desperate grabbing instead. 

Blindly, he latches onto you; your thighs where they bracket his shuddering hips, the bend of your arm, so he can squeeze tight and hold on for dear life. His muffled sounds of pleasure turn dazed and intoxicated as he rigidly slumps against you at last. And when he tips his head back to rest along your shoulder, tiny wings still fluttering helplessly but starting to weaken and droop, you dare to lift your face to look at him. 

Wrecked is the only word that immediately comes to mind. His usually perfectly styled hair is tousled and sweat damp where it sticks to his skin in a few places. Cheeks so hot with color you know he’d be warm to the touch. It’s the far-away glisten in his golden eyes, once so sharp and pointed, now distant and too heavy to keep fully open anymore, that really seals the deal though. Sunday’s higher functioning mind may still have been fighting against it but his body was singing like a deftly plucked chord while the violently crashing waves of pleasure slam into him with every slide of your fist. 

Feeling devious and a little too eager to stop yourself, you take advantage of his draining will to fight it and adjust your hand over his mouth so you can plunge two of the fingers inside. He squawks a decidedly undignified sound at the sudden intrusion but even his attempt to turn his head away is half hearted at best. Only somewhat reluctantly does he allow you to probe at his squirming tongue, feeling the perfect line of his teeth scrape over your knuckles when you reach back just far enough to make him gag. 

The compulsion is an odd one, you understand that much, but it’s as if your own pounding excitement won’t be satisfied until you’ve thoroughly torn down every one of his mile wide defenses. You needed to leave him debauched and utterly disillusioned from his old role, his previous identity, or this wasn’t going to accomplish what it was supposed to. How else could he be expected to move on and undertake the journey ahead of him if he was still clinging to his old ways and holding himself to the same standards as before? 

Sunday needed to see that despite his once high-minded ideals he was still just human, that his flesh and blood body was not some great sin for him to reject or punish. That he didn’t need to self sacrifice and martyr himself just for his life to have meaning. You wanted him to understand that it’s okay to be a little messy sometimes, and there’s nothing wrong with letting go of his almost fanatically held control. 

So it is with a great deal of pleasure that you keep his jaw wedged open with your fingers, carefully moving them back and forth over his tongue while he whimpers and whines so sweetly for you. It doesn’t take long for the excess of saliva to build up and dribble out at the corners of his lips, his spine dramatically flexing when he feels that first unseemly rivulet run down his jaw. His mouth works futilely around your digits, alternating between trying to spit them out or to somehow swallow around them but it doesn’t work. The drool just keeps coming, slowly bubbling out to track sticky paths down his face. 

You even catch a glimpse of shuddering moisture wetting his lash lines but you politely look away despite the eager jump in your pulse at the sight of those tears. It would have been all too easy for you to tease him for them, really lean into the humiliation he was probably feeling, but that was not your goal here. Not this time, at least. 

Instead you focus your attention back on the hand wrapped around his cock. Your ministrations had slowed to a stop while you were stuffing his mouth full and now you can see the length of him, flushed a pretty pink that almost matches his face, flexing needily against your hold. He was leaking enough precum to smooth the glide of your next upward stroke, watching in fascinated wonder as the fleshy hood of his foreskin comes up with another soft click to make the clear discharge slowly ooze down the sides of his shaft. 

His hips wildly buck and he wails a garbled noise as he needily arches up off the bed, jutting his pelvis out as if in desperate supplication for more. Both of his hands have latched onto your thighs now and he squeezes them tight enough to hurt. But you give him what he wants, what he so clearly needs, pumping your fist up and down the length of him on a steady, energetic rhythm. 

Sunday freezes like that, poised with his back bowed and his body flexed away from the mattress. Distantly, you realize that he seems to have stopped breathing altogether, holding the air in his aching lungs while the rest of him stiffly shudders and twitches steadily closer to the edge of oblivion. He was beautiful like this, like something out of a tawdry, lurid painting of some ethereal being from legend or myth. 

“Oh, Sunday,” You coo at him, so soft and gentle. Coaxing him ever towards his own ruination. “Are you going to cum for me?” 

Wailing a frazzled sound of distress around your spit soaked fingers, he gives his head the barest shake as if to deny the simple reality of what was happening. Unfortunately his own body betrays him almost instantly, and you stare in rapt fascination when his narrow hips stiffly lock up before nudging forward in a reluctant thrust. He’s holding himself far too unrelentingly to execute the full range of motion but it’s enough to have him fucking into your hand in painful, tortuously slow increments. 

He just can’t seem to help himself or smother the urge completely, even when the rolling grind of his pelvis was clearly something foreign to him. But it’s instinctive and hard coded, muscle memory carved into the very atoms of his body more than anything else. And you can see the musculature in his slim thighs trembling fiercely, the flex of his stomach dramatic while he wheezes and gasps his pleasure into the otherwise still air. You knew your fingers weren’t doing as sufficient a job at muffling him as your palm would have, but you can’t quite bring yourself to move or even care very much about that right now. 

Especially not when he gives one final, stuttering thrust into the squeeze of your hand and his cock positively erupts in a sudden spray of white. Creamy and thick, it shoots up into the air on what you would consider an impressive arc before splattering across his front. A second jet quickly follows the first, and then a third, while Sunday all but sobs through his orgasm, wetly choking on it even as he gradually sinks back down to the bed in a drained heap of splayed limbs. 

The eager pulse along his length quickly slows, oozing yet more of that clear discharge to dribble down the length of his shaft in sticky tracks before at last subsiding completely. He’s already a complete mess with various bodily fluids coating his skin but you still give him one final squeeze and drag your hand up to draw the last little bit of his release out of his flagging cock. He seethes a delirious sound in response, head lolling back in doped out bliss while he tries to even out his breathing again to no avail. 

“How was that?” You prod, smiling to yourself as you withdraw your fingers from his mouth. A sticky wad of saliva follows after you, catching on his bottom lip, and you brush your thumb up to helpfully wipe it away, ignoring the mirthless, gasping laugh he rattles out. “It looked like you enjoyed it to me. Was that really your first orgasm?”

Somewhat awkwardly clearing his no doubt dry and scratchy throat, Sunday pointedly turns his head to look elsewhere. Still shy and reticent to openly show any of his emotions, but he certainly felt more relaxed in your arms than he had before. “I wouldn’t have any reason to lie about that, would I? Or do you take me for some kind of shameless masochist?” 

Allowing a brief giggle to slip out, you lean further into him so you can find his neck and deliver a soft peck to the still thrumming pulse under his skin. Sucking in a deeply flustered inhale, he snaps his attention back around to look at you with wide, startled eyes. That makes you laugh too, much to his pouting confusion. 

“What?” He demands at last. 

“Nothing. I was just thinking how cute you really are, that’s all.” 

His brows shoot up almost too fast for you to track the motion. “Cute? M - me? But I don’t —“

“It’s alright, Sunday. Just go with the flow. You feel pretty good right now, don’t you?” Grinning at the uncertainty that flashes across his face, you lower your chin to rest against his shoulder, much like how you’d first started. Realistically only a few minutes had passed but it felt like an entire lifetime had come and gone, and yet you were still right back to this again. 

In the following silence while Sunday chews on that and mulls it over, you rove your attention down to inspect the damage you’d caused. Luckily his coat had been more or less out of the way where you’d spread it open earlier, and it looked like the quickly cooling evidence of this sneaky tryst had mostly landed in harmless flecks across the darker inner shirt underneath. That was a small relief, if you were being honest. You didn’t even want to think about all the fussing he’d do if you stained his white jacket like that. 

“Well,” he says at last, rousing you from your thoughts. “While I still think your methods are unscrupulous and incredibly underhanded … I suppose I still owe you my thanks. I do indeed feel more at ease than I did before. Now if you’ll excuse me —“ 

Quickly looping your arms around his middle when he makes a move to stand up, you yank him back against you with another laugh. “Nuh-uh. We’re not done yet, Sunny. I need to help you clean up that mess first.” 

Choking on a protest, he reaches down to shove at your arms but you don’t budge, pointedly nuzzling into him from behind as if to prove that he wasn’t going anywhere until you decided to let him go. After another brief moment of cursory struggle, he finally gives up and slumps against you with a terse click of his tongue. 

“Really, is this truly necessary?” He grumbles under his breath, lifting a hand to subconsciously wipe the remaining spit off his chin with an air of distaste. “Haven’t you gotten what you wanted out of me already? I'd think you would be satisfied by now, Miss Stellaron.” 

You hum a sly sound at that, coquettishly walking two of your fingers up the front of his shirt to one of the bigger globs of milky white bleeding into the material. He goes still against you, mouth dropping open in what could only be abject shock when you swipe one of the digits through the mess before lifting it up to your face. 

Looking appropriately scandalized now, Sunday tracks the motion with wide, horrified eyes. “Wh - what are you doing? That’s —“ 

Popping your cum coated fingertip into your mouth earns you a strangled gasp and he tries to reel back from you as if in disgust. But you keep your arm locked around his middle, holding him firmly in place while you suck the digit clean. Sunday’s wings flutter an anxious beat and tuck forward to curl defensively over the lower half of his face but it does very little to hide the furious blush staining his cheeks. He looked even more like a ripe cherry ready to be plucked than when you’d been holding his cock in your hand. 

“It’s nothing to be so embarrassed about.” You tell him candidly when you slide your finger out and reach back down to swipe it through the sticky fluid on his shirt again. “You don’t taste bad, if that’s what you’re thinking. I like how you feel in my mouth.” 

His eyes nervously darting from side to side, up and down, anywhere but directly at you, he tries to speak, croaks, and then awkwardly clears his throat again. “But - but that’s … unhygienic, isn’t it? That came out of my … my - -“ 

Softly laughing at how dangerously close he seems to fainting dead away like some sort of swooning maiden in an old movie, you catch a clinging glob of his spend and lift it up towards his face this time. “It’s fine, I promise. You taste good, Sunday. I wouldn’t lie to you. Here, try it for yourself?” 

He makes a face at that, reminding you of a kid that doesn’t want to take his medicine, but at your gentle prodding he slowly lowers his wings. The drooping feathers brush against your curled fingers just so, almost making you tremble at their light touch as you watch him differentially drop his gaze. Submissive and pliable, a clear sign of his bending to your will. 

Your earlier arousal flares back to life with a vengeance, making you feel uncomfortably warm and damp between the legs. Holding the air in your lungs, you nudge your hand closer and he obediently parts his lips for you with a tiny, shuddering whimper. Eyes slipping shut when you slide into his mouth again so you can drag your fingertip across his tongue and smear the salty discharge, making sure he got a good taste of it, he issues a faltering breath that puffs against your knuckles. 

“See? Not so terrible, is it?” You murmur, your voice drawling at a lower octave than usual. Watching him come to terms with his own body was almost as distracting as the need pulsing in your loins, demanding attention and relief in equal measure. You wanted him. More of him. All of him. 

But would he have you? 

Groaning a threadbare little sound, Sunday flutters his lashes and cautiously opens them to peer over at you. For a drawn out moment the two of you just stare at one another, gazes locked and searching. Questioning. Begging. 

And then, ever so sweetly, he closes his mouth and gives your finger an experimental suck, swallowing down the evidence of your illicit activities. A stuttering exhale escapes him as you slowly withdraw your hand, giving him just enough space to breathe for a second. You wanted him to decide for himself how he wanted to proceed, what his next move should be. 

Because what you’d said earlier was the truth. You were not his jailer, nor were you going to willingly facilitate that self flagellating streak of his either. If he wanted to come to you it would be in mutual pleasure and enjoyment, as equals with a vested interest in each other's happiness. Not as punishment or penance for something you’d already decided to forgive him for. 

“M - Miss Stellaron, I …” 

The way his wings start to shyly curl inward again, wanting to hide behind them, brings another smile to your face. He really was too cute like this. “What is it, Sunny?” 

He sucks in a mildly bothered breath at that. “I told you not to — never mind. It doesn’t really matter, I suppose. And you were right. It wasn’t terrible. In all honesty, nothing you’ve done today was … entirely disagreeable in my eyes. So if you’d like to … I mean, if it pleases you we could …”

“Keep going?” You helpfully offer up, making his expression pinch in obvious embarrassment. 

“W - well, should you insist I … I guess I wouldn’t have any complaints about that. But only if you want to. I don’t care either way.” 

“Sure you don’t.” Practically grinning from ear to ear now, you place your hand against his shoulder and push to get him turned around. He still refuses to look directly at you, evidently finding the pattern on your bedspread far more interesting in that moment, but he doesn’t change his mind or try to pull away when you lean into him. 

Tipping your head so you can dip into the space between his nervously fluttering wings, you find Sunday’s mouth and kiss him. Tentatively at first to see how he’ll react, but when all he does is whimper a flustered sound against your lips you press harder, letting your hunger for him dictate your actions. His hands carefully come up to slide around your neck while his wings slowly fall open, letting you in as he holds you against him, and you feel like you just might burst. 

To be wanted by someone like him felt like a blessing and a curse all wrapped up in one. By initiating this had you only sped up his ruination from perfect and holy to mere mortal, or had you just engineered your own downfall in the same breath? 

You’d find out soon enough.

⭐

Cross posted: here

[kendrysaneela]

“She’s like you. Or you’re like her? I don’t know”

That’s such an interesting line cause it’s true! While the outies and innies have different personalities and different wants and needs they each exist within each other. When Helly is Helly Helena is within her subconscious,when Dylan is Dylan outie Dylan is in his subconscious,when Mark S is Mark Scout Mark S is there in his subconscious. They’re all there. And they’re all influencing each other Irving being the most straightforward version of this what with him seeing the globs of paint sometimes because his outie always paints the same painting over and over.

They each exist within each other’s subconscious. And you can see some of the outies bleeding into the innies as they start to experience similar stuff the outies have experienced! (Except for Helly and Helena Helena is actually the one turning into Helly) I think it goes to show what do memories do how do memories shape a person how much of you is your is subconscious and how much is your conscious memory. Like Mark starts out super peppy and happy and helpful and then as he starts to experience more and grief and slowly starts becoming more similar to outie Mark in the way he handles his grief. But that also makes me wonder. Before Mark Scout experienced all that grief was he similar to Mark S? I bet he was. Or he at least had the potential to be.

And then Irving, his outie is clearly a character that needs meaning and is devoted to a cause. And at first innie Irving finds meaning and finds a cause in like helping to spread the message of Kier and doing his work and following the rules and it’s not until he finds meaning outside of work and finds something new to fight for that he starts to become more similar to who outie Irving seems to be. Someone who is more paranoid and more rebellious. Not to mention both of them enjoying art and both of them painting/drawing the same piece of art over and over again. (Albeit for different reasons)

Then there’s Dylan G who’s outie is kinda insecure because he’s been batted down by life a lot seemingly but he does still clearly love his family he’s just depressed unfortunately and has low self esteem from having a lot of unsuccessful adventures in life clearly. But he does seem to be trying outside and his wife still loves him a lot. Dylan inside starts out confident and convinced his outie is super successful and a body builder and has a bunch of girls on the outside. Then he finds out who he really is outside and then unfortunately. Starts to have some losses inside….and his self confidence starts to fall, and then he learns he has a family and able to be convinced to separate himself from his friends because he cares so much about his family. (I think this will transfer back to him caring a lot about his innie family again) .

Then. There’s Helly. Now Helly is the exact opposite of everyone else and shows that it’s not always innies turning into outies. Helly doesn’t start to turn into Helena. Helena starts to turn into Helly. And the longer Helly exists the further she digs her feet into her rebellion. And the more Helena learns about Helly the more she turns into her. Helena is a woman who has no autonomy who makes none of her own decisions and clearly her whole life has just gone along with what she’s been forced to do without making much of a fuss because that’s what she was raised to do and I assume because the punishments for stepping out of line in the Eagan cult are severe. She has also never experienced love. And I think she’s probably resigned herself to this life. But then she sees Helly. And Helly doesn’t know she’s an Eagan. Helly doesn’t have all the cult programming Helena has, they can’t control Helly with threat of what her father will think or do. So Helly rebels and Helly rebels HARD. And Helly’s first instinct being to rebel is probably because Helena has been trapped her whole life so when Helly woke up on that table locked in that room her subconscious went “WE’RE TRAPPED WE’RE TRAPPED ESCAPE” and Helly didn’t have any of Helena’s fears or knowledge of who she is or what’s happening so she doesn’t repress that rebellion or fear like Helena does so she continues to outwardly rebel.

More than Helena probably ever has or at least has in a while. And she receives love for it from her coworkers. She receives love and she receives friendship and Helena sees all this. She sees this woman this other version of her who’s not weighed down by her name or the expectations put upon it and she sees her become who she’s always wanted to be so she starts to try to become that person. And when she’s pretending to be Helly, she flirts with Mark and she makes Irving little snow seals and she makes fun of her family’s lore and she’s free and she’s taking in love.

I think even with Helena no longer being able to pretend to be Helly, Helena will start to either consciously or unconsciously become Helly outside. I think it’s also why she’s watching Mark at the end of the episode. She’s basically in the middle of an identity crisis right now and she’s probably wondering if outie Mark is the key. What outie Mark is like if he’s anything like innie Mark.

I also think Helly and Helena hating each other is a good illustration of Helena’s hatred toward herself. I think she hates herself because she doesn’t have the courage to be like Helly and to rebel like Helly and to fight for her autonomy like Helly.

And they all do this because they are their innies. Their innies are their outies and their outies are their innies they are each other just if they had different life experiences.

[pellaaearien]

Here With Me (Chapter 7)

Dreamling | E | (no more) Edging, Caretaking, Porn With Plot | ~20k total

--

In the end, Hob needn’t have worried. The innkeeper accepts or else doesn’t care to examine their story about being a noble and his retainer accosted on the road, willing to accept the gold thread running through Burgess’ rich tunic in exchange for room, board, and some actual clothes for Dream.

“And medical supplies, if you please.” Dream speaks up, his voice shaky but resolute. “Some bandages, and salve if you have it.” Hob looks at Dream in surprise, but the innkeep just nods.

“I’ll send some up with my girl,” he says gruffly, and they hasten to their quarters before they can make more of a scene. The fewer people who can remember the strange travellers, the better.

“I’d rather you have warmer clothes,” is the first thing out of Hob’s mouth, once the door closes behind them. It’s not what he’d been intending to say, but salve especially won’t come cheap. “I don’t know how long we’re going to be on the road, and—”

“And I’d rather you not die,” Dream snaps, whirling on him fiercely, eyes flashing. Hob swallows the rest of his words. “I… I thought I had lost you.” He wraps his arms around himself, and Hob lurches to embrace him. 

“I wish never to know such a feeling again,” Dream says into his shoulder.

“Dream—”

They’re interrupted by a knock at the door. Hob opens it, feeling antsy about having strangers around Dream. The girl is shy, however, keeping her eyes downcast as she deposits her burden of hot water, bandages, and a jar of salve.

“Thank you,” Hob says, and she jumps at being addressed, nodding quickly.

“I’ll be up with the clothes soon, m’lords,” she says, and takes her leave before Hob can say anything more. Hob sighs, and turns to find that Dream has already uncorked the salve, and is sniffing at it.

“Does it meet with your approval?” he teases. Dream gives him a withering look, and Hob grins. Dream wasn’t the only one who’d feared that they would never see each other again, and the relief is hitting him in waves.

When he removes his bandages, Dream makes a small sound, leaning forward, hovering his fingers over the gash.

“I’ll heal,” Hob assures him. “I’d have taken worse, to know you’re safe.”

Dream’s hands clench in his lap. “You should not have had to.”

“Dream.” Hob cups Dream’s cheek tenderly. “I knew what I was getting into when I swore my life to your service. I’m just sorry I couldn’t do more.”

“Don’t say that!” Dream says, grabbing his hand between both of his. “You’ve done so much, all for me, and I—”

“Shh.” Hob rests his forehead against Dream’s, ignoring the twinge of pain. “No regrets. I’d have done it even if you hadn’t asked.” It was all worth it, just to be near him.

Dream sighs. “I do not deserve you, Hob Gadling.”

Yes, you do! Hob wants to say. You more than anyone! But he thinks better of it. He won’t be another in the long line of people who have convinced Dream that he needs to earn his place.

“I get to decide that, love,” he says instead. “And it’s a decision I made on the very first day I met you.”

Dream looks away, dipping a cloth in the steaming water in lieu of answering. Hob hisses as he begins to tenderly wash his wound.

“You needn’t—” Hob begins, before breaking off at the fierce glare Dream fixes him with.

“I do.” His tone brooks no argument. Hob subsides. It feels wrong, so wrong, to have Dream taking care of him, but he can’t help but melt into it.

In the end, the spelled thread is merely pulled, not torn, and doesn't need to be resewn, certainly not by anyone with their amount of medical knowledge. Hob’s bandages are deftly rewound by Dream, who presses a kiss to the wound afterwards, as Hob holds back tears.

The innkeeper’s girl returns, bringing a bundle of clothes and a pot of stew. Hob doesn’t want to question where they got the clothes on such short notice, but the girl provides the information herself.

“They were my brother’s,” she says quietly, glancing at Dream out of the corner of her eye. “He died at the front.”

“I’m sorry,” Hob says, finding that he means it. Burgess’ people bear no blame for his wars. She nods, and departs, a certain understanding reached, though that doesn’t mean Hob is in a hurry to reveal their identity. He can only pray that they are far enough away not to implicate these people, should they be discovered. Dream puts the dead man’s clothes on wordlessly. They’re an almost perfect fit.

It’s later, after they’ve eaten and rested, that Hob wakes from a couple of hours’ sleep to find Dream no longer next to him in bed, but standing next to the tiny glazed window, hugging his arms to himself. Hob immediately sits up; Dream turns his head but doesn’t look at him.

“Hob.” Dream’s voice is velvet in the moonlit room. “I need you.” He swallows. The light is so bright Hob can trace the line of his throat. “I need you to make it so I’m not the oracle any more.”

The words hit Hob like a thunderclap, despite their quiet volume. Logically, he knows that this is an important step in their plan, and the sooner the better, so that Dream’s powers can no longer be used against them. In his illogical chest, his heart is pounding loud enough Dream can probably hear it from across the room.

He had long since resigned himself to the knowledge that he would never properly make love to Dream. The vague idea of falling from grace, of failing to stop in time, removing that barrier to being fully together, had been the stuff of his darkest fantasies. He’d known it would never happen. Dream had asked him to be his knight, and so that’s what Hob would be, until he died of it.

Now, Dream was asking something else. And rather than jumping at the chance, Hob needed a minute to catch up, to coax his deepest desires from the darkness and assure them it was safe to come out.

“I do not wish to injure you further,” Dream says, still not looking at him. “But I fear, if I do not do this now…” 

Then I never will, Hob finishes for him. He understands completely. “C’mere, dove,” he says, holding out his arms. Dream inches closer, until he melts into his arms with a sigh, bone-cracking tension leeching from his body. Hob holds him close. He can’t imagine what’s going through Dream’s head in this moment, as he contemplates giving up the thing that has defined his entire life.

“Dream,” Hob murmurs into his shock of hair. “Of course I will. If it’s what you really want.” There can be no going back, not after this. While that might be the point, that doesn’t make it any easier.

“I—” Dream’s voice is muffled by his shoulder. “I do not know if this is what you would have chosen. If I—”

“Listen to me.” Hob holds Dream’s face in his hands, pulls back until Dream meets his eyes. “You never forced anything on me. I chose to follow, chose with both eyes wide open, and do you know why?”

Dream shakes his head the tiniest amount, constrained by Hob’s grip, his eyes wide and so, so blue.

“Because how could I let anyone else touch you? Bring you pleasure? Of course I chose you. Who else could it be, but you?”

There’s a taste of salt against his lips, and it’s a long moment before he realises Dream is crying as he kisses him. Despite living as close as two people could be, they have never kissed like this before. Such romantic gestures were for normal people, with normal lives, serving only to remind them of what they couldn’t have.

No longer. The kiss is messy, wet, and perfect, neither of them quite sure what they’re doing but unwilling to stop. The play of Dream’s plush lips against his own is something Hob had never even thought to imagine, and he is instantly addicted.

“Oh, love,” he whispers against Dream’s skin, against the tiny noises and puffs of air Dream makes as he seeks his lips again. “I’m going to make you feel so good. I’m going to take such good care of you.”

“Please.” Dream nods frantically, and Hob’s blood is roaring in his veins at the thought of finally giving into that plea.

He lays Dream gently down on the bed, one of their straw pillows for his head and one for his hips. Dream deserves mountains of pillows, silks and goosedown, every possible luxury. But this is what they have, so Hob will make do. 

The tension in Dream’s frame is back; Hob bends to kiss him, tracing his lips with his tongue (inspired by the thought of a very similar act) until Dream opens for him, gasping and arching. Hob soothes him with soft touches, stroking his hair and sides.

“Hob,” Dream breathes, hips already canting. It’s much more familiar territory, but Hob still takes a moment, pressing his forehead to Dream’s.

“We have all the time in the world,” he says. He will make it true. “There’s no need to rush. I refuse to do anything that will hurt you.” He runs his hands down Dream’s arms, waiting for his nod of permission before pulling off his shirt, then caressing the skin that is revealed. The spread of both of his hands nearly encompasses the width of Dream’s torso.

“Look at me,” he says, and Dream does, the trust in his eyes flaying Hob’s chest open. “I promise you, I won’t stop.” Dream’s breath catches. “Not unless you ask me to. Not until it’s over.” No more ruined orgasms. Dream nods, wordless. Hob cups his cheek. “That means, if I do anything that doesn’t bring you utmost pleasure,” here his voice turns stern, “I need you to tell me.” He knows Dream would stubbornly and stoically bear anything it took, now that his mind is made up. He’s been doing it all his life. That doesn’t mean that this experience shouldn’t be as close to perfect as Hob can make it. “I could never live with myself if I hurt you.” His voice breaks, and Dream grips his arm. “Promise me.”

Dream nods, solemn. “I promise, Hob.” 

In spite of everything, Hob smiles. “Okay, then.” He kisses Dream again, because he can, and because he thinks if he stops kissing Dream for more than a few minutes he might die. Dream melts into it, hands lighting tentatively on Hob’s skin in turn, his shoulders and back, and this, too, is new, and strange, and wonderful. There’s no one to see, here. No one to wonder if their hands are hiding something. No need to keep Dream exposed. Dream touches him, and Hob feels like he could fly.

He thumbs at Dream’s nipples, pink and perfect, swallowing the keening noise he elicits. He replaces his thumbs with his mouth, licking and sucking, as Dream takes in a shuddering gasp above him. His lovely Dream, still so sensitive, even after all this time.

“You're so beautiful,” he says brokenly, looking down at Dream moonwashed in their bed.

Dream bites his lip, somehow managing to look both coquettish and nervous. “They call my prophecy a gift from the gods,” he says. “But I think their true gift was bringing us together.”

Hob can’t help but agree.

“I know I have… asked the impossible of you,” Dream says, not quite meeting his eyes. “And now I must ask yet more, for once again I cannot embark on the path I have chosen without you.”

“Not impossible,” Hob murmurs, kissing Dream again and replacing the teeth at his lip with his own. “We made it, Dream. We’re here together. And I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Dream takes a deep breath, and smiles. Hob’s heart flips over in his chest. When was the last time he saw Dream smile? 

“Very well, Hob Gadling,” he says, looking up at him from under his lashes. “Then prove it. Make me yours, and not the oracle. Make me… Make me come on your cock.”

He hesitates slightly over the unaccustomed filth, and Hob credits years of self-denial with the fact that he didn’t come on the spot, hearing those words in Dream’s voice.

“As you wish, my love,” he manages, strangled. To that end, he leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses down Dream’s chest, tasting at his sternum, his navel.

“Hob,” Dream begins uncertainly, but Hob soothes him, running his thumbs over his hips, then lower, dragging a finger through his folds. Dream shivers.

“Already so wet,” Hob says in wonder. What a miracle, to have this gorgeous creature willing and wanting for him. “You’ll get what you want.” He kisses Dream’s upper thighs. “I’m going to get you ready first.” There had been no rule requiring Hob to keep chaste, but as the thought of lying with anyone other than Dream had been abhorrent, he has no particular experience with what Dream needs. However, given that Dream has never taken so much as a finger before, he can infer.

And there had been talk. There was always talk, whether the speakers had known Hob was in earshot or not. Defiling the oracle was the height of taboo and therefore a pervasive fantasy.

Well, Dream was his. And he would do everything in his power to care for him.

Dream nods, his eyes enormous, and that’s the last he sees of Dream’s face for some time as he licks between his legs.

Hob brings all of his well-earned skill to bear, everything that makes Dream sing out sweet sounds above him, and it’s so much like every other time, only everything is different. When Hob judges the time is right, he slowly, carefully, slips the tip of his tongue into Dream.

“Ah!” Dream’s exclamations increase in intensity, and he thinks they both need a moment. He raises his head, licking his lips of Dream’s sweet ambrosia. Dream is gripping Hob’s wrists for dear life and looks up hungrily, his pupils dilated.

“All right, love?” Hob makes himself ask. Dream is nodding before he finishes.

“More,” he demands, and who is Hob to deny him? He bends down, daring to press his tongue a little further. Their surroundings make it easy to remember that now his goal is to bring about what had once been forbidden. He exists in a sort of in-between place of what has always been his job — bringing Dream pleasure — and the constant anticipation as he crosses line after line in preparation to break, at last, his former vow.

Dream’s body responds to him just as it always has, and Hob can only pray that he can provide enough stimulus to get him completely out of his head. He wants Dream to have no regrets, only joy.

Finally, when he has worked his tongue as far into Dream as it will go, and his jaw is starting to ache, he regretfully withdraws, Dream’s fluids coating his chin. Dream is panting, staring at the ceiling, though he looks hoodedly at Hob as he registers the pause. He’s nowhere near climax, but the lines of his body are softer, and it heartens Hob to see. He kisses Dream deeply, and it isn’t until Dream’s shuddering moan that he realises Dream would never have had occasion to taste himself before.

“You like that, sweetheart?” Hob’s voice is rough, tuned low with lust. “Gods, you taste divine. Always have.”

“Hob,” Dream whispers. So far, despite it all, it’s nothing they couldn’t take back, if they had to. Hob intends to take them over that line, as promised, but he’s bringing Dream with him every step of the way.

“Still doing all right?” He feels compelled to check in, though Dream is showing no signs of distress. He strokes a hand through Dream’s wild hair. Dream leans into it, like gentling a spooked horse.

“I am… well,” Dream answers. Hob would have hoped to be doing better than that, but he accepts it for now. 

“I have never told you,” and there is a spark of mischief in Dream’s eyes, “how much I enjoy your tongue.”

Hob, for his part, is struck speechless. Of course he hadn’t. Why would he? It was a job. But now he just wants to lay himself out in worship again.

He swallows hard and sticks to his plan. “I’m going to start with fingers now, okay love?”

Dream takes in a shaky breath and nods. Hob kisses him again in reassurance, waiting, he realises belatedly, for Dream to tell him to stop, to take it back. But he doesn’t, and Hob has promised. So he continues, bestowing another lick and earning another shiver, before he slowly, gently, slides a finger into Dream.

The way is easy and slick, but Dream still gasps at the intrusion, screwing his eyes shut and almost, almost pulls away, before he masters himself and relaxes. Hob doesn’t move his hand a single inch, he just waits, stroking Dream’s hair.

“Shh, darling, that’s it, you’re doing so well,” he murmurs. “Just relax. No rush, nothing you need to do. Take your time.”

Several deep breaths later, Dream opens his eyes. There are tears clinging to his lashes, devastatingly gorgeous. His hands occupied, Hob kisses them away.

“Hob, I…” Dream says at length, and though Hob waits, it seems Dream has no more words to say. He presses their foreheads together and they share breaths.

“I know,” Hob says. “It’s a lot. Do you want me to stop?”

The shake of Dream’s head is small, but immediate. “Do not,” he says for good measure, and Hob feels better. “I am just…” 

Again, he fails to finish the sentence, but Hob understands. 

“I have you,” he says. “And you’ll always have me, Dream. No matter what.”

“Hob.” Dream pulls him down into a kiss. At the same time, he twists his hips, taking Hob’s finger even deeper. Hob gives a startled moan.

“Please, Hob,” Dream prompts. Hob nods.

“Okay, love,” he says. “We’ll take it slow.”

Too concerned with Dream’s comfort, he hasn’t really taken the time to process that his finger is now inside Dream, but he does now, exploring with slow circles while Dream takes shaky, hitching breaths.

“You’re amazing,” Hob says, overwhelmed. “So soft and warm and perfect. How lucky am I that I get to be here, doing this?”

“Hob,” Dream whimpers, arching his back.

“That’s it, love.” Unable to resist the temptation of those pert pink buds, he has to get his mouth on them again, and Dream collapses to the bed, whining. Hob uses the distraction to inch a second finger into Dream.

It’s a tighter fit, and Dream’s breath hisses. Hob pulls back, rubbing tiny circles on Dream’s clit with his thumb. His fingers stay where they are.

“You’re doing great,” he says, as Dream writhes and pants. “You’re so tight, but that’s okay, love. We’ll get you nice and loose and open so you can take my cock.” Dream lets out a moan. “You want that, right?” Dream nods desperately. “Okay. We’ll get you there.”

“Hob,” Dream gasps out. “Hob, I’m afraid.”

Hob stills, but doesn’t stop, running his free hand up and down Dream’s side soothingly. “What are you afraid of, my heart?”

“I—” Dream’s cheeks, already flushed, blush a deeper red. “I’m afraid you’ll stop,” he admits, and Hob opens his mouth, but Dream rushes on. “I’m afraid I’ll come too soon.” His voice is smaller as he says it.

Hob can’t help but kiss him, and is reassured by the way Dream melts into it. “First,” he says, kissing the tip of Dream’s nose, “I promised you I wouldn’t stop, and I keep my promises. Don’t I?” Dream nods again. “That’s right. The only one who can stop me is you, my love.” To prove it, he swivels his fingers inside Dream, who arches again.

“And two,” here he kisses both of Dream’s rosy cheeks, “if you want to come, then come. That’s rather the point of this. You’ll still get my cock, if that’s what you want.” Hob’s wounds had never felt further away from him. “And if you don’t, that’s fine too.” He scissors his fingers a little, and Dream’s legs fall open. “There are no rules, here. Nothing you have to do, except enjoy it, and tell me when you don’t. Yeah?”

He rather thinks Dream won’t come early, given how long he’s spent denied, but doesn’t feel the need to say anything. Far better for Dream to understand that he’s free of any roles or obligations, for what might be the first time in his life.

It’s certainly no hardship to worship Dream’s body, the way he’s always wanted to. It feels like a blessing, like they’ve created a little piece of paradise in this bed, just the two of them. Hob is hard, of course, in his braies, desperately so, but it feels irrelevant, in the moment, to working Dream open enough to take three fingers, which he does with utmost patience, as Dream shudders beneath him on a great inhale.

“Hob,” Dream sighs, eyelids fluttering, sweat standing out on his brow. Hob thinks he’s never looked more beautiful. “No more.” Before Hob can pull back, ask for clarification, Dream fixes him with those stunning blue eyes. “Your cock. Please.”

Hob makes a strangled noise. His absolute imperative not to hurt Dream wars with how on Earth he’s supposed to say no to that. 

“Okay, love,” he says, taking a deep breath, slipping his fingers out of Dream, who shivers at the loss. “Okay.” He casts about for the salve, figuring that something meant to heal certainly couldn’t hurt. It’s warm as he spreads it on his fingers, and he imagines it will feel good for Dream.

He slicks up his cock with shaking hands, head ringing like he’s taken a blow to the back of it at the thought of actually putting it inside Dream. Even the lightest touch makes him have to take several more breaths so he doesn’t ruin all his careful preparation. Dream is watching him, apprehension deep in his eyes. 

“Hey, Dream, can you breathe for me?” he asks gently, leaning down to pet Dream’s hair with the hand not currently coated in salve. “It’s going to be okay. If you don’t like it, I can make you come without it, or we can stop here for now, if you want. I won’t let anyone make you the oracle again, no matter what. You know that, right?” 

Dream, still flushed and glorious, takes a few unsteady breaths. “I do want it,” he says. “I just—” He huffs in frustration.

“Yeah. It’s scary, isn’t it?”

Dream shoots him a look like he thinks Hob’s patronising him. Hob grins. “Feel my hand shaking?” He holds it out for Dream’s inspection. Dream subsides, looking awed. “We’re in this together, my love,” he reminds Dream. “Whatever you want, I’ll find a way to make it happen.”

Before he finishes speaking, Dream leaps, pulling him in for a hungry, biting kiss.

“I love you, Hob Gadling,” he says fiercely, and Hob reels anew. They’ve never said the words, never needed to, Hob thought, until hearing them from Dream now. “I want to be yours. Will you fuck me?”

“Oh, my darling,” Hob says, hardly aware of what he’s saying. “I’m going to make love to you.”

Hob can’t resist kissing him once more before reaching for more salve, slicking himself again before tracing his fingers delicately through Dream’s folds. 

Dream keens. “Hob,” is all he says, but in that word is a world of urgency.

“I’ve got you,” Hob whispers, his voice fled under the weight. “Ready now.”

He actually has to try a couple of times, because of how much his hands are shaking, and the amount of fluids between them, but it is a temporary awkwardness. Slowly, carefully, Hob pushes his way into Dream.

They both gasp, at the first breach of muscle. Dream freezes, his entire body tensing, and Hob caresses his hips as best he can while not moving from his spot.

“There we are, darling, it’s okay, see? Just breathe, and tell me when you’re ready. Breathe,” he prompts, and Dream’s chest kicks like a resurrection. “That’s it, love, that’s it, is this okay? Am I hurting you?”

Dream shakes his head, almost dislodging Hob from his position.

Relief suffuses Hob’s body. He’d done his job well enough, at least. 

“It is… odd,” Dream muses. “Pressure.” He looks down, and then up again. “You are inside me, Hob.” In his voice is a kind of revelatory wonder, as though he has just now realized that this had always been the goal.

The grin splits Hob’s face wide, wide, and his absolute adoration for the creature beneath him only just surpasses his animal instinct to bury himself in warm, welcoming softness. “Yeah, I sure am,” he replies, though it hadn’t really been a question. “How do you feel about it?”

“I feel…” he shifts, experimentally, and their breath catches as the movement slips Hob further inside. “Oh… I feel so much.”

Hob can’t seem to stop shaking, barely holding back ecstatic tears. He has been inside Dream for all of a moment and his lifetime of carefully cultivated control is flying out the window. “Yeah?” he says, thickly. “Move? Tell me when.” He absolutely does not want to rush Dream but his reasons why are dwindling the longer he hovers on a knife’s edge between not pushing deeper and shaking so hard he’s afraid he’ll slip out and won’t be able to get himself back in.

Soft compassion sparks in Dream’s eyes, and he reaches out for Hob’s face. Hob obligingly contorts his spine to facilitate the connection. Nothing else matters as long as Dream is touching him.

“You can move, Hob,” he says, and Hob lets out a sob at being granted permission.

“Slowly,” Hob nods, as much for himself as for Dream. “Gonna go slow, gonna be so good to you, gonna worship you…” His muscles spasm with the effort of holding back as he presses cautiously forward. Dream gasps and arches, drawing him deeper, and then squeezes his eyes shut, his expression not wholly one of pleasure. Hob freezes immediately, cold washing over him.

“Love?” he questions, trying to wring words out of a brain which is rapidly dribbling out his ears.

“Doesn’t… hurt,” Dream manages, not sounding sure enough about it for Hob’s comfort. “It is… a stretch.” He looks down. “Will it really… all fit inside me?” 

Hob has never worried overmuch about the size of his cock but he wishes he were smaller now.

“I think so,” Hob says, as gently as he can. “And if not, that’s okay too, yeah?” The fever of arousal in his blood is as nothing to his horror at the thought of making it fit, like Dream’s body and pleasure didn’t matter. He may be making it up as he goes along, but it’s still Dream, and he’s here, allowed to be inside him, allowed to make him come. He thinks they’ll be able to figure it out.

Dream is so tight around him it’s nearly painful, in a way he can’t separate from how good it feels. Moving as little as possible, he presses his thumb to Dream’s clit, rubbing soothing circles. Dream sighs out a moan, relaxing slightly, and Hob glows with pride.

Inch by inch, with lots of caresses and kisses and gentle stimulation, Hob makes space for himself inside Dream. Dream pants, and keens, and bites his lip, and is generally the most devastatingly sexy he’s ever been, because he’s doing it for himself. Because he wants. Hob feels carved out, too, like his heart has expanded to fill his whole body, leaving no extra space.

He’s lapping at Dream’s nipples, where he’d been indulging himself ever since he’d been able to reach them, while Dream grips his hair and holds him there, luxuriating in his pleasure, when Hob suddenly finds he has nowhere left to go. He looks up, stunned, his cock wrapped in the vise grip of Dream’s body.

“That’s it,” he says, breathless. “You did it, love. It’s all in.”

Dream gasps, and clutches Hob closer. “Really?”

“Really.” Hob pushes the sweaty fringe back from Dream’s face, suffused with tenderness. “Doing so well, love. So proud of you.”

“You… always say that.” Dream sounds wrecked, blissed-out and hazy; Hob takes a moment to pat himself on the back.

“Always think it,” he says, nuzzling into Dream’s collarbones. “Can’t stop myself saying things.” This is evidenced, Hob thinks, by the fact that he is still capable of forming words, even while losing his entire mind from arousal, buried inside Dream.

“Will you, still?” Dream asks, his voice smaller. “When I’m not…?”

Hob is in no way eloquent enough to answer the way he ought; he nods, emphatically, against Dream’s chest. “Always. Every day. Best person in the world,” he says thickly. “Can’t wait.”

“Oh.” Dream takes a moment to consider this. Then, “Hob, I think I would like to come now,” he says, in a slightly strained tone.

Hob huffs a laugh. “I’ll do my best, sweeting.”

He makes tiny motions with his hips, but it’s difficult, actually, with Dream so tight. This time, though, Dream is enthusiastic in his reciprocation, pushing back against him with punched out noises, and before Hob knows it — he may have blacked out a little — he’s sliding in and out of Dream. Not fully, but enough that the bed is creaking a little as a counterpoint to their pants and moans.

“Hob,” Dream whines, head thrashing on the pillow. “Hob, please.”

“Oh, love,” Hob says, his blood on fire, “What d’you need?”

“Please,” Dream begs again, and it’s clear that both of them are beyond words. Hob, who by this point has managed to regain a single clue, goes for Dream’s clit again, giving himself over to well-practiced motions while trying to maintain a rhythm. Dream’s mouth falls open, and he lets out a low, continuous wail that Hob can hardly hear over the rushing of his heart.

“Oh, ohh— oh… no!” The discordant note of Dream’s despair snaps Hob out of his frenzy as Dream’s eyes roll back in his head, his mouth moving, making words not his own. “Wind from the east—”

Hob swoops in to kiss him before he realizes what he’s done, capturing his lips with his own, silencing the meaningless syllables. Dream’s eyes are wide and blank, and Hob keeps kissing him, willing him to come back, until Dream sobs against his mouth. Hob can taste the salt of tears. Everything stops.

“Oh, lovey.” Hob strokes Dream’s hair, holding him through the tears. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Just breathe. I’m here. Take your time.”

“It was right there!” Dream exclaims, thumping a fist against the sheets. “I was so close, and then I wasn’t, and then…” He looks up apprehensively. “What did I say?”

“It’s not important,” Hob says, as Dream just stares at him. “I mean it, love. You’re not the oracle any more, it doesn’t matter. I care so much less about any potential prophecy than I care about you.”

Dream’s mouth is an ‘o’ of astonishment. He blinks, several times, as his breath slowly returns to normal. It isn’t until then that Hob notices that he’s still inside Dream, his arousal, once so overbearing, suddenly insignificant.

“D’you want to stop?” he asks, as gently as he can. Dream jolts, likely under the same realization as Hob. 

“I…” He visibly considers, chewing his lip. His eyes flick up to Hob. “But you—”

“Fuck that.” Hob has to nip this in the bud. “Don’t you dare worry about me. I’ve been perfectly fine with my hand up to now, and I will be again, because nothing on earth will make me want to keep going if you don’t.”

There is a longer pause. Finally, Dream meets his eyes. “I want,” he says. “To continue. To try again. But—” He spreads his hands, helplessly. 

“I told you,” Hob says, returning his hands to Dream’s hair. “We have all the time in the world. I don’t care how long it takes. We’ll try again, and if it doesn’t happen tonight, it doesn’t happen. Not the end of the world, dove. We’ll just try again tomorrow.”

Dream gives him a tremulous smile. Hob begins, with equal parts regret and relief, to ease out. Dream makes a little forlorn noise. 

“Just for a minute, darling,” Hob reassures him, kissing his cheek. “I’m coming back, I promise.” He hisses as the cooler air of the room hits his (still quite hard) cock, and Dream shivers, left empty.

Hob pours a cup of water from the jug and makes Dream drink it, and then heaves himself to his feet, groaning as the pain of his injuries return with a vengeance, to see to the fire. Once it’s crackling merrily, he returns to the bed, walking carefully, though it’s all worth it to see the assessing look Dream gives the erection jutting proudly from between Hob’s legs. He licks his lips and Hob thinks he might actually go mad before the night is over. Worth it, if so.

“Was that really inside me?” Dream asks, only looking away when Hob eases himself back onto the bed.

“Yeah,” Hob nods, trying to stretch out the kinks in his muscles. “Should be a bit easier this time, if you still want.”

Dream nods before he is finished speaking. “I want,” he says.

Hob feels a rush of heat that has nothing to do with the fire, basking in Dream’s undisguised lust for him as he sips his own water. He’d known, of course, that Dream found him attractive, but it had been a background thing. Irrelevant. Why torture themselves by expressing it? 

There had been a lot like that, Hob is now realizing. Incredible, what you can get used to.

But here, now, they’re free to act and react however they wish, and Hob doesn’t intend to keep Dream waiting any longer. Dream’s eyes are still red-rimmed as Hob gently pushes him back against the pillows.

“Let me know if you’re sore,” he says. Dream gives him a once-over lingering on his injured side, then arches an eyebrow, his meaning obvious. Hob splutters.

“Shut up,” he says. “That’s different.” He kisses Dream before he can voice a protest.

Dream whines as he pulls away, testing Dream's folds gently. “Hob. I don’t know if I can…”

“Shh, love,” Hob says, understanding immediately. “I don’t need to work you up any more. Just promise me you’ll try to relax.” He grabs the salve again — now much depleted — and then it’s time. 

He pushes his way into Dream with far less resistance than last time, Dream yielding with an arch and a gasp. 

This, Hob thinks, this is worth all of the anguish, as he inches in until he’s fully seated, moaning in harmony with Dream. To be here, now, Dream laid out loose and languid beneath him, nothing expected of him but pleasure.

“That’s it, love,” he coos. “You’re perfect. So fucking beautiful and mine.” His to protect, his to love and cherish. Dream makes a noise he’s never heard before, clutching at his hips. 

“Hob, please. Move.” So Hob does. “Ah, ah—”

The sounds of Dream’s pleasure are like wine, and Hob wants to drink them from his mouth.

“Yeah? This good for you, sweetheart?” Dream’s chorus of encouragement makes the question slightly irrelevant. Hob keeps at it; slow, rolling thrusts, and a quiet stream of praise. “I have you. Nothing you have to do. Just give into it. Relax, and feel good. There’s no one here. No one but us.” He breaks off with a whimper. “Gods, you feel so good.”

“Hob. Haah—”

“So fucking good, fuck, Dream, I love you, I love you, I love you—”

Dream gasps, drawing him closer like a particularly determined octopus, and Hob goes willingly. The slick velvet catch and slide of Dream’s body is incomparable to anything he’s ever felt. If he weren’t hard enough to pound nails, he’d stay here forever if he could, to always feel as connected to Dream as he feels in this moment.

He grits his teeth, trying hard to grip the razor’s edge of his composure as Dream meets him thrust for thrust, his hair a riotous shadow against the roughspun sheets.

“Ho-ob!” Dream wails, his belly twitching, and Hob, conditioned to a lifetime of quick responses to this exact moment, does the first thing he can think of, which is to press his hand flat against Dream’s belly to feel it for himself.

Dream jerks like he’s been struck by lightning, every muscle in his body seizing, eyes shooting wide, mouth open in a silent scream. The insistent fluttering of his walls around him turns out to be too much for Hob’s tenuous control and he spills over inside Dream, panting like a racehorse and feeling like he’s been run over by one.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, Dream…” There’s so much of it, on and on, and through it all Dream’s hips make little involuntary motions, taking Hob for all he’s worth until he’s convinced he’ll die of it — but what a way to go. His head hangs down between his shoulders as he shudders through it, holding Dream as close as he can while Dream makes tiny cries in time with the twitch of his hips.

Finally, Hob can take no more of it and gently, gently pulls out, a process complicated by Dream’s body clinging to him for dear life. When Hob does manage to slip free, accompanied by a messy rush between their bodies, Dream keens as though bereft and tries to curl in on himself. Hob barely has the presence of mind to keep from collapsing directly on top of him, drawing him into the lee of his arms with clumsy motions.

“Shh, love,” he whispers. “Shh, it’s all right. You’re fine, I’m here. I’m here. I love you.”

He holds Dream close while they both shake with the force of their heaving breaths, running soothing hands over every inch he can reach.

There are silent tears on Dream’s cheeks. His heart seizes, and he fights through the languor to be able to form words.

“Gods, please tell me I didn’t hurt you…”

Dream squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head, tears scattering like diamonds. Hob crosses the impossible distance to cup Dream’s face in his hand.

“Words, darling, please,” he begs. 

Dream reaches for his hand, grasping it after several tries and twining their fingers together.

“I am well, Hob,” he says, voice serene. The tears are still streaming down his face. “I am no longer the oracle. I am… free.” He says it with such wonder that Hob is nearly moved to tears himself. 

“Yeah,” he chokes out. “Yeah, you are.” They both are. Hob is free to love Dream as fiercely as he’s always wanted to, and he will never take it for granted.

“During that last moment,” Dream continues, “just before I lost my powers. I saw…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Hob says firmly. “I told you. You’re not the oracle any more. Let it be forgotten.”

“Not this,” Dream insists. “I saw us, Hob.” His voice is hushed. “Sitting outside a house — our house. Together.”

Hob loses his breath as he imagines it. It’s everything he’d ever wanted for Dream, for himself. Everything he’d thought they could never have.

“The sun was setting over seaside cliffs. There was a garden.” Tears are still flowing unchecked down Dream’s cheeks, but Dream sounds as content as Hob has ever heard him. “And in my arms…” He takes Hob’s hand and draws it to rest over his abdomen. 

Hob might never breathe again.

“A baby, with… with my hair,” Dream forces out through renewed tears, “and your eyes.”

Hob can’t think of a single thing to say. He scoops Dream up, rolling them until Dream is nestled on his chest. Dream squeaks at the unaccustomed position.

“Really?” It’s official; his happiness could not be more complete. “Dream, you absolute marvel. You’re perfect, I adore you—” He plants kisses on every inch of Dream he can reach. “Wait.” He pauses as the thought occurs to him. “Are you… saying we made a baby? Just now?”

Dream in his arms is loose and relaxed, flushed and happy, and Hob would give everything to ensure he looks like this always. 

“I do not know,” Dream answers. “We shall have to wait and see. Or—” A smirk Hob would not have thought him capable of crosses his face. “We could keep trying, until we know for sure.”

Hob finds himself laughing harder than he can remember in a long time. “We might just have to,” he says, once he’s caught his breath. “Wouldn’t do to have your final prophecy not come true, eh?”

Dream just smiles, and nuzzles into his neck. “I love you.”

“I love you, Dream,” Hob replies, already a reflex. He can’t wait to say it every chance he gets. 

Well and truly tapped out on adrenaline now, Hob can barely keep his eyes open long enough to make an attempt at cleaning them up, before cradling the most precious thing in the world to his chest. He sleeps.

[kendrysaneela]

No but the “Always the same person” thing is so wild to me because like?? Yeah! They each exist within each other’s subconscious. And you can see some of the outies bleeding into the innies as they start to experience similar stuff the outies have experienced! (Except for Helly and Helena Helena is actually the one turning into Helly) I think it goes to show what do memories do how do memories shape a person how much of you is your is subconscious and how much is your conscious memory. Like Mark starts out super peppy and happy and helpful and then as he starts to experience more and grief and slowly starts becoming more similar to outie Mark in the way he handles his grief. But that also makes me wonder. Before Mark Scout experienced all that grief was he similar to Mark S? I bet he was. Or he at least had the potential to be. And then Irving, his outie is clearly a character that needs meaning and is devoted to a cause. And at first innie Irving finds meaning and finds a cause in like helping to spread the message of Kier and doing his work and following the rules and it’s not until he finds meaning outside of work and finds something new to fight for that he starts to become more similar to who outie Irving seems to be. Someone who is more paranoid and more rebellious. Not to mention both of them enjoying art and both of them painting/drawing the same piece of art over and over again. (Albeit for different reasons) then there’s Dylan G who’s outie is kinda insecure because he’s been batted down by life a lot seemingly but he does still clearly love his family he’s just depressed unfortunately and has low self esteem from having a lot of unsuccessful adventures in life clearly. But he does seem to be trying outside and his wife still loves him a lot. Dylan inside starts out confident and convinced his outie is super successful and a body builder and has a bunch of girls on the outside. Then he finds out who he really is outside and then unfortunately. Starts to have some losses inside….and his self confidence starts to fall, and then he learns he has a family and able to be convinced to separate himself from his friends because he cares so much about his family. (I think this will transfer back to him caring a lot about his innie family again) . Then. There’s Helly. Now Helly is the exact opposite of everyone else and shows that it’s not always innies turning into outies. Helly doesn’t start to turn into Helena. Helena starts to turn into Helly. And the longer Helly exists the further she digs her feet into her rebellion. And the more Helena learns about Helly the more she turns into her. Helena is a woman who has no autonomy who makes none of her own decisions and clearly her whole life has just gone along with what she’s been forced to do without making much of a fuss because that’s what she was raised to do and I assume because the punishments for stepping out of line in the Eagan cult are severe. She has also never experienced love. And I think she’s probably resigned herself to this life. But then she sees Helly. And Helly doesn’t know she’s an Eagan. Helly doesn’t have all the cult programming Helena has, they can’t control Helly with threat of what her father will think or do. So Helly rebels and Helly rebels HARD. More than Helena probably ever has or at least has in a while. And she receives love for it from her coworkers. She receives love and she receives friendship and Helena sees all this. She sees this woman who’s not weighed down by her name or the expectations put upon it and she sees her become who she’s always wanted to be so she starts to try to become that person. And when she’s pretending to be Helly, she flirts with Mark and she makes Irving little snow seals and she makes fun of her family’s lore and she’s free and she’s taking in love. And they all do this because they are their innies. And Helly and Helena hate each other which goes along with Helena’s hatred of herself. They are their innies and their outies are them just if they had different life experiences.

I felt so sorry for Mark on this episode. You can tell just by his facial expressions how betrayed, heartbroken and hopeless he feels.

For him, knowing that Helly was Helena all this time, is kind of the realization that the innies are actually powerless, that Lumon is always in control. He felt freedom with "Helly", he opened his heart to her and it was all a lie! Lumon always wins.

He also couldn't tell that she wasn't his Helly, because in reality the innies and the outies are the same person and even if they could get to the surface they will always be attached, because the only solution is reintegration.

[gammija]

a nuance that gets a bit lost in martin 'murder' blackwood is that while he's definitely not against a good killing, it's more of a fun couple's activity rather than true heartfelt passion, you know?

i mean, twice he's had the opportunity to have Jonah get shanked, and he foils them, even though he wants the guy dead. Like, murder is always an option, but he usually tries other, less direct methods first - in fact id say that his trying to be clever and moral still leading up to the end of the world is exactly what drives him to say, ok well fuck it then, let's get our murder on

[dhmis-autism]

i feel like the original series was red guy centered, the first season was for yellow guy, and i am BEGGING AND PRAYING that season 2 will be more about duck!! i will probably cry if anything happens to him though lol 💀 everytime writers break a comic relief character i just OUGSHGS.. it gets me.

h well I don't think you're wrong about that! Webseries being Red Guys time to shine, S1 of the TV show being for Yellow (esp the last two episodes I think? Even thought outside of that, he does get a lot of focus/he IS the one who talks to the audience the most directly). From what I remember hearing, the pilot was pretty Duck-centered.

But I think even if he GETS his big moment in the sun, so to speak, it's NOT going to be as emotional as the other twos. On top of him just not being a very um… let's say sentimental character, he's just not the make-you-cry type! It's just not him imo!

IDK, I operate under the opinion that… in his weird little head, the most important thing that he values over everything is keeping the three of them together. Both because he thinks of them as a weird little family AND because he really doesn't have anyone else outside of the trio. We also know from the interview, and you could maybe argue from the Family episode ( Who do you love?/Anyone who loves me back., I asked every member of my family who they loved the most, and they all said me ) that being loved is something that he actually values QUITE a bit! More than you would assume on first glance! He's weirdly upfront about it haha!

In that way, I imagine that if they were to TRY to pull something to put him in the spotlight in the way you're imagining (i.e. something emotional and focusing on his issues like they did with Yellow & Red) it would either focus on his desire to be loved OR his dedication to keeping the three of them together. But I would argue they both already did that in the Family episode AND put him through the worst case-scenario in regards to those more emotional aspects of his character ( here I think the worst case scenario to him is the other two rejecting him, harshly, unambiguously and to his face, multiple times and the three of them separating ). AND THE THING IS… THAT ALREADY HAPPENED! THAT DIDN'T BREAK HIM!

He had his little pout over it in his dress and was like FINE! I DON'T NEED THEM ANYWAYS! So, I really don't think that big "character-breaking" moment is coming. If the Family ep didn't get him I honest to God don't think there's anything else the house could throw at him that could get under his skin.

[ozzgin]

hi theeereee!! im back.. :3 since you asked for ideas, i was wondering.. since its New Year’s Eve, how would some of your favorite monsters react to being asked to be y/ns midnight kiss? but also, remember to rest, my dear!!! all of your fans love your writing and your art, but you can’t do all of that if you’re not feeling good!! don’t force yourself to write when you’re not feeling it. 💗

princess anon!!

Midnight Kiss with the Monsters

content: gender neutral reader, some NSFW

Zzy isn't one to wait for such boring customs. Thus, you don't have to worry about requesting a midnight smooch. Before the clock even strikes the end of the year, his tongue is performing somersaults deep inside your mouth. You have to smack him off of you. "At least let me watch the countdown," you scold him. "Yeah? I'll be counting down how long until I'm balls deep in you," he retorts with a pout.

Puppy!Hybrid is similarly eager: somewhere along the line, your message must've been lost. He seems to be convinced it's not a midnight kiss, but a midnight copulation. You fall back, completely bewildered, after you'd leaned in for a kiss and the damn horndog tried to mount you instead. "Someone's getting neutered this year," you mumble to yourself.

Demon King is particularly romantic tonight. He compliments your outfit, serves you a glass of champagne, then easily lifts you off the ground for a kiss. Your feet dangle above the ground as he holds your ridiculously small form before him. "What's the stuff flying around with each firework," you ask, eyeing the dazzling spectacle he arranged for you. "Oh, we used some spare humans as fuel."

Asylum Spider needs a little comforting before the actual romantic exchange. You discovered too late that the loud fireworks startle him tremendously. Thankfully, your soft lips are enough to put him to rest. His slender arms clumsily wrap themselves around you, and he grins at the warm feeling enveloping him. He wishes it'd last forever.

Centaur!Manager must've gotten a little carried away. The Monster Hotel organized the event for your Earthly end of the year, so you wouldn't miss your home customs. You had turned towards him to express your gratitude, but instead he lowered himself for a quick kiss. He looks back to a mass of angry guests and staff. Perhaps smooching everyone's favorite human wasn't the smartest decision.

Delinquent!Fairy's little peck goes almost unnoticed. You do feel the faintest warmth on your lips, so you quickly look back down, as you were distracted by the fireworks. "Did you just kiss me?" The small creature huffs and turns away with a grimace. "Only thing you're going to kiss is these fists," he barks. Upon further consideration, perhaps today he can afford to give you a break. "...I can do it again if you want," he confesses with burning cheeks.

[aemondsbabygirl]

So this got very long as usual 🤭 so I’m putting it under a read more.

The council scene was so damn interesting!!! I love seeing all the characters try to make their point as carefully as possible, knowing how dire the situation is. And how impulsive and volatile Aegon can be. I bet it must have been challenging to write, but you did it so well!

Alicent is already starting go to grate on my nerves. “So you mutilate him over an insult?” She said at last, her voice trembling with restrained anger. “Over words, Aemond?”

Ain’t that exactly what happened to her own son??? And she acts surprised??

“(…) His mother sought to apologize, to soothe tensions, to mend something that had long since shattered. (…) Had anyone apologized to him when Rhaenyra’s son took his eye? No. Instead, he had been humiliated, threatened, left to bleed as the room stood divided over who was to blame. There had been no soothing words, no justice offered to him. Only pain, humiliation, and the cold truth that his suffering mattered less than preserving some fragile, already broken, peace.”

DING DING DING!!!!! This baffles me that Alicent doesn’t see that. She is such a hypocrite.

“Had this not been her cause? Had she not spent years insisting that Aegon was the rightful king, (…) That Rhaenyra would put them all to the sword? Yet now, when the time had come to act, when their path was set, she hesitated. (…) She blamed him for the war, for making it inevitable, for being the spark that ignited the conflict. (…) as though she had not spent years scheming and maneuvering to put Aegon on the throne.” (…)–and now, when the blood began to flow, she wanted to wash her hands of it all. To absolve herself from responsibility, to lay the burden at his feet.”

God how ANNOYING and hypocritical she is. I need Aemond to, one day, just SNAP and tell her this. Or Daenera. Put her right in front of a mirror so she can see that this is all her own doing. And now she has the audacity to put the blame on Aemond.

I loved seeing their reactions to Visenya’s birth and death.

“Yet satisfaction gave way to contemplation as he considered the ripples such a loss would create–and what it would mean for Daenera.”

UGH I actually hadn’t thought about that. About how this will affect Dae. I dread her knowing but I’m also very curious to see if she will take this as a punishment from the Gods for what she did to Patrick. Although, the death of the baby happened way before Patrick’s death. I am also worried this will widen the rift between her and Aemond.

And this part : “A note of unease coiled tightly in his chest. They had been vulnerable the day before, the lords and ladies of the realm gathered in the sept for the wedding, their defenses thin, their focus elsewhere. The realization gnawed at him. Rhaenyra could have taken them–taken the Red Keep, King’s Landing itself”.

I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of that either!!! She totally could have taken them while they were “celebrating”. This possibility should make them even more cautious from now on.

“It was Caraxes that posed the most significant threat. Both the dragon and his rider were seasoned warriors, tactical and relentless. Still, Aemond believed he could defeat them–if it came down to just the two of them. The thrill of such a confrontation stirred something fierce within him.”

Nope nope, I am not ready for this. Absolutely not, aemond better calm the fuck down with this thought😅

It annoyed me that the members of the council cared so much about Wyllam. Especially Alicent. Where is the Alicent who defends her son??? I need Aemond to defend himself more! I know he is emotionally constipated and suffers in silence but still. Someone defend and love my boy !!!

I loved that he almost felt pride for whatDaenera did. Yes it was terrible and she’s a child murderer, but this is house of the dragon, everyone is bad and makes terrible decisions. She’s convincing herself it wasn’t as bad as what Aemond did, but they’re two sides of the same coin.

My hatred for Mertha only grows. If she has no hater then that means I am dead. I imagine killing her in my mind, after every scene I read with her.

I loved Dae’s discussion with Edelin. I’m glad Edelin spoke her mind but that she’ll keep the secret. And Dae reading to her in bed, was so cute.

I feel like I’m being tortured everytime Aemond and Dae are together!!! I miss them so much. The last sentence really made me laugh, she’s so petty with him !! I can’t wait for them to reconcile even just a little bit! It broke my heart when she considered using the remaining berries on herself, but also that she would consider Aemond at the same level as all the greens. I’m anxious about how Dae is going to receive the news of her sister’s death. Her relationship with Aemond is already very very strained and she is clinging to her hatred for him with all her strength, to the point of considering poisoning him. Aemond or someone has to find a way to soften her a little, even if I bet she is still grieving her brother. Maybe Aemond should remind her that he hadn’t meant to or something, she seems to have completely forgotten about this admission of his. I can’t wait to see how their relationship will mend.

Absolutely loved this chapter. I really enjoyed all the scheming and plotting the council is doing! And I also can’t wait to see what’s happening on the blacks side as well !

💖💖

A Vow of Blood S2 - Ch. 2

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, child murder, 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 2: Ruthlessness or Mercy

AO3 - S1 Masterlist - S2 Masterlist

The Council Chambers lay shrouded in a dim, restless light that filtered through the latticed windows, casting fractured patterns across the stone floor. Beyond the intricate panes, the sky was a tumult of shifting grays, heavy with the promise of rain.

Aemond stepped into the room, his presence commanding even in its quietness. He moved with the careful deliberation of a predator–each step purposeful, measured, as though the very act of walking across the threshold was an assertion of control. His leather boots met the cold stone with a muted thud as he ascended the steps. 

The chairs surrounding the long, austere stone table stood empty, all save one; his mother’s. She sat with rigid poise, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as though to anchor herself. Her dark, expressive eyes locked onto Aemond as he settled himself into his seat. Those eyes burned with reproach, their intensity drawing attention to the faint furrow etched between her brows and the subtle downturn of her lips.

It was not a new expression; he had seen it countless times before, though it had more often been directed at his brother. It was the look she reserved for disappointment, for exasperation with sons who, in her eyes, ought to have known better. The weight of her disapproval bore down on him like a silent accusation, as though he were a boy caught in some misdeed.

Aemond felt the flicker of annoyance stir in his chest, hot and unwelcome. She judged him, he knew, for what he had done–for the actions he considered necessary. His jaw tightened, but he met her gaze unflinchingly, letting it wash over him like a tide breaking on stone. He would not yield to guilt; there was none to feel. His choices had been measured and justified. 

Still, her silent condemnation lingered, her brows knitting further as though she sought to unravel him with sheer force of will. When she finally broke her gaze, turning her head with an almost dismissive air, it sent another sharp pang of irritation through him. His fingers twitched before he placed his hand deliberately on the cold surface of the table. He began to tap his fingers against the stone. 

The low hum of conversation rippled from the periphery of the room, an almost distant sound that Aemond registered without interest. It hovered at the edge of his awareness, much like the men who spoke it–inconsequential. 

“–ruined my velvet doublet! Vile creatures,” Ser Tyland Lannister’s voice rang out, laced with indignation. He stood by the side table laden with food and wine, its offering ever ready in case the council dragged on into hours of tedium. Tyland poured himself a generous cup of wine, shifting with irritation. Beside him, Lord Jasper Wylde plucked absently at a bowl of fruit, the polished grape he selected glinting faintly in the candlelight. 

“Whomever thought of releasing them inside should be made to pay for it,” Tyland continued, his reddish-golden hair catching the light as he turned to glance at Jasper for sympathy but there was none to be found. 

“Is there nothing to be done about them?”

“The rat catchers are at work,” Tyland replied, swirling his wine as though the answer soured his mood further. “But they are rat catchers, not bird catchers, and birds, it seems, pose a challenge beyond their meager skill.” He let out a sigh, casting his gaze briefly towards the ceiling as though pigeons might descend upon him at any moment. “Pigeons are nothing but rats with wings, I say.”

Jasper smirked faintly as he plucked another grape. “Why not shoot them down?” He proposed. “Surely the archers would find some amusement in it.”

“Perhaps,” Tyland conceded, though his tone suggested doubt. “But killing the birds might invite ill fortune upon the union they were meant to bless...”

For the first time, Aemond sensed the weight of Tyland’s gaze, a fleeting glance that carried subtle unease, as though unsure of his reaction. Aemond did not respond by meeting his gaze, his focus remained elsewhere, unconcerned and wholly uninterested in the conversation. 

Jasper emitted a gruff sound of disapproval. “I hadn’t taken you for a superstitious man, Ser.”

Tyland hummed in reply, a noncommittal sound as he lifted his goblet and took a measured sip of wine. Aemond’s gaze flicked briefly to the lattice windows, where the gathering storm clouds darkened the room further. The council had yet to truly begin, and already, his patience frayed. 

The faint jangle of chains announced the arrival of Maester Orwyle before he even appeared in the council chamber. It was a sound that carried an unassuming weight, familiar and mundane, yet always accompanied a matter of seriousness. Aemond heard it now, the soft clinking growing louder with each deliberate step the Maester took. The sound seemed to linger in the heavy silence of the room. 

Orwyle entered, his gray robes trailing behind him as his thick, wrought chain swayed heavily with each movement. His posture was stiff, his lined face bearing the caution of a clever man. Before he could fully take his place at the table, Alicent’s voice cut through the stillness, direct and demanding. 

“Maester Orwyle,” she began, her tone tight with concern, “how fares Ser Wyllam? Will he recover?”

The Maester hesitated for only a moment, his hands steadying on the back of his chair as his gaze flickered–briefly but noticeably–towards Aemond. Aemond met the Maester's gaze, his lone eye gleaming with a sharpness that dared any present to hold it. There was no concern in his expression for the wounded knight’s recovery; instead, a faint trace of amusement flickered at the corner of his mouth, like a predator toying with its prey. The tension the mention of Ser Wyllam seemed to bring to the room only added to his quiet satisfaction.

Orwyle’s eyes darted away quickly, and he lowered himself into his chair with measured care, the links of his chain clinking softly against the wood. “As you’d expect, Your Grace.”

He folded his hands in his lap, his thumbs worrying at the links of his chain as he spoke. “I have dulled his pain with milk-of-the-poppy and stitched his wounds, though…” His voice faltered briefly, “…the scars will be… significant. I fear there is little to be done for that. However, I am confident he will make a full recovery.”

Alicent’s shoulder relaxed fractionally, though her expression remained grave. She drew her hands together, fingers interlacing, the gold of her rings catching the flickering light of the chamber. “By the Mother’s mercy,” she breathed, her voice softening, though her eyes betrayed her weariness. “I will pray for his swift recovery then.”

Orwyle offered a slight nod of acknowledgement but avoided meeting Aemond’s gaze. He offered no comment, though the mention of Ser Wyllam stirred little in him beyond vague irritation. It was a matter resolved, in his eyes–a lesson given and received. 

His mother’s concern grated faintly at his nerves, though he kept his composure. It was not prayer that would heal Ser Wyllam’s wounds, nor had prayer saved him from earning them in the first place. 

Strength did not come from the gods; it came from within–or not at all.

The room seemed to grow heavier with silence, each word spoken about Ser Wyllam hanging in the air like an accusation. To him, the recovery of Ser Wyllam was a trivial matter, unworthy of the energy it seemed to draw. Aemond’s fingers tapped against the cold stone of the table, the movement seeming to briefly draw his mother’s scrutiny. His mother steadfastly avoided his gaze, though her disapproval was as palpable as if she had spoken it aloud. Her deliberate refusal to look at him, as though he were something too terrible to acknowledge, struck a nerve. It was not simply avoidance–it was rejection, a silent declaration that he was somehow awful, wrong, unworthy of her regard. The thought burrowed under his skin, needling at him with an insidious persistence.

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his fingers resuming their steady drumming against the table’s surface. He would not give her the satisfaction of a reaction, but the sting of her silent judgment lingered, a thorn he could not easily remove.

The tension in the chamber was a living thing, dense and suffocating, pressing down on those gathered. It was born not only of silence but of the morning’s events–the blood spilled in the courtyard, the words exchanged, the mutilated knight recovering in the maester’s wing, and the consequences that followed. Whispers had swept through the castle like wildfire, ensuring that no soul within its walls remained ignorant of what had happened–of that he was sure. 

The faint scrape of boots against stone signaled Otto Hightower’s entrance. The Hand of the King moved with purpose, his long robes trailing softly as he rounded the table. He passed both his daughter and grandson without so much as a glance, his focus fixed on his destination: the chair to the king’s right, conspicuously empty in his absence. Otto carried with him a leather-bound book of notes, which he set down with care and a weary sigh. His movements were measured as he reached for the marble ball of his station, its cool surface gleaming faintly in the dim light. He lifted it from the center of the table and placed it into its designated holder before him, the soft clink of stone on metal breaking the heavy quiet. 

The Hand’s presence seemed to draw the council together. Ser Tyland Lannister followed Lord Jasper Wylde to the table. He placed his wine goblet on it with a dull clink before pulling out his chair. The scrape of wood against stone cut through the room as he lowered himself into the seat to Aemond’s right. 

“The King?” Lord Jasper queried as he eased into his chair, the polished marble ball of The Master of Law clinking softly as he placed it into its holder. His tone was casual, though his question carried a faint trace of scrutiny. 

“The King is still recovering from the previous night’s indulgences,” Otto Hightower replied, his words measured, laced with the subtle implication that the council would proceed with or without the King’s presence. The Hand’s tone brooked no argument, his focus shifting to the matters at hand. Yet, before the finality of his statement could fully settle, the room was interrupted by the cutting edge of another voice–raspy, pointy, and unmistakably annoyed. 

“The King,” Aegon interjected, his footsteps heavy as they echoed through the chamber, drawing every eye towards him, “is here.�� The heavy doors thudded shut behind him as he ascended the steps with a languid arrogance that belied the irritation in his tone. “And in a rather foul mood.”

Aegon reached his chair with a haphazard grace, dropping into it without ceremony. His movements were unhurried, his expression drawn. He snapped his fingers sharply, the gesture summoning the cupbearer–a nervous-looking nephew of their grandfather–who hurried to bring the King a goblet of wine. 

Settling back into his seat, Aegon’s fingers wrapped around the stem of the goblet as he took a long sip. Lowering the cup, his gaze flicked towards Aemond, a crooked, humorless smirk curling his lips. “Tough,” he drawled, his voice carrying a sardonic edge, “I suppose I’m not the only one in a foul mood this morning, am I, brother? There seems to be an abundance of it today.”

Aemond’s eye met Aegon’s with cold indifference. He remained silent, his fingers tapping the deliberate rhythm against the table’s surface. 

“No bruises, no cuts… still one good eye.” His gaze roved over Aemond’s face with exaggerated scrutiny, a faint, mocking smirk playing at his lips. “Not a mark on you–aside from the usual, of course.”

Aegon leaned back in his chair, lifting his goblet with lazy precision as though to toast his own wit. He took a slow sip, savoring the tension in the room, before continuing, his tone dripping with feigned innocence. “Either my sweet niece was exceptionally docile on her wedding night,” he said, lifting his eyebrows in mock surprise, “or your night wasn’t quite as… eventful as one might have hoped.”

He tilted his head in a goading manner, his smirk deepening as he allowed his words to linger, the implication hanging heavy in the air. The faint scrape of his boot against the floor punctuated his deliberate shift in posture, his movements slow and unhurried, as though he reveled in drawing out the moment. “I’d wager the latter is the reason for your sour mood this morning,” he added, his voice laced with a mix of amusement and derision.

Aegon’s gaze sharpened then, a glint of something darker flickering behind his lazy smirk. “But no matter,” he continued, his tone softening into something almost conspiratorial, though the mockery remained clear. “It seems you found your excitement elsewhere, didn’t you?” He set his goblet down with a deliberate clink, his eyes narrowing as he added, with a pointed edge, “Brother.”

Aemond’s gaze locked onto his brother’s, unflinching and devoid of even a flicker of remorse. His expression was a mask of cold composure, as if carved from stone, offering no satisfaction to Aegon’s taunts. Yet beneath the surface, a storm churned–a simmering fury that burned in his chest, coiling tighter with every word that dripped from Aegon’s mocking tongue.

His jaw tightened, the faintest motion betraying the restraint it took to keep his temper in check. The insult gnawed at him–as it had when spewed from Ser Wyllam’s now mutilated mouth–but he refused to give his brother the satisfaction of a reaction. He gritted his teeth, the metallic taste of anger sharp on his tongue. 

“How could you do such a thing?” His mother finally spoke, her voice cracking through the room like the lash of a whip. Her tone was tight with disbelief, her head shaking slowly as she turned her gaze towards Aemond. “Your actions are not without consequence, Aemond. Have you not done enough already?”

Her words needled at him, burrowing beneath his skin and sinking into the awful, tender part of him that wanted nothing but her understanding–her love. He heard it in her voice, the reprimand laced with disgust. Had his actions not brought them enough ruin? Had he not stained his hands with enough blood? Was he not already enough of a monster?

Another feeling soon rose to the surface, sharp and biting: resentment. He was not a boy to be chastised in front of an audience. He steeled himself, refusing to let the emotion show. He was justified–he had been right. And he did not appreciate his mother’s reproach. 

“I defended myself,” Aemond said finally, his voice steady and cold, though his anger simmered beneath the surface. His gaze shifted back to his mother, sharp and unyielding. “He made the mistake of thinking he could speak to me freely–insult me without consequence. Would you rather I let them laugh at me?”

His brow furrowed, the faintest trace of bitterness creeping into his tone. He remembered too well what it felt like to be the object of ridicule, the powerless boy mocked and taunted at every turn. He would never allow that again. Not from a knight, not from anyone.

Alicent let out a sound of disbelief, a scornful exhale that stung as much as her words did. She turned her head sharply, tearing her gaze from him as though even looking at him was too much to bear for an extended period of time. Her hands drew tighter on the table, the golden rings on her fingers digging into her skin. 

“So you mutilate him over an insult?” She said at last, her voice trembling with restrained anger. “Over words, Aemond?”

Her tone struck like a hammer against the brittle silence, and the weight of her disappointment pressed down on him. Aemond’s jaw tightened, but he refused to look away, even as her words burrowed deeper, feeding the gnawing ache inside him. He would not falter. 

“I gave him every opportunity to take back his words,” Aemond said, his tone measured–tilting his head in a half shrug. His gaze fixed on his brother, sharp and unyielding. “But he proved more fool than man. I suppose that is why you keep him around brother. He suits your needs well enough, does he not?”

His brother had made a habit of surrounding himself with fools and jesters–lickspilles who would glady lick the soles of his boots and then offer honeyed words of praise for the privilege. Aegon seemed content with their false flattery and praise. To Aemond, it was a testament to his brother’s weakness–his inability to command true respect without relying on the spineless throng that clung to him like leeches. 

The knights and lords Aegon favored were no better, men more adept at wine-drinking and bawdy tales than strategy or strength. They were eager to whisper in his ear, to stroke his ego, but when true action was required, he thought, they would scatter like leaves before the wind. And he saw it for what it was; a weakness that left their house vulnerable. 

Ser Wyllam was just another one of his brother’s chosen fools, a knight whose tongue was far quicker than his sword. And Aemond would not abide his disrespect.

“Can you not take a simple jest?” Aegon drawled, his voice oozing derision. 

“I can take a jest,” Aemond replied, his voice cold enough to chill the room. “But I will not take disrespect.” 

Aegon’s laugh was sharp and unkind, cutting through the thick tension like a blade. “Mother, do you suppose the next time someone dares to mock his… shortcomings,” his eyes flickered towards Aemond’s eyepatch and what lacked beneath, “he’ll lop off an ear as well? Or perhaps a head?” His eyebrows drew together as his head tilted in scrutiny. “Or is this about more than words, hmm? Did Ser Wyllam strike too close to the bone?” He paused for a moment, drawing out the tension. “…Did he speak of your fine wedding night? Was it not all you’ve dreamt of, brother?” Aemond's gaze narrowed.

“Could you not, at least, have left one side of his face untouched?” Aegon huffed as he sank back in his chair, waving his hand dismissively, his expression irritated. “Now I have to rearrange the seating at every feast to keep Wyllam out of my line of sight. Honestly, Aemond, if you wanted to maim him, couldn’t you have picked somewhere less noticeable? His hands, perhaps? No one cares about those.” He lounged in his chair, swirling the wine in his goblet with lazy precision.

“Aegon,” Alicent chided, her tone weary and exasperated. Her head shook with reproach. “This is a serious matter–”

Aegon grimaced and leaned back further in his chair, sinking slightly with a huff. “Of course, Mother,” he drawled. “Far be it from me to disrupt the sanctity of these proceedings.” 

“Did you ever pause to consider what consequences your actions might bring us, once again?” Alicent’s voice was sharp, cutting through the tension as her attention snapped back to Aemond. Her dark eyes, burning with condemnation, locked on to his with unflinching intensity. “You act without temperance or restraint. You let your pride dictate your actions, no matter the cost.”

Aemond held his mother’s gaze, his expression cold and impassive, though a faint tension betrayed itself in the slight curl of his fingers against the table’s rough surface. His lips quirked upward faintly, the ghost of a smile that carried no warmth, only a trace of bitter satisfaction. 

He believed he had shown temperance and restraint–far more than was deserved. He could have killed Ser Wyllam for his insolence, could have struck him down the moment the mockery left his lips. The memory of the man’s jests, his sneering tone, still gnawed at him, as did the feeling of being laughed at. Aemond’s jaw tightened slightly at the thought. He had given Wyllam every chance to retract his words, to swallow his putrid mockery and concede. But the fool had not. 

And so, Ser Wyllam had borne the consequences. Aemond’s fingers stilled their tapping, his gaze unwavering. It had been a matter of pride, certainly–but it was more than that. It was about setting an example. To allow such open disrespect to pass unchecked would have emboldened others, encouraging them to whisper behind his back, or worse, to mock him openly. He couldn’t afford that. Not now, not ever. 

Let them call him a monster if they wished. Better to be feared than ridiculed. Better to inspire dread than to be seen as weak. 

Slowly, Aemond leaned forward, his gaze narrowing as his voice dropped into something colder, harsher–more unforgiving and calculated. “He should think himself fortunate for my restraint.” His head tilted. “I could have killed him for his insolence. Perhaps I should have. But we are at war, after all, and we may yet need his sword arm.”

“It would have been better had you killed him,” Lord Jasper muttered, his voice gruff and sullen. The harsh lines of his face betrayed no hesitation as he spoke, and his iron-gray eyes carried the weight of a man as unyielding as his moniker ‘Iron-rod’ foretold. His gaze flickered briefly to the scowling king and he seemed to consider his words for a moment before pressing on. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” he continued, inclining his head towards Aegon in a gesture that carried only the faintest hint of apology, “I know he is your friend, but it would have been better had he been killed.”

“How so, Lord Jasper?” Alicent demanded, her tone indignant, her brows knitting into a deep frown of disapproval. Her gaze pinned Jasper–who seemed exasperated by her judgment. 

“It would have been cleaner,” Jasper said, his tone steady and matter-of-fact. “Easier to explain. A training accident, nothing more.” 

Alicent let out a sharp, exasperated breath, leaning back in her chair as though the weight of the conversation pressed down on her. Her eyes turned towards the ceiling, seemingly beseeching the gods for intervention. “As Master of Laws, you should understand the weight of such actions, Lord Jasper. Killing him might have been simpler for you to explain, but it, too, would not have been without consequence. Should every insult end in death, what message does that send?”

Her disapproving gaze lingered on him. “Must every problem we face be solved with a sword? This is not the battlefield, nor should it become one.”

Lord Jasper drew in a huffy breath, eyes briefly turning skyward. 

Alicent’s voice remained sharp, her frustration seeping through each word as she turned her gaze back to Lord Jasper. “And what of Lord Lefford?” she continued, her tone cutting and precise. “House Lefford may have bent the knee to Aegon, but what happens when he hears of what has been done to his son?”

“If Lord Lefford values his son’s tongue more than his loyalty to the crown, then let him break faith,” Aemond said callously. He straightened slightly, his gaze sweeping across the table. “Let him turn against us, if he dares. His defiance will end as all other’s do–in fire and blood.” He hummed. “The Golden Tooth is no more resistant to dragonfire than Harrenhal was.”

Alicent’s face hardened further, her hands clenching tightly in her lap. “You speak as though every slight can be answered with violence.” She stared at him furiously. “But this is not a battlefield, Aemond. It is the realm we must hold together, and your actions threaten to tear it apart.”

“Lord Lefford will not break faith,” Otto Hightower interjected at last, his voice cutting clearly through the tension that lingered in the room. His expression was composed, his tone measured, though there was an edge to his words. His sharp eyes swept across the table before settling on Ser Tyland, whose posture stiffened slightly under the weight of the Hand’s gaze.

“Ser Tyland,” Otto continued, his voice steady and deliberate, leaving no room for ambiguity. The red-haired lord straightened in his chair at the sound of his name, his hands folding neatly atop the ledger resting on the table. “House Lefford is a vassal house of the Lannisters. Write to him. Impress upon him that the breaking of his oath will carry dire consequences for him and his house. Make it clear that his son’s foolishness–” his gaze flicked briefly towards Aemond, though his expression betrayed nothing, “–is no excuse for disloyalty.”

Ser Tyland inclined his head slightly, though a faint shadow of apprehension flickered in his eyes. “Yes, my lord Hand,” his fingers brushed against the leather bound ledger, the movement carrying a note of unease. 

Aemond watched the exchange in silence, his lone eye narrowing slightly as Tyland nodded again, his agreement all but perfunctory. The room remained still, the weight of Otto’s directive lingering in the air.

Otto’s gaze lingered on Tyland a moment longer before shifting back to the table at large. “The strength of our alliances lies not only in oaths,” he said, his voice carrying across the chamber with quiet authority, “but in ensuring those oaths are upheld. Make certain Lord Lefford understands that.”

With that, the Hand leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers steepling as he surveyed the room. The tension in the chamber remained palpable, though Otto’s calm command had shifted it, reframing the conflict as a matter of order and duty. Aemond’s fingers tapped lightly against the table, his expression carefully blanket, though the faintest trace of a smirk touched his lips.

Let Lord Lefford be reminded of his place. Whatever words Ser Tyland might send, the lesson had already been carved into his son’s face. And if he should prove as foolish as his son, Aemond was prepared to teach him a similar lesson. 

A heavy silence hung over the council chamber, stretching uncomfortably as the weight of the previous conversation settled over the gathered lords. The tension seemed to press against the stone walls, each second thickening the air until even the faintest movement felt intrusive. 

At last, Ser Tyland stirred, the quiet rustle of fabric breaking the oppressive stillness. He adjusted his doublet, the subtle gesture betraying his unease as he straightened in his seat once more. His gaze flickered briefly towards Aemond, lingering for the barest of moments, before he turned his attention back to the table at large. 

Clearing his throat softly, he breached the next subject with measured care, his tone deliberately light as though attempting to dispel the tension that gripped the room. 

“My lords,” Tyland began, his tone careful but pointed, “while the events of the morning have captured much of our attention, there remains the matter of the ledgers–specifically, the expenses for the recent wedding celebrations and their strain on the crown’s coffers–”

Alicent shifted forward in her seat, her brows furrowed with concern as she fixed her gaze on Maester Orwyle. Her voice cut through Tyland’s words abruptly, redirecting the council’s attention. “Has Rhaenyra returned any of my letters?” She asked, her tone sharp with urgency, though an undercurrent of hope clung to her words. 

Lord Jaster Wylde let out a huff, the sound teetering between a scoff and a sigh. His steely eyes rolled towards the ceiling, and he shook his head, his exasperation plain for all to see. “More letters?” He muttered beneath his breath as Tyland sank back in his seat, seemingly deflated by the interruption.

Aemond did not blame Lord Wylde for his frustration; he felt it too. His mother’s insistence on reaching out to their enemy grated at him, a futile gesture that reeked of desperation. What use were letters when blood had already been drawn. Rhaenyra was no longer a sister to be reasoned with–she was the enemy. Every word his mother penned to her was a mockery of the conflict they were in, as if ink and parchment could soften the inevitable clash of steel and fire. 

What irked him more was the purpose behind those letters. His mother sought to apologize, to soothe tensions, to mend something that had long since shattered. But why? Aemond’s lip curled slightly as the thought roiled within him. Had anyone apologized to him when Rhaenyra’s son took his eye? No. Instead, he had been humiliated, threatened, left to bleed as the room stood divided over who was to blame. There had been no soothing words, no justice offered to him. Only pain, humiliation, and the cold truth that his suffering mattered less than preserving some fragile, already broken, peace. 

His fingers curled against the table, his blunt nails scraping lightly over the rough stone. The sound was faint, but it tethered his simmering anger, grounding it as his mind churned with memories he wished he could bury. 

“No, Your Grace,” Maester Orwyle replied at last, his voice hesitant, as though reluctant to speak into the heavy silence that had settled over the room. His hands clasped tightly around the chain draped across his chest, the soft jangle of links barely audible as he shifted uneasily under Alicent’s gaze.

Aemond’s lone eye flicked toward his mother, studying the faint furrow of her brow, the tension in her frame. He wondered, not for the first time, why she continued to hope that Rhaenyra could be reached. His mother’s heart, soft as it was, could not see what Aemond knew to be true: some wounds could not be healed, some chasms could not be bridged. And Rhaenyra had chosen her side the day her son took his eye.

Alicent seemed to brush past Lord Jasper’s reproach, though the faint tension in her jaw betrayed her irritation. At Maester Orwyle’s reply, her lips pressed into a thin, strained line, disappointment flickering across her features. But she didn’t seem to allow it to linger. Her hands folded neatly on the table, the soft rustle of her movements breaking the silence as she let out a sigh. 

“In her condition,” she began, her tone measured but carrying that note of damning sentiment, “it cannot be good for her to remain at Storm’s End.” She shook her head slightly, her brow furrowing further with concern.”Surely, she must think of the life she carries. A mother must hold her child above all else. In that bond, she might yet find reason.” Her eyes sought out the council as she spoke. “Reason to see the madness in prolonging this war.”

His mother’s words hung delicately in the air, heavy with unbidden hope, though faint as it was. Her gaze sept across the table, as if silently imploring them to share her hopes.

Aemond’s jaw tightened imperceptibly as he listened, his lone eye narrowing ever so slightly. His mother’s persistent hope, her belief that words and decency could sway their enemies, rankled him more than he cared to admit. It was a weakness, in his eyes, to entertain such notions when the path forward could only be carved by steel and fire–not by sentiment or fragile appeals to childhood friends. 

Yet, for all his frustrations, he remained silent. She was misguided–too soft-hearted to accept the truth before them. The war was not looming; it was here, and there was no avoiding it. Blood would be spilled, lives would be lost, and no about of letters or appeals to maternal bonds would change that. 

It infuriated him to see her falter now, to witness the hesitation in her resolve when they stood at the precipice. Had this not been her cause? Had she not spent years insisting that Aegon was the rightful king, that his claim was just, and that they must fight for him–for their family? Had she not warned them time and again that failure would mean death? That Rhaenyra would put them all to the sword? 

Yet now, when the time had come to act, when their path was set, she hesitated. She spoke of reason, off reconciliation, as though he hadn’t already bloodied his hands for them. It felt like a betrayal of the very principles she had so fervently instilled in them. 

But, Aemond supposed, his mother had the luxury of hesitation–of clinging to hope and appealing for peace. She was not the one with blood on her hands. It was easy for her to falter now, to pull back and second-guess, because she had not been the one in the skies above Shipbreaker Bay.

Yet, he could feel her blame, sharp and unwelcoming, pressing against him like a blade. She blamed him–he knew it. She blamed him for the war, for making it inevitable, for being the spark that ignited the conflict. As though he alone had set them on this path, as though she had not spent years scheming and maneuvering to put Aegon on the throne. 

It grated against him, the way she distanced herself from the very path she had forged. She spoke now as though the war was something thrust upon them by his actions alone, as though it was not her own choices that had brought them here. She had fought and conspired, whispered in the shadows, wielded her influence to get them here–and now, when the blood began to flow, she wanted to wash her hands of it all. To absolve herself from responsibility, to lay the burden at his feet. 

He could see it in her now, the faint flicker of guilt that she sought to mask with reason and compromise. But guilt did not change the truth. The war was here, and they were all bound to it. She could no more escape its consequences than he could escape the stain of blood on his hands. 

Let her place the blame upon him if it eased her conscience. Let her believe she could undo what had been done. Aemond would shoulder the weight of it, as he always had. But he could not waver, nor would he forgive her for faltering now.

Jasper Wylde interjected, his voice as unyielding as forged iron. “Mediation? Shall we send her flowers and a heartfelt apology too? Daemon will laugh himself hoarse before sending the envoy’s head back in a basket.” His head shook dismissively.  “The princess is not a woman of reason–had she been, she would have accepted our terms when we first presented them to her,” he stated gruffly, his tone laden with disdain. “And she is not likely to find it any time soon.”

The weight of his words drew the room’s attention, his head turning toward him as he shifted slightly in his chair. He sat more upright, his expression measured even its gravity. “Her… condition… is no longer.”

Wylde’s gaze swept over the table, letting the silence stretch before continuing. “I’ve heard whispers from the fishermen around Dragonstone. They say the child has been lost. The shock of her father’s death, the crowning of our rightful king, or perhaps the capture of her daughter–it matters not.”

He paused, his gaze shifting to Aegon, who appeared to listen with unusual attention. He leaned back in his chair in a leisurely fashion, his fingers absently turning his council stone in its holder. The faint, repetitive scrape of the marble echoed softly in the room.

Wylde continued, “The child… is said to have been malformed and monstrous. With horns, twisted limbs and a tail.” He let the words hang in the air for a moment, their weight growing with each horrified glance exchanged around the table. “They were quick to burn it,” he added, as though it spoke to the validity of these rumors. “But still, the tale has spread.”

“Mother above,” Alicent murmured, covering her face for a moment of despair, brushing her fingers down and then along the curve of her neck. 

The chamber was cloaked in a heavy silence, the weight of Lord Jasper’s words settling over the council. Alicent’s expression darkened as she sank back into her chair, the tension etched into every line of her face. Her hands rose slowly, covering her face for a brief moment before brushing down her neck, a weary gesture that betrayed the strain pulling at her muscles. She exhaled shakily, her voice barely above a whisper. “Mother above…”

Aemond sat motionless, his features carved into an impassive mask, though his mind raced. If the news was true, it would be a blow to his half-sister–a deep and personal one. Yet even as the thought stirred something darkly satisfying within him, the thought of her suffering retribution for her defiance. Yet satisfaction gave way to contemplation as he considered the ripples such a loss would create–and what it would mean for Daenera.

The notion of Daenera’s grief unsettled him. He could not ignore how deeply it would cut her, even if the child had never drawn breath, even if no bond deeper than the promise of its existence had been formed. The loss would compound. It added its weight to wounds that already bled freely, deepening the injury, making it bleed all the more. 

His eye flickered to the table, his fingers curling against the smooth surface as he wrestled with the thoughts crowding his mind. He did not want this for her, did not want to see the grief that clung to her like a shroud grow heavier. 

“A sign from the gods,” Wylde added, his tone measured as he continued, “They punish the princess for her ambition. Surely, the gods are showing their favor to the rightful king.”

“Indeed,” Tyland said cautiously, his words measured yet clumsy, as though unsure whether to agree outright or temper his response. 

The scrape of Aegon’s council stone against it’s holder ceased as he leaned further back in his chair, hands spreading on the table as he grimaced with that lopsided grin of his. “One less brat to grow up with airs of grandeur. A shame the gods didn’t finish the job and rid us of their mother too while they had the chance.”

“Aegon,” Alicent snapped, her voice sharp with reproach, though it carried the tone of a mother scolding her son rather than addressing the king he was–before his own council. “That is not something to wish for, not even against our enemies.”

Aegon’s gaze darkened, his smirk giving way to something harder. “Not even against those who would steal my throne and see us all put to the sword, Mother?”

Before Alicent could respond, Tyland awkwardly cleared his throat, stepping in to diffuse the rising tension. His words came out haltingly, as though he were carefully picking his way through a minefield. “With such loss, one wonders if she might yet find reason,” he began, though his tone betrayed a faint condescension. “Grief make women… unreasonable…”

“Perhaps it is reason enough for her to seek peace,” Maester Orwyle ventured, his voice careful, as though stepping across thin ice. He glanced at Alicent as he continued, “I agree with the Queen Mother that mediation should still be pursued. The princess is unlikely to wish for the loss of more children, and war will only increase that risk. The longer this conflict continues, the greater the toll on all sides.”

“War is not merely a threat at our door, Maester,” Lord Wylde cut in, his tone firm, laced with grim finality. “War is already here. First blood has been spilled, the realm is divided, and Daemon Targaryen is not a man to be reasoned with even if his wife may be. He will not stand down.”

Otto Hightower cleared his throat, the sharp, deliberate sound cutting through the tension in the chamber and drawing all eyes back to him. “We’ve received a raven from Storm’s End,” he began, his voice calm but carrying the weight of importance. His fingers deftly pried open the leatherbound book before him, extracting a long, narrow piece of parchment stamped with the stag sigil of House Baratheon. The parchment unfurled over the closed book as he set it down, the faint crackle of the wax seal’s remnants breaking the silence.

“Lord Borros sends word,” Otto continued, his gaze steady as it swept over the council, “that Rhaenyra has abandoned her search.”

The words hung heavily in the air, and Alicent immediately straightened in her chair, her posture rigid as her brow furrowed deeply. She cast a sharp glance toward Aemond, her condemnation wordless but clear. The weight of her stare needled at him, but he remained unmoving, his features an impassive mask.

“Back to Dragonstone?” Alicent asked, turning her attention back to the Lord Hand. Her voice was sharp, though edged with apprehension, as if she both dreaded and demanded the answer in equal measure.

“No,” Otto replied, his gaze sweeping across the table, assessing their reactions. “She was seen flying along Blackwater Bay towards King’s Landing yesterday.”

The weight of his words pressed down on the room, and the air seemed to grow heavier with it. The lords shifted uneasily in their seats, exchanging wary glances, the tension palpable as the implications settled over them. Aemond remained still, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm on the table’s surface. 

A note of unease coiled tightly in his chest. They had been vulnerable the day before, the lords and ladies of the realm gathered in the sept for the wedding, their defenses thin, their focus elsewhere. The realization gnawed at him. Rhaenyra could have taken them–taken the Red Keep, King’s Landing itself. The thought clenched his stomach like a vice. 

His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as his mind turned over the possibilities. If she had descended upon them, there would have been no time. He would not have reached Vhagar before it was too late. They would have been at her mercy, forced to watch as she reclaimed the throne, as she tore his wife from his grasp. And then, there would have been fire. 

Lifting his gaze from the table, Aemond let his eye sweep across the council. He saw the same dawning realization mirrored in their faces, the unease etched into furrowed brows and tight mouths. 

For a moment, the room was silent, save for the faint rustle of fabric and the occasional creak of a chair. Then, Aegon’s voice broke through the tension, sharp and flippant. “Well, she didn’t reach King’s Landing, did she? Otherwise, we’d all be ashes by now.”

“She reached the outskirts of the harbor before turning back,” Otto informed, his tone steady but heavy with implication.

“Perhaps she remembered that we too have dragons,” Maester Orwyle murmured, his voice thoughtful, though his words carried a faint edge of uncertainty. “She couldn’t have known of the wedding taking place.” 

“We should have sent men after her at Storm’s End and been done with it,” Aegon muttered displeased, the disdain in his voice unmistakable. He tipped back his cup, draining the last of his wine before letting the empty vessel thud softly against the table. Slouching back in his chair, he let out a huff, his expression souring. “Instead, we let her slip through our fingers. And what now? She slinks back to Dragonstone to gather her dragons and mount her war against us?”

“We still hold her daughter,” Otto said, his tone calm and calculated, each word chosen with care. “Unless she is willing to risk the life of a third child, she will not strike so soon. For all her grief, she is bound by some reason–at least for now.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the table. “While she may have secured the loyalty of House Darklyn and the lesser houses surrounding Dragonstone, and House Velaryons treasury and fleet, she remains at a disadvantage.” 

Aegon scowled, his fingers once again fidgeting with the council ball, but it was Tyland who broke the silence. “Even so, the princess has more dragons than us.”

“Dragons may be her strength,” Otto replied, his tone calm but firm, “but they are also her greatest liability. If she brings them to bear without the strength of men behind her, she risks everything. The lords of the realm will not stand idly by while their fields burn and their people starve. If she seeks to rule through fire alone, she will find herself with little more than scorched earth to govern. And so will we if we are foolish enough to risk our dragons before it is absolutely necessary.”

“Dragons are our greatest strength,” he said, his gaze sweeping across the table, lingering briefly on Aegon and then Aemond. “But they are also our greatest gamble. Recklessness could cost us more than a battle–it could cost us the realm itself.”

Aemond’s fingers tightened against the edge of the table, his expression unreadable. He did not look away from Otto, his mind parsing the warning even as his blood simmered at the implication of restraint. His grandfather’s logic was sound, but Aemond found himself bristling at the caution. To him, inaction was its own form of weakness.

Still, he said nothing, allowing Otto’s voice to carry the weight of reason, even as the tension in the room deepened.

“What is to be done, then?” Aegon demanded impatiently, his fingers twisting his council ball, the stone scratching irritably in its holder. His tone was sharp, his irritation palpable as his gaze narrowed at his Lord Hand. 

“We arm ourselves with patience,” Otto replied evenly, his voice measured and deliberate. “We consolidate our strength and gather our allies. House Tyrell has yet to respond, as have the Vale and the North. The lords of the Riverlands remain undeclared, but with the Lannisters marching from the West and my nephew advancing north, they will soon be compelled to make their decision.”

He shifted in his seat, his eyes scanning the room as he continued. “We already have an army, and more will join our cause. The advantage is ours if we proceed wisely. Let us not repeat the mistakes that have already been made.” 

Otto’s tone grew heavier, his gaze sharpening as he leaned forward slightly. “The realm will not accept her as its queen,” he said, his voice firm with conviction. “The lords of Westeros will not rally to a woman, especially one crippled by grief. Her weakness will be her undoing, and we will ensure the lords see her for what she truly is.”

With Otto’s final words, the matter seemed settled, though Aegon’s sour scowl lingered, his displeasure evident in the taut set of his jaw. The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of their discussion hanging in the air like an unwelcome guest.

Outside, the clouds had thickened, swallowing the last vestiges of blue sky. The heavens darkened to an ominous slate gray, heavy with the promise of a downpour. The chill crept insidiously into the chamber, seeping through the cracks in the stone walls and curling around their feet like an unwelcome specter. The faint rustle of fabric and the soft shuffling of boots betrayed the discomfort of the council as the cold nipped at their toes.

Aemond remained still, his gaze flicking momentarily toward the window where the dim light barely penetrated the storm-laden gloom. The coming rain felt like an extension of the tension within the room–a foreboding herald of the storms that awaited them outside these walls and beyond in the realm.

Tyland adjusted his doublet, his expression grave as he leaned forward slightly, hands resting atop the ledgers before him. “If I may, my lords, there is another matter pressing upon the realm that demands our attention.” His eyes swept the table. “The crown’s coffers, though extensive thanks to the late king’s frugal nature and decades of peace, have begun to feel the strain of this war.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing, his fingers pressing down on the pages as if to emphasize his point. “The expenses of the wedding alone were considerable–the coronation feast as well, and now, with the added burden of preparing for conflict, the treasury faces mounting pressure. The blockade imposed by the Velaryon fleet has worsened matters, choking key trade routes. Imports of fabric, and more critically, ore and coal have been severely disrupted.”

Tyland’s eyes swept across the council, seemingly gauging their reactions. “We may need to consider alternative trade routes, though these would inevitably increase costs. Moreover,” he added, his voice dropping slightly, “such routes may expose us to vulnerabilities, particularly if a siege were to be imposed.”

“Rhaenyra hardly has the men for a siege,” Jasper Wylde interjected, his tone curt, as though dismissing the concern outright. 

Tyland hesitated for only a moment, his lips pressing into a thin line before he countered, “But she has the dragons…”

“If Rhaenyra dares to even attempt to lay siege to King’s Landing,” Aemond spoke finally, his voice low and calm, a dissonance to the weight of his words, “Vhagar will meet her in the skies, and we shall end this war swiftly.” He hummed, his head tilting as though he took measure of his own words. “Should she gather the men, I will burn them.”

“Yes!” Aegon chimed in with an exclamation, pointing fervently at Aemond in agreement, “Yes! And–And we should burn her ships as well. Without the Velaryon fleet at her back, she is exposed and in no position to prolong this war.”

Otto leaned forward, his expression stern as he interjected. “The fleet is well-guarded. The waters they hold are constantly by one dragon or another. To send Vhagar against it would leave King’s Landing vulnerable–”

“To vulnerability, then!” Aegon exclaimed flippantly, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he leaned back in his chair. “It seems to be all we’re good for these days. Let Vhagar loose. The smell of burning sails might improve the stench wafting in from the harbor. “I will defend the city on Sunfyre while my brother burns their fleet–”

“You musn’t, Your Grace–”

“No, Your Grace–”

The voices around the council table rose in a chorus of objections, each lord offering their variation of the same warning. Aegon’s expression darkened with each interruption, his shoulders slumping slightly as he sank back into his chair. His frown deepened, petulance creeping into his features as the weight of their disapproval pressed upon him.

It was Otto who finally broke through the discord, his voice calm but firm. “You musn’t risk your life, Your Grace,” he said, his gaze steady as it fixed on his grandson. “It is precisely what Rhaenyra desires. If you fall in battle, the crown will be lost, and with it, the realm.”

Aegon scowled, restlessness etched into every line of his face. He wanted action, to drive the war forward without the slow tedium of ravens and diplomacy, his irritation simmering just beneath the surface. “Are we to sit here and with our thumbs up our asses while they choke off our trade then?”

The silence stretched taut as Aegon’s words hung in the air. Otto’s gaze lingered on his grandson, his expression weary. It was not the first time Aegon had spoken impulsively, nor would it be the last, Aemond thought. 

“This is a war of strategy, Your Grace,” Otto said calmly, drawing in a deep, exasperated breath. “Nor a war to be won by heedlessness.”

Aemond watched the exchange, silent and cold, his gaze shifting between his grandfather and his brother. He could feel the impatience rolling off Aegon in waves, the desperate need to act without considering the cost. It was reckless, but Aemond understood it too well. The waiting gnawed at him, the knowledge that every day spent sitting idle allowed Rhaenyra to consolidate her own strength.

“We will act,” Otto assured, his tone measured but firm–guiding, like taking a child in the hand. “But we will act when the time is right. Reckless moves will only make us weak.” 

“And we cannot afford more mistakes,” Alicent added, her voice steady but carrying the weight of reproach. Her gaze did not land on Aemond, but the pointed absence was felt all the same. 

She leaned back slightly, her hands clasping in her lap as she continued, her tone softening but still firm. “Every action we take now will echo through the realm. We must tread carefully.”

Aemond’s fingers drummed idly against the table, the soft tap of his nails barely audible over the weight of the conversation. He agreed with Otto in principle, but the waiting chafed at him as well. There was a part of him, dark and eager, that longed to take to the skies with Vhagar, to bring fire and ruin upon their enemies and snuff out the rebellion in one decisive strike.

But he knew better than to speak of it now. Instead, he watched the exchange unfold, cold and calculating, his thoughts quietly burning as he weighed the balance between prudence and destruction.

Otto continued carefully, “However, I agree we should patrol the skies surrounding King’s Landing and along the coast of Blackwater Bay. We cannot allow her to move so freely.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his lips pursing slightly. Though he held his composure, the suggestion felt reductive, like a chore given to a child to keep him occupied rather than a true acknowledgement of his capabilities. 

He considered the possibilities. He could destroy the Velaryon fleet with Vhagar, even if it were guarded by a dragon. If one of the Velaryon bastards defended the fleet, their fate would be the same as their brother’s. They were no match for him or Vhagar.

Meleys, however, presented a greater challenge. She was swift and somewhat experienced in battle, if what he had heard was true. But even Meleys would struggle against Vhagar’s sheer size, her long years of battle hardening making her a force of unmatched ferocity in the skies. 

It was Caraxes that posed the most significant threat. Both the dragon and his rider were seasoned warriors, tactical and relentless. Still, Aemond believed he could defeat them–if it came down to just the two of them. The thrill of such a confrontation stirred something fierce within him. 

He reasoned it was unlikely the fleet would be protected by more than one dragon at any given time. If that were the case, he could strike swiftly. He could descend upon the fleet, destroy it in flames, and take down its guardian before they even had a chance to counter. Vhagar’s roar alone could sow chaos among the ships, scattering their formations, making them easy prey for her fire. 

He could burn the fleet to ashes and return home before the enemy could mount a proper retaliation. The risk was great, but the reward–crippling Rhaenyra’s forces and removing her naval strength–was greater still. 

Have you paid the smiths?” Aegon abruptly turned his gaze towards Tyland, expression shifting to one of impatient inquiry. 

Tyland blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. “Your Grace?” He stammered, his brow furrowing as he tried to catch up.

“The smiths,” Aegon reiterated, his tone edged with irritation. “They are to be paid up front for their work.”

Tyland’s eyes darted toward Otto, seeking guidance, but the Hand of the King looked thoroughly exasperated, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“As you said,” Aegon pressed on, his voice growing sharper, “the price of ore has risen, and if we are to arm our forces against Rhaenyra, we’ll need to be well-equipped, won’t we? Scorpions, swords, armor–they don’t forge themselves. And if the smiths can’t pay for the materials to craft them, tell me, what shall we defend ourselves with? Words?”

Aegon’s gaze turned toward Otto, a pointed challenge in his expression, as if daring his grandfather to counter him.

Tyland cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Yes, Your Grace,” he said carefully, his voice low and measured. “I shall see if funds can be found for such an endeavor, though we may need to consider–”

“See to it,” Aegon interrupted curtly, his tone brooking no argument. “I won’t have this war lost for lack of preparation. And if coin must be spent, then spend it.”

The heavy oaken doors to the council chambers groaned open, their creak loud and intrusive, cutting through the already-tense air like a blade. The sound reverberated through the vaulted stone chamber, followed by the shuffling of uneven footsteps–boots scuffing against the floor–and the sharp, deliberate tap, tap, tap of a cane striking the ground. The cadence was distinct, calculated, and immediately recognizable. 

Aemond didn’t bother to turn. He didn’t need to. He knew precisely who it was. His sharp features remained still, his cold gaze fixing ahead as if the interruption were beneath his notice–and it was. His fingers, however, continued their steady, deliberate drumming against the table’s surface, the faint sound almost lost amidst the approaching steps. 

The air in the chamber grew heavier, the council's unease palpable as the figure came into view–always a herald of less than fortunate news. 

“Lord Confessor,” Alicent began, her tone clipped and brimming with restrained frustration. “What is the meaning of this? We are in the middle of a meeting.”

She did not rise, but Aemond could almost sense the stiffness in her posture, her spine straight as a blade, her dark eyes narrowing on the man approaching them. Larys Strong. The Lord Confessor’s presence was rarely welcome, his arrival at the council unbidden even less so. His peculiar mixture of deference and menace unsettled most. 

“Your Grace,” Larys murmured, inclining his head in a shallow bow. His voice was soft, almost soothing in its cadence, though it carried a serpentine quality that sent an involuntary shiver through even the most steadfast. “I would not dare to intrude, were it not a matter of some urgency.”

His cane struck the stone floor again, a sound that seemed to echo too long, too sharply, as he moved further into the room. The council shifted uneasily, exchanging wary glances. Even Aemond, for all his practiced stoicism, felt the corners of his mouth tighten in irritation at the man’s presence.

“And what matters?” Otto questioned, his voice wary. 

Aemond’s lip twitched imperceptibly, his distaste for the Lord Confessor stirring within him like a slow burn. He had little regard for the man, whose honeyed words and subtle manipulations slithered through the halls of the Red Keep like an unseen viper. Still, he waited, unmoving, letting the air grow heavy with the weight of the interruption.

“The boy,” Larys began, his tone carefully measured, the words dragging slightly. He came to stop just at Aemond’s good side, lingering beyond his peripheral view. “I thought it prudent to inform you that the princess’s charge, Patrick Piper, has died…”

The words hung in the air like a dagger suspended on the edge of falling. Aemond’s gaze shifted, gliding along the rough grain of the stone table, his lone eye tracing its length to the place where it abruptly ended. 

“Died?” Alicent’s voice cut through the tense silence, a note of shock sharpening her tone. The weight of the news rippled through the room, stirring unease among the gathered lords and counselors. Shuffling movements, the soft rustle of fabric, and the creak of chairs betrayed their discomfort.

“Yes,” Larys confirmed, his voice measured. His cane tapped against the floor as he shifted closer, the sound loud and damning in the hush that had fallen over the chamber. “One of the guards went to see to him,” he continued, “and found him dead in his cot. By all accounts, the boy was well and healthy this morning. His death was unexpected.”

Alicent’s hand rose to clasp at her throat, her fingers tightening around the ornate chain she wore. “If he was well and healthy,” she pressed, her voice betraying her unease, “how could he have died?”

“That is the question, Your Grace,” Larys murmured, his tone carrying an almost lilting insinuation, each word carefully measured. “There were no signs of a struggle, no visible wounds or ailments to explain his sudden demise. It appears as though the boy merely lay down to sleep and never woke.”

“A boy his age does not simply fall asleep and never wake,” Jasper Wylde growled, his deep, gravelly voice cutting through the room. His pale gray eyes, sharp as steel, narrowed beneath his heavy brow, and his scowl seemed to carve itself permanently into his weathered face, like a blacksmith hammering out a blade. “It’s unnatural,” he added, shaking his head, his disapproval evident.

Larys did not falter beneath the weight of Wylde’s scrutiny. If anything, he seemed to delight in it. “It is perhaps worth noting,” he said, his tone unctuous, “that the boy had a visitor this morning.”

Aemond felt the weight of Larys’s words like a subtle blade turned in his direction, and though he refused to look at the man, he could feel the insinuation laced into his tone, like a prickle against his skin.

He had not been to the dungeons save for that single time, to oversee Fenrick’s release. He had stood there in the dim light as the guards unlocked the iron door, the screech of the key grating in the lock, and the rusty hinges groaned in protest. Fenrick had been hauled from the cell, shackled and dragged forward. The boy had been there, alive and wailing like an infant torn from its mother’s arms, his thin limbs flailing against the guards’ unyielding grip.

Aemond had watched as Fenrick, though shackled and subdued, turned his gaze to the boy. “Be strong,” the man had said, his voice firm despite the circumstances. “Daenera will not let harm come to you.”

Aemond could still recall the venom in Fenrick’s glare as he was shoved past him, up the stone steps and out of sight. The boy’s cries had echoed through the narrow corridor, the sound grating and pitiful. Aemond had stood there, unmoving, as the door to the cell slammed shut behind them, its clang reverberating through the stale, rank air. The dungeons had reeked of rot and despair, a stench so pungent that it lingered in his memory if he allowed himself to think on it.

But he hadn’t returned since. He hadn’t visited the boy again, nor had he interfered in his fate. Whatever had befallen Patrick Piper, it was not of his doing. 

He refused to carry the blame for it. 

“The princess, Daenera, saw the boy not long before we released her man,” Larys continued, his tone deceptively casual, though every word seemed laced. He let the revelation hang in the air for a mere moment, then added, “She informed the guards that her husband granted her the permission for a visit.”

The words struck like a hammer against Aemond’s tightly controlled composure. He felt his muscles tense beneath his skin, a taut coil of suppressed surprise. His fingers, which had been tapping idly against the cold stone of the table, stilled abruptly. Yet, he betrayed nothing. His mask of cold detachment remained firmly in place, his sharp features carved into an expression of calm indifference.

Beneath the surface, though, a storm brewed. 

The knowledge that she–Daenera, his wife–had used his name in her ruse stirred something within his chest. There was a dark twist of satisfaction at the thought of her invoking his authority, drawing on their union as leverage. A faint smirk threatened to tug at the corner of his lips, but he replaced it with a faint purse as he weighed the implications. 

Amusement flickered within him, tempered by the cold edge of unease. That she had claimed his permission was not surprising–she was clever, as resourceful as she was bold–but the thought of her slipping into the dungeons, placing herself among rapers and murders, gnawed at him. And for a boy whose significance was no more than a pawn in this game?

But that was the reason, wasn’t it? 

“And they let her in?!” Alicent’s voice rose sharply, her reproach immediate and laced with indignation that prickled against Aemond like a nettle. Her piercing gaze swept over the room before fixing on her son. “You allowed her to see him? You gave her permission to enter the dungeons?”

Aemond met his mother’s gaze with a calm defiance, his expression a mask of measured indifference. His singular eye, sharp and unyielding, revealed nothing of the turmoil beneath, though a faint tightening at the corner of his mouth hinted at a flicker of irritation. He held her gaze steadily, unmoving, feeling no inclination to answer to her accusations. 

“Are you insinuating, Lord Confessor,” Maester Orwyle interjected, his voice hesitant and laced with unease, “that the princess had a hand in the boy’s demise?”

“Where is the boy now?” Otto’s gaze settled on Larys before the Lord Confessor could turn to address Maester Orwyle. 

“With the Silent Sisters,” Larys replied smoothly. He adjusted his cane with a soft tap, the sound a punctuation mark to his words. “They are preparing his body as we speak and will report their findings when they are finished.”

“We don’t need their findings to know what happened,” Alicent interjected sharply, her voice rising with conviction. Her dark gaze swept across the table, searching the faces of the council as though daring someone else to voice the accusation she was poised to make. None spoke. The tension in the room thickened as the lords exchanged wary glances, their discomfort palpable. 

When silence met her challenge, she drew herself up, her lips pressed into a thin line as she spoke the accusation aloud. “She poisoned him.”

Aemond felt the accusation press against him as if it carried with it an expectation of response. Yet, he remained still, his expression carved from stone. 

“We cannot act on mere assumptions,” Orwyle countered carefully, the jingle of his maester’s chain punctuating his words as he shifted in his seat. His voice carried a cautionary note, attempting to temper the queen’s fervor. “As of now, there is no evidence to substantiate such a claim. A proper investigation must be conducted before any conclusions are reached.”

“It is no assumption,” she countered tersely, her gaze snapping towards the master. “We all know the princess is well-versed in such matters. She poisoned him.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Aegon muttered, his voice laced with bitter humor as he stared into the depths of his empty wine cup. He swirled it idly in his hand, his brow furrowing deeper the longer he looked, as though questioning whether the wine had been poisoned. 

It was not an unreasonable fear, not after what had transpired–not after experience. Aegon had, after all, been on the receiving end of her knowledge of plants before. 

His gaze shifted, lifting from the depths of his cup to meet Aemond’s, a faint trace of amusement twisting the corners of his lips. “It seems your marriage is a match forged in the Seven Hells, brother,” Aegon jibed, his tone dripping with mockery as he leaned back in his chair. “A kinslayer and a child killer. Truly a union worthy of song. The bards should write one about it–though I doubt they’d sing them anywhere respectable.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, the tension in him coiling tighter with each passing moment. He cast a glance toward his grandfather, noting the faint twitch of Otto’s lips–a subtle signal of disapproval, though he remained silent for now. 

His gaze drifted downward, settling on the golden ring that encircled his finger.  His thumb brushed over its surface, the cool metal gleaming faintly in the flickering firelight. His touch was deliberate, almost meditative, as though the weight of the band tethered him amidst the chaos. His thumb grazed the hidden lever etched into the intricate design, the faintest pressure threatening to release the blade-like needle concealed within. He didn’t press it, not fully–just enough to feel the faint resistance, the promise of its sharp release.

The ring was more than just ornamentation; it was a reminder, a tool, a weapon. It carried the weight of shared secrets and unspoken truths. He knew well what she was capable of with her poisons, had seen it firsthand, had even taken part in her lethal artistry. That knowledge hummed in the back of his mind now, a steady, dark undercurrent beneath the council’s chatter.

His finger lingered on the hidden mechanism, a subtle, private acknowledgment of what he already believed to be true. They lacked the evidence, yes, but Aemond didn’t need it. Certainty settled in his chest like a stone. He knew she had poisoned the boy as surely as he knew the breadth of his own sins. It wasn’t a question of if, but why–and that, too, he understood with unshakable clarity.

She had done it for a reason, calculated and purposeful. Aemond’s jaw tightened, and his lips pressed into a faint line. Her actions, while ruthless, were never without cause. And as the council continued its murmured deliberations, he found something strangely satisfying in the knowledge. She had acted, just as he might have in her place, wielding her tools with precision and intent. It was a grim kinship, one forged in blood and necessity.

“Why would she do such a thing?” Maester Orwyle’s voice broke the charged silence, tentative and tinged with disbelief. He shifted in his seat, the links of his chain clinking together loudly.

“To ensure we no longer have any leverage over her,” Otto Hightower said, his voice even, deliberate. He leaned back in his chair, the polished wood creaking faintly beneath his weight. His steely gaze swept across the council table, calculating and cold, as if weighing each member present. For the briefest moment, there was a flicker in his eyes–a glimmer of something akin to admiration, though muted and fleeting, like the final embers of a fire. The corners of his lips twitched upward, but the gesture lacked warmth, quickly overshadowed by the sharper edge of his annoyance. “Without the boy, she no longer has to concern herself with his life–or what we might do to him.”

It seemed he had come to the same conclusion as Aemond. 

“Surely the princess isn’t so ruthless as to sacrifice a boy like that,” Ser Tyland Lannister drawled, leaning against the armrest of his chair with a languid grace that belied the weight of his thoughts. His brow furrowed, the red of his hair dulled to an almost rust-like hue in the dim, gray light filtering through the chamber’s narrow windows. The overcast sky outside mirrored the somber atmosphere within, as though the heavens themselves recoiled from the grim discussion.

Aegon shrugged nonchalantly, the movement almost careless as he set his empty wine cup aside, the hollow clink against the table echoing faintly. He shifted in his seat, the fabric of his doublet rustling softly as he leaned back, a lazy, speculative glint in his eyes. “She cared for the boy, didn’t she?” He mused aloud, drawing the attention of the council. “I doubt she would have killed him solely to free herself. She’d have known we’d never let him go…”

Mercy, Aemond thought, the word echoing in his mind with a bitter edge. Yes, that was certainly part of it. He knew her well enough to understand that. Her sense of justice, of sparing the boy from further torment, was tangled with her own desperation for freedom. She had wielded poison as a blade, not to sever ties with her captors entirely but to sever the boy’s suffering. There was no doubt in his mind that her actions had been deliberate, calculated, but not entirely devoid of compassion.

“Mercy or ruthlessness,” Lord Jasper Wylde interjected gruffly. “It matters little which it is, the outcome is the same. The boy is dead, and our leverage with him. What shall we do now, when we’ve no means left to control her? What are we to do with her?”

“We punish her,” she said firmly, her hands pressed tightly together on the table. “She murdered a boy in our care. She cannot be trusted not to move against us. Who’s to say she won’t poison all of us next?” Her gaze swept across the faces of those gathered, her dark eyes burning with urgency. “ She must be punished.”

Aemond shifted slightly in his seat, his expression calm but his lone eye narrowing as he listened to his mother’s growing fervor. He drew in a breath, deep and measured, releasing it in a soft, deliberate sigh. The sound was enough to draw the room’s attention, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady, cutting through the tension like steel through silk.

“If she intended to poison us,” Aemond began, his words measured, “she would have done so at the wedding.”

The chamber fell into a brief, uneasy silence. All eyes turned toward him, their gazes heavy with anticipation. Aemond met them unflinchingly, his expression carved from ice, unyielding in its certainty.

“Daenera has no intention of killing us,” he continued, his voice carrying a quiet authority that demanded attention. “She does not wish to become a kinslayer. This was to sever our hold on her.”

“She is a viper free from its cage,” Alicent hissed, her voice trembling with a mixture of fury and disbelief. Her dark eyes bore into him, unyielding and fierce, the reproach in her gaze sharp enough to wound. “We cannot be sure who she will strike next. You should never have married her.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened at her words, though his expression remained carefully composed. Beneath the surface, a flicker of anger coiled, but he buried it deep, unwilling to let it rise. He swallowed against the sourness that formed on his tongue, choosing to remain silent. 

The tension in the room thickened as Alicent’s voice rang with fervor. “We cannot let her slither about the castle without punishment,” she insisted, her tone unyielding as she turned sharply away from Aemond to address the table. Her gaze fixed pointedly on Otto and Aegon, her desperation clear. “She must be punished. Let her take the boy’s place in the dungeons–”

“We cannot act rashly,” Lord Jasper Wylde interjected, his voice gravelly but firm, cutting through the Queen Mother’s demands. His pale gray eyes, like tempered steel, locked onto Otto’s measured expression. “If we imprison her in the dungeons, her mother will hear of it soon enough. And even in her grief, Rhaenyra will be at our gates with her dragons to free her daughter.”

The weight of his words settled over the council, the unspoken threat of dragonfire searing in their minds. Jasper straightened slightly in his seat, his weathered hand resting heavily on the table. “Imprisoning her would undo everything we’ve done thus far,” he continued, his tone sharp and edged with warning. “The realm will know we lied. And if dragons are not at our gates, the mob will be.”

Alicent’s jaw tightened, her hands clutching the edge of the table as though the tension in her grip could ground her fraying composure. Her dark eyes flickered with frustration, darting to Otto, who remained silent but contemplative, his brow furrowed deeply as he weighed the options.

“And what do you propose we do?” she demanded, her voice trembling with barely restrained anger. “Let her walk freely after what she’s done? Let her sit comfortably in her chambers as though nothing has happened?”

“But we do not know for certain what happened,” Maester Orwyle interjected cautiously, his eyes lingering briefly on Alicent as her expression darkened. 

The weight of Otto Hightower's words settled heavily over the room, his voice flat and deliberate as he leaned forward, his steely gaze sweeping the table. “It makes no difference what befell the boy,” he stated, his tone carrying an air of finality. “To punish the princess is to admit we allowed this to happen—that we cannot even protect those within our own walls, and that we cannot control her.”

His eyes shifted briefly to Larys Strong, whose ever-watchful presence seemed to linger like an unwelcome shadow. “The boy died of illness,” Otto continued, his words clipped and resolute. “As for the princess, her servants should be questioned–find out how they could have allowed this to happen. Determine how she managed to procure the means of poison, if poison is indeed what occurred. Her chambers should also be searched.”

“Yes, my Lord Hand,” Larys responded with a deferential bow of his head, though the subtle gleam in his eye grated on Aemond’s nerves. The thought of Larys, with his sly, intrusive manner, rifling through their chambers, overturning their belongings, was enough to make his jaw tighten. Still, Aemond remained silent, knowing any objection would fall on deaf ears.

“That’s it?” Alicent’s voice broke through, sharp and incredulous, her disbelief tangible. “She is not to be punished?”

Otto’s gaze met hers, unyielding. “What more do you wish done?”

Alicent shook her head, her frustration spilling over. Her hands clenched tightly on the table’s edge, her jaw working as she swallowed her anger bitterly. “Restrict her movements further,” she demanded, her tone cutting. “She may leave her chambers once every other day, and those days should be spent in repose, with guards ensuring she does not overstep her bounds.”

Aemond’s teeth ground together at her words, his irritation barely restrained. The implication that Daenera should be caged like some wild beast clawed at his pride, but he said nothing, his fingers curling against the table’s surface. He forced his expression to remain neutral, though the tension coiling beneath his skin was undeniable.

Otto straightened in his chair. He let the silence linger just long enough for all eyes to turn to him, the weight of his authority palpable in the air. When he spoke, his voice was calm but edged with a note of weariness that brooked no argument.

“The matter is decided,” he said firmly, his tone cutting through the growing murmurs. “The boy’s death will be declared a result of illness. The Silent Sisters will prepare his body, and we will ensure his family is notified with all due sympathy. As for the princess, her movements shall be restricted as the Queen Mother has suggested. The guards will be informed, and her chambers searched–discreetly. Let this be all for today.”

With the council adjourned, Aemond rose from his seat with deliberate composure, his long fingers brushing the edge of the table as though grounding himself before he moved. The room was already dispersing around him–lords and advisors shuffling toward the chamber doors, their murmured conversations a soft hum in the background. But Aemond paid them no heed. The need to see Daenera itched beneath his skin, insistent and consuming.

They were not so different, he thought as he made his way toward the exit, his stride measured but purposeful.

Weariness had become a shroud around Daenera, wrapped tightly in its suffocating embrace. It pressed into her skin, her bones, deep inside. She sat before the dressing table, the polished surface of the mirror reflecting a face she barely recognized, her features drawn and pale, shadows pooling beneath her eyes. The glow of the candlelight flickered unevenly, throwing long, restless shadows across the chamber, though even the golden hues couldn’t soften the sharp lines of her exhaustion. 

Behind her, Mertha’s voice grated against the stillness, sharp and unforgiving as the scrape of iron on iron. The older woman held up the damp remains of Daenera’s dress, the once-lustrous fabric darkened and heavy with rain. She shook it with an exaggerated vigor, droplets splattering the floor like blood against stone. 

“–I hope you’ve had your fill of death,” Mertha snapped, her voice climbing. “I hope you’ve commended the sight to memory! The poor boy.”

The sound of rain battering the shutters filled the room, a steady rhythm drumming against the windowpanes like the beating of some great, restless heart. . It was as though the gods themselves had grown tired–tired of the endless schemes and betrayals of mortals, of their blood-soaked ambitions and unending grievances. Perhaps they sought to drown the world in their wrath, to wash it clean of sin and sorrow. But mercy was not the gods’ way, and the rain fell without promise of redemption, a bitter reminder of how unyielding the world remained.

Her fingers rested lightly on the edge of the dressing table, the cool wood grounding her as Mertha’s tirade continued unabated. The chamber felt stifling despite the chill creeping in from the storm, the air thick with unspoken tension. Somewhere in the depths of her fatigue, Daenera wondered if the gods had sent the rain not as wrath but as a mockery–an illusion of cleansing that would never touch the festering wounds of this world. No storm could wash away the sins that had taken root here.

Daenera watched the droplets race down the glass, her envy flaring briefly. How simple it must be, she thought, to be the rain–to rage freely, without consequence or restraint, without care. The rain lashed against the stone walls of the Red Keep, it seemed to carry the weight of its own wrath–seemed to mock her. 

Patrick’s life had been the noose she carried, her every movement constrained by the knowledge that the Greens held his fate in their hands. But now that burden was gone, severed by her own hand. And in truth, she felt a bitter sense of relief, even triumph–it stirred something far darker within her. 

It would take time before the Greens loosened their hold on her again; she knew that much. The death of the boy would only deepen their scrutiny, tighten their watch. Yet she had paid that price willingly, knowing that it would cost her what little freedom she had. And yet, there were still freedoms she could take within the confines of this gilded cage.

A bird in a cage might not be free to fly, but it could still sing–and it could still bite.

The thought brought a bitter twist to her lips, an almost imperceptible smile that carried no warmth. If this was to be her prison, she would make it as wretched for her captors as it was for her. Let them watch her every move, chain her to her chambers, whisper their suspicions behind closed doors. She would show them there was no caging her rage. 

Her fingers grazed the edge of the table, the cool wood grounding her as her thoughts turned sharper, more deliberate. She could make life miserable for them–Aemond, Alicent, Aegon, Otto, even Mertha. 

Her reflection stared back at her, unyielding, as she leaned closer to the mirror. The shadows beneath her eyes seemed to deepen, the firelight flickering across her features like the glow of embers. That ember of rage had been with her since the moment she rose amidst the rubble of her chambers. It had been a spark then, small and fragile, but it had grown, fed by every indignity, every insult, every betrayal. It burned against her ribs now, a constant reminder of what she had lost–and what she would one day reclaim.

Aemond. His name pressed against her mind like a sharp edge. He had gotten what he wanted–a wife bound to him by chains as much as vows. But she would make sure he wished he hadn’t. She could see his cold, calculating expression in her mind’s eye, his singular gaze that sought to pierce through her, to lay claim to what he had ruined. 

“They should make you take his place in the dungeons,” Mertha spat, her voice sharp and unforgiving as she moved about the chamber like a restless bird. The fabric of her skirts swayed and hissed with her movements, the quiet rustling as sharp as a blade in the otherwise suffocating silence.”That is where you belong–among rapers and murderers, you wicked creature.” 

“I would take the night watch over her myself,” Mertha said, a sneer curling at the corners of her lips, her tone dripping with self-importance. “But the day has drained me, and you are young. Your energy will serve you better tonight.” She busied herself with gathering the discarded underdress from the floor, shaking it out before throwing it carelessly into the basket at the foot of the bed. “It will be a long day tomorrow, and I’ll need my strength.”

Mertha’s gaze snapped back to Edelin, sharp and commanding. “You must not fall asleep,” she warned, her voice lowering into something that resembled a hiss. “The gods know she cannot be trusted. I wouldn’t want to wake in the morning and find you dead, as they did the poor boy.” She straightened, brushing her hands off with exaggerated finality as if ridding herself of some invisible stain. “Stay vigilant, do you hear me?”

Daenera’s gaze lifted from her reflection in the mirror to regard the older woman. Mertha’s face was pinched with disdain, her eyes gleaming with self-righteous fury as she discarded the damp dress in a basket. A sickly pallor clung to her skin, her complexion ashen and lifeless, while the whites of her eyes blotted with red. The skin around them was flushed and swollen, betraying the rawness of fatigue and strain. It wasn’t hard to guess the cause. She’d been retching–violently so, if the bloodshot state of her eyes was any indication.

Her attention did not linger long; instead, it drifted to the young woman just behind her. The girl had been uncharacteristically silent, her usual chatter replaced by a subdued quiet since leaving the sept. There was a heaviness to her presence now, a weight in her every movement as she worked through Daenera’s hair with a brush. The tangles yielded reluctantly to her careful ministrations, and each stroke of the brush seemed to carry an unspoken frustration. She did not meet Daenera’s gaze in the mirror, her focus fixed on the task at hand. 

“You will remain at the Princess’s side at all times. Do you understand?” Mertha snapped, her tone dripping with scorn as she pointed an accusing finger at Edelin. The older woman loomed like a shadow over the younger lady-in-waiting, her presence a constant weight that pressed down on the room. “You will not let her out of your sight for a single moment–not a single breath! If she so much as steps into the privy, you will stand outside, staring in at her from the open door!”

Daenera grimaced, her frown deepening as the indignity of Mertha’s command settled over her. The thought of being watched even in her most private moments, of someone hovering behind her as she relieved herself, made her stomach twist with revulsion. 

Edelin seemed to share her unease. The younger woman’s hands faltered in their careful work, her brushing pausing for the briefest of moments. She hesitated, her lips parting slightly as if to protest, but Mertha’s sharp, scornful gaze bore down on her like a hammer. Reluctantly, Edelin turned back to her task, her face a careful mask of submission that failed to hide the faint tremor of her fingers.

“Yes, Lady Mertha…” she murmured, the words clipped and heavy with reluctant obedience. Her frown deepened as she resumed her brushing, the strokes growing firmer. 

“And if she proves even a bit difficult, you will call for the guards immediately. Do you understand me?” Her sharp voice carried across the room from where she stood. “I will not let her humiliate us again.” She hefted the basket with a grunt, the motion sharp and deliberate, as though the weight of her burden served as evidence of her righteousness. Her eyes, hard and gleaming, turned towards them.

Daenera felt the prickle of Mertha’s attention against the back of her neck, an unwelcome presence that tightened her shoulders. She met her gaze in the mirror, her expression calm but cold, her eyes glittering with defiance. They held each other’s stare for a long, tense moment. 

Then, Mertha shifted her focus to Edelin, her tone hardening. “Be wary of her, girl,” she warned, her words laced with bitter scorn. “She is as kind as a viper and twice as cunning.”

Edelin shifted but said nothing, her head bowing slightly in a gesture of reluctant acknowledgement. Her hands moved with practiced care through Daenera’s hair, the brush going through the strands smoother now.

With a final sniff of disdain, Mertha spun sharply on her heel, the heavy skirts of her dress swishing against the stone floor with each forceful step. The wicker basket bumped against her hip, the motion punctuating her retreat as she disappeared behind the lattice screen. Moments later, the muffled sound of the chamber doors opening and shutting reached them, followed by a decisive click that seemed to echo in the still air.

“A viper,” Daenera murmured, her voice soft and edged with a dry humor. “How inventive.”

The room settled into silence, broken only by the steady drumming of rain against the windows, the world outside dark and lost in the storm’s fury. The fire crackled in the hearth, sending errant sparks dancing upward before they vanished into the darkened stone. Its heat radiated outward, warring with the persistent chill that lingered at the edges of the chamber, crawling along the floor like an unwelcome guest.

The brush moved slowly through Daenera’s hair, the soft bristles tugging against stubborn tangles as they worked through the dark curls. Each stroke coaxed the locks into a loose cascade, spilling down her back in an unruly spill of shadowy waves. The ends tickled the curve of the chair’s back, swaying faintly with each pass.

Daenera’s gaze shifted from her own reflection in the mirror to Edelin’s, studying the girl as though seeking answers in her quiet demeanor. The red-gold of Edelin’s hair gleamed in the firelight, the strands pulled back into a tightly braided coil pinned neatly at the nape of her neck. Her pale blue eyes remained fixed on the task, unyielding and methodical, but the faint crease between her brows betrayed her unease. Her lips pressed into a tight line, a silent barricade holding back whatever thoughts churned behind her calm exterior.

The silence grew heavier, thick with words unspoken, until Daenera broke it. Her tone was soft, measured, yet it carried the weight of apprehension.

“What is it?” she asked, her fingers drifting to toy idly with the edge of a strand of hair. “I can feel you want to say something.”

Edelin drew in a deep breath, measured through her nose, as though summoning every ounce of courage within her. The brush in her hand stilled mid-stroke, her fingers tightening around the handle. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her head and met Daenera’s gaze through the mirror. Her blue eyes were steady, but the faint quiver in her lower lip betrayed the turmoil beneath her composed exterior. 

“Did you poison him?” She asked, her voice low. The words hung in the air like a blade suspended over a neck. The corners of her mouth pulled downward, her expression strained, but she pressed on. “I want you to tell me the truth.”

Daenera’s face remained impassive, her dark eyes locked with Edelin’s in the glass. Her heart thudded a painful rhythm against her ribs, the ache reverberating through her chest. The acrid taste of bile rose in her throat, and her tongue felt dry, as if all the moisture had fled her mouth. She resisted the urge to look away, though it took more resolve than she cared to admit.

“I cannot give you the truth,” She said at last, her voice calm but laced with an edge of weariness. Her words were measured, deliberate, as though she were stepping carefully along the edge of a precipice. “You know that.”

“You can,” Edelin pressed, her tone soft but insistent. 

Daenera’s lips twitched, the faint curve caught somewhere between a smile and a scowl, though it was neither. “And what will you do with it?” She asked, her voice strained. “What then? Will you bring it to the Small Council? March into the Great Hall and lay it before them?”

“I should,” Edelin said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It is my duty.” Her pale blue eyes held Daenera’s in the mirror, unflinching despite the tremor in her fingers. The words lingered in the air, as though the room itself held its breath, waiting for what might follow.

Edelin moved, setting the brush aside on the polished surface of the dressing table. The faint clink it made against the wood seemed louder than it should have been, an unspoken punctuation. She straightened, drawing herself up, her youthful features set with a determination that made her seem older than she was. 

“I am not asking for them,” she continued, her tone sharper now, steadier. “I am asking for the truth–for myself.” Her hands disappeared briefly into the folds of her skirts, and when they reemerged, she held a small pouch. 

Daenera’s gaze flickered to the object as Edelin placed it on the table before her, the soft scrape of fabric against wood drawing her attention. The pouch was unassuming, its pale, creamy cloth bright against the dark surface. But it was damning in its simplicity, a quiet truth laid bare between them. 

The silence that followed was suffocating. The storm outside raged on, the relentless drum of rain on stone a backdrop to the tense stillness that filled the chamber. Daenera’s heart plummeted, a hollow ache settling deep within her chest as the lavender pouch lay before her. The scent of lavender wafted into the air, delicate yet overwhelming, mingling with the cloying remnants of incense that still lingered in her nostrils. It was a sickly-sweet aroma, at odds with the cold dread that coiled in her stomach. Her eyes burned with the prickle of unshed tears, though she refused to let them fall. Tears would not help now. 

Her gaze lifted slowly from the pouch to Edelin’s face. For a moment, the younger woman seemed transformed–her features hardened by the weight of understanding, the sharpness of her expression far removed from her usual youthful softness. The knowledge she carried was etched into her face, undeniable, even as she sought a confirmation she already knew in her heart. 

“You could take it to the Council,” Daenera said, her voice strained and dry as though every word scraped against her throat. “They would no doubt welcome your… evidence.” Her tone grew brittle, laden with weariness. “But it would change nothing. Their punishment is already decided.”

Her hand moved, reaching tentatively towards the pouch. She wanted to seize it, to hide its damning presence from sight, yet part of her just wanted it within her hold–wanted the security of it, however damning it was for her to keep. Before her fingers could close the distance, Edelin’s hand shot out. She slid the pouch across the table, out of Daenera’s reach. 

“Are we all so easily discarded?” Edelin demanded, her voice cracking.

Daenera froze, her outstretched hand retreating slightly as Edelin’s words settled on her with the same sharp sting as a slap. Her brows knitted together, as she stared up at Edelin. “Nothing about this has been easy,” she said, her words twisted into something sharp and bitter, almost a sneer. Her voice was raw and strained as tears burned at the back of her eyes. She blinked them away fiercely, unwilling to let them fall. 

“You told him he was going home,” Edelin pressed.

“This was the only way he was ever going home,” She answered, her jaw tightening as she leaned back against the seat, the wood pressing into her spine. “The Hightowers would never have released him.” Her gaze flicked back to meet Edelin’s, her voice growing harsher, weighed with frustration. “He would have stayed in the dungeons–alone, forgotten, rotting in the dark. Every footstep outside his cell would have been a death knell, every echo a reminder that the noose was waiting.”

Her throat tightened as she swallowed hard against the lump rising there, her emotions clawing at her like a living thing. It felt as though she had swallowed a jagged stone, its edges tearing into her, making every breath ache. “I didn’t want him to suffer.”

Edelin stood silent for a moment, her pale blue eyes searching Daenera’s face, her expression wavering between pity and unease. When she finally spoke, her tone was measured, understanding yet cautious, as though she were treading carefully across ice. 

“I understand that,” she said, her voice low. “Truly, I do. But… it gives me pause.”

She hesitated, her hands twisting together as she gathered her thoughts. “I have been kind to you, as you have been to me,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “And I am grateful for that kindness, Princess. But… I am still in their service.” Her words hung heavily in the air as she looked down at her hands, her fingers knotting in the fabric of her skirts. “I’ve held my tongue before because you asked it of me–held my tongue when I properly shouldn’t have…”

Her voice broke, and she raised her head again. “I don’t want to find myself in the same position as the boy,” she said, her words low. “I don’t want to end up discarded, forgotten, let to rot because I’ve been loyal to the wrong person.”

“You won’t,” Daenera said firmly. The words hung in the air, a promise or a plea–it was hard to tell.

“You don’t know that,” Edelin countered, her voice trembling slightly. “I might end up in the dungeons, just as he did. Waiting for the noose.”

Daenera held her gaze, reading the desperation written across the young woman’s face. She understood Edelin’s fears all too well–that her kindness, her proximity to Daenera, would mark her. And yet, even as her chest tightened with the weight of understanding, she found herself speaking. Words rose unbidden, soft but steady. “I don’t believe you���ll find yourself in that position. You are neither child nor fool, and that is why I trust you, Edelin. You’ve stood by me when many would not, when it would have been easier to distance yourself. I see the risk you take, and I do not take it lightly. If the time comes when they turn their eyes toward you, I will not begrudge you for your choice.”

Edelin nodded and stared into the middle distance, her expression apprehensive. When she finally spoke, her voice wavered, as if she were forcing herself to ask a question she feared the answer to. “There are still berries in the pouch… Are–are you going to poison the King? The Small Council? Your husband?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and dangerous. Daenera let out a slow breath, her lips curving in a faint, humorless smile. “If I’d meant to poison them,” she said, her tone edged with sardonic amusement, “it would have been done by now.” She shifted in the chair, her eyes drawing to meet Edelin’s wary gaze. “I’d be no freer for it…”

No, she would not be spared. She could already see it–herself locked away in a damp, lightless cell, awaiting a trial that was no more than a performance. The verdict would be predetermined, her fate sealed. Whether it ended with a rope tightening around her neck or the cold kiss of a headman’s blade, the result would be the same. 

Even if she somehow managed to rid the Keep of the Greens, even if she tore them out like the weeds they were, the realm would still cry out for justice. The lords and banners of Westeros would demand her head, and her mother, for the sake of the crown, would have no choice but to oblige them.

Daenera’s heart twisted at the thought. Her mother, who had already lost so much, would lose yet another child–this time by her own hand. It would break her, she thought. 

And she didn’t want that for her. She didn’t want to be the shadow that darkened her reign, the wound that festered in the heart of her rule.

But more than that, she didn’t want to die.

Daenera glanced at the pouch where it rested on the table, the faint scent of lavender clinging to the air like a ghost. She knew exactly how many berries remained. Four. Four lives she could take, if she so chose. 

For a fleeting moment, Daenera allowed herself the indulgence of impossible imaginings, the kind that belonged to children spinning dreams of kingdoms they would never rule. Each name pressed against her mind like a dagger poised to strike.

Aegon, who occupied the throne that was her mother’s by right, his existence the linchpin of the Green’s ambitions. Otto, the Hand that set the board against her mother. Aemond, the rider of Vhagar, the Greens’ most fearsome weapon, and her brother’s murderer…

Her fingers tightened instinctively, though there was nothing in her grasp. She would need three to strike at the heart of their power. Aegon, Otto, and Aemond. Without them, the Greens’ strength would falter, their unity splintering like a cracked blade.

But that would leave her with only one berry. One final life to take.

Her thoughts turned to Alicent. The Queen Dowager had tormented her mother for years, weaving webs of guilt and ambition to smother the rightful Queen’s claim. Alicent’s venom had seeped into every corner of the Red Keep, infecting all it touched. Yet as much as Daenera despised her, Alicent’s power was waning. Without her sons and father, the Queen Dowager would be nothing more than a shadow in a court that no longer needed her. Killing Alicent might bring momentary satisfaction, but it would do little to weaken the Greens’ cause. Her death would be a wound that no longer bled.

For a fleeting, haunting moment, Daenera thought of using the berry on herself. It would be over in an instant–a brief, bitter swallow. Her death would be on her own terms, out of the hands of her mother. That would be a waste, and she had no use for waste. There were other ways to die, should she decide on that course. The berry was a tool, not a reprieve.

If Aegon, Otto, and Aemond were removed from play, the Greens’ foundation would crumble. Their strength would falter. But even without its leaders, the council still held power. The Small Council would not vanish overnight; its members would scramble like rats on a sinking ship, seeking to salvage what they could.

Yet one figure remained in her thoughts, an unseen viper lurking in the shadows of the court: Larys Strong.

The clubfoot. His loyalty was to no one but himself, his scheming far more insidious than the others. It would be a mercy to her mother if Larys Strong was removed entirely from the board–and Daenera would take great satisfaction in his death. 

But such thoughts were idle, and she pushed them aside–for what use was poison without a means to deliver it? She had neither the freedom to act nor the cunning to see it done unnoticed. And though vengeance burned within her, she could not stomach the thought of dying as both a Kingslayer and a Kinslayer. History would not look kindly on her, even if her heart carried honor. No, she did not wish to die–not yet.

“The remaining berries are assurances,” She added softly, her voice taking on a weightier tone. They were a contingency. “For myself.”

Understanding flickered in Edelin’s eyes, her expression softening with sudden clarity. Before she could voice her thoughts, Daenera tilted her head ever so slightly, a wry smile playing at her lips. “And Mertha, perhaps,” she said, her voice carrying a dry edge. “If she keeps on the way she does.”

The jest hung in the air, and after a beat, the corner of Edelin’s mouth twitched, her lips curving into a faint smile. It was the kind of amusement one found when laughing felt almost too dangerous–subdued, guarded, but genuine. The firelight danced between them, casting flickering shadows across the polished oak table and the intricate weave of the rushes beneath their feet.

Silence settled in the room once more, punctuated only by the soft crackle of the hearth and the faint rustle of fabric as Daenera adjusted her seat. But it didn’t last. She leaned forward, her voice cutting through the quiet. “What will you do?”

Edelin rose slowly. Her fingers tightened around the pouch in her hands as she looked down at it, her brows furrowing as though the pouch itself might offer some guidance. A heartbeat passed. Then another. Finally, she drew in a breath, her voice firm but low as she answered. 

“I’ll hide it.” Her voice carried the conviction of a decision made, though her gaze, when it lifted to meet Daenera’s, revealed the unease beneath her resolve. “Your chambers will be searched come morning. They’ll tear through everything–every chest, every corner. I will take it with me and keep it hidden.”

Relief washed over Daenera, lifting the weight from her chest, though a shadow of unease lingered at the edges of her thoughts. “You cannot hide it in your room. They’ll question you either way, but if they uncover it…”

Edelin gave a short nod. “I won’t say a word of this.” She paused, looking down at the pouch in her hands. “I will keep your secrets.” Her eyes lifted, meeting Daenera’s. “But if the choice comes down to you or me…”

“I understand,” Daenera said, reaching for her hand. Her fingers closed over Edelin’s, feeling the faint outline of the pouch concealed within. “I am thankful for you, Edelin. Truly. I value your friendship more than I can ever express.”

The girl’s slips curved into a faint smile, a look that carried warmth and steadied Daenera’s frayed nerves. The weight that pressed against her chest eased just slightly, like a knot loosening. 

Without another word, Edelin shifted her hand, tucking the pouch deep into the folds of her skirts. The moment passed, and she stepped behind Daenera, where she began to gather the dark waves of her hair. Her fingers moved deftly, weaving strands into a loose braid, her touch light yet sure. She worked in silence for a time, adding thin ribbons of silk to the braid, the delicate fabric glinting faintly in the firelight.

“I am sorry,” Edelin murmured after a moment, her voice soft, almost tentative, as though the words were a fragile offering. “For your loss.”

Daenera blinked, the words catching her off guard, though she quickly masked her surprise. The weight of grief, ever-present and unyielding, swelled in her chest. She swallowed hard, willing away the tears that threatened to rise. “Thank you,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

The silence that settled over the chamber was tentative, stretched taut between them like an invisible thread that might snap at the slightest of breath. The fire in the hearth crackled, its embers pulsing faintly in the dim light, casting shifting shadows across the polished wood of the dressing table. Rain still drummed against the windowpane–louder in the silence.  

Daenera watched Edelin through the mirror as the girl worked through the length of her dark curls. The younger woman’s movements were practiced, careful, as she wove the ribbons of silk through the strands, taming their unruly wildness in preparation for the morning. Edelin had fallen back into her quiet diligence, though Daenera did not miss the occasional flicker of thought in her eyes. 

When Edelin finally spoke, her voice was measured, but there was something tentative beneath its surface, something that made Daenera’s lips twitch with wry amusement. 

“What will you do now?” She asked, her pale blue eyes fixed on the task before her, the words carrying an air of casual curiosity that did not quite mask the deeper intrigue beneath. 

Daenera exhaled softly, lifting a hand to toy with one of the silk ribbons that had been woven into her hair. She wound one tightly around her fingertip, then unraveled it, only to wrap it around another. A small, idle act–something to busy her hands while her mind shifted through the weight of the question. 

“What can I do but languish in bed all day?” she murmured, her lips curling in a wry smile. “I shan’t leave my bed for a week, I think. Not that it matters–I won’t be permitted beyond my chambers regardless.” Her lips quirked as she met Edelin’s gaze through the mirror. “ I should be rather easy to keep an I on, don’t you think?”

Edelin hummed softly, twisting another length of silk through Daenera’s dark locks. “Mertha will be beside herself,” she mused, amusement creeping into her voice. “What was it she said this morning? ‘The only people who can afford to spend their days sprawled in bed–”

“‘Are down on the Street of Silk,” Daenera supplied with a smirk, shaking her head in amusement. She stretched lazily, her fingers tracing the embroidered edges of her robe. “Yes, I seem to remember something to that effect.” She stretched her arms above her head, letting her limbs go slack as she lounged back on the chair. “It’ll give her something to gnash her teeth over, and I rather like the thought of it. What can she do? Drag me from bed? She’d have to haul me through the halls like a sack of grain, and I doubt she has the strength or the nerve to try.”

A small chuckle escaped Edelin–almost a snort–before she caught herself, pressing her lips together as if she had not right to find humor in any of it. But Daenera saw it–the briefest glimpse of something lighter beneath the surface. It was a fragile thing, but it was there nonetheless and it eased the mood. 

“You’re making things harder on yourself by opposing her at every turn,” Edelin chided, though there was no true reproach in her tone–just the weary truth of someone who had spent too long in the company of Mertha. “Not everything has to be a battle. Sometimes it’s easier to endure than to suffer the consequences of her ire.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, hesitation flickering in her gaze before she continued, softer now. “And… she should never have struck you.”

Daenera’s gaze drifted to her reflection in the mirror, tracing the contours of her face. The cheek that had been struck bore only the flush of exhaustion, no bruising, no swelling. The slap had stung, but it left no lasting mark—whether by design or by lack of force, she could not say. Had Mertha wielded just enough control to ensure it would not linger, or had the sheer audacity of the act stolen some of its strength? Either way, the sting had been real, sharp enough to startle but not wound. And, in some strange way, she had welcomed it.

“I was deserving of that one–” she murmured, the admission barely more than a breath.

“No.” Edelin’s voice was firm, sharper than before. Her red brows knitted tightly, her displeasure writ plainly across her features. “You are a Princess. It doesn’t matter what you may have done–she had no right to lay a hand on you.” Her head shook slightly, as if the very thought of it unsettled her. “Her mistreatment of you–it isn’t right.”

The vehemence in her tone, the unguarded concern that colored her words, sent a flicker of warmth through Daenera. It was a rare thing to hear such defiance spoken on her behalf. A rare thing, to feel the weight of someone’s anger on her account.

For a moment, she simply watched Edelin, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, the ghost of a smile touched her lips, fleeting but genuine.

“I do not understand why you allow it,” she said, her voice edged with quiet fury. Then, as though realizing she had overstepped, she hesitated, drawing in a sharp breath. “Forgive me, Princess. It is not my place.”

Daenera caught the flicker of restraint in Edelin’s reflection, the way her lips pressed into a thin line as if she wished to swallow the words back down. “Do not hesitate now,” she said, her tone measured, absent of reprimand. If anything, there was an openness to her words. 

Edelin’s shoulders squared, seemingly emboldened. “Then I will speak plainly.” Her voice softened, though urgency still simmered beneath the surface. “Why not go to him?” Why not let him put a stop to it?” She hesitated just slightly, as if weighing her words. “He’s your husband–”

Daenera’s expression darkened, and the flare of irritation was immediate. Her lips curled into something that was neither a smile nor a scowl. “He is my brother’s murderer,” she said flatly. 

The words settled like iron between them, heavy and immovable. Aemond’s name was not spoken, but it didn’t need to be. His presence loomed over the conversation all the same. 

Edelin did not flinch, though the tension in her posture grew, her hands tightening ever so slightly around the strands of Daenera’s hair as she twisted them into careful braids–had the hands been Mertha’s, Daenera was sure she’d feel the reproach burning at her scalp. 

“Then I could go to him,” Edelin said carefully. “He is still your husband. He would not allow–”

Daenera’s lips curled into something caught between a sneer and a smirk. “We may be married,” she said, her voice clipped with barely restrained irritation, “but I have no desire to rely on him.”

Even as the words left her mouth, she heard the petulance in them, like a child railing against a gentle reprimand. It irked her. She was no child, yet the stubbornness in her own tone betrayed her.

The very thought of going to Aemond–of seeking his protection, of pleading for his intervention–curdled in her stomach like spoiled milk. The notion made her blood boil. To humble herself before her brother’s murderer, to ask anything of him, would be a betrayal of all that still burned within her. The thought stung sharper than any of Mertha’s slights, cutting deep into the raw edges of her pride. She would endure a thousand small humiliations, suffer every sneer and whispered insult, before she would ever crawl to Aemond Targaryen for help. 

He had already taken too much from her. She would not give him this.

“I do not want him to know.”

She would suffer Mertha. She would suffer this prison. But she would not suffer Aemond’s protection. 

“Your pride may keep you standing, but it will not make it any easier,” Edelin murmured, finishing the last braid. “And you will only suffer for it.”

Daenera grimaced, rolling one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Perhaps,” she allowed, though there was no real concession in her tone. Then, as if to undercut the moment, the corner of her lips curled in a ghost of a smirk. “But should it ever become too much to bear… I still have a few berries left.”

She watched Edelin’s reaction through the mirror, saw the way her lady’s eyes widened, her fingers briefly stilling in Daenera’s hair. There was a flicker of hesitation–just for a heartbeat–before the tension shattered with a sudden, incredulous laugh. Edelin shook her head, amusement chasing away her earlier unease, her lips pulling into an exasperated smile.

“Gods save us,” she muttered, still chuckling, “You are impossible.”

Daenera only hummed in quiet satisfaction, tilting her head slightly as Edelin resumed her work, weaving silk through the long, dark strands. The storm still raged beyond the Keep’s walls, the wind howling through the towers, but within the chamber, for just a fleeting moment, the weight of it all seemed a little lighter.

Once Edelin finished weaving the last of the silken strips through Daenera’s braids, she stepped back, seemingly admiring her work with quiet satisfaction. Daenera studied her reflection, tilting her head slightly as she took in the intricate braids cascading down her back. They varied in thickness–some woven tightly, others looser, softer–and threaded through them were silken ribbons of varying hues. Deep crimson, pale gold, and midnight blue intertwined with the dark strands of her hair, each color catching the firelight as though a rainbow had been woven into her tresses. 

Her father, Laenor, had taught her to braid her hair like this. "To protect it," he had said, his hands deft and sure as he wove the strands together, "and to keep it from tangling into mats. You’ll thank me for it one day."

And she had.

Even now, she could recall the warmth of his hands as they guided hers, the quiet patience in his voice as he showed her how to twist and weave each section with precision. It had been one of the few things they shared—an unspoken ritual, a bond forged in simple, careful movements.

She had been young then, barely past her sixth nameday, her hair wild and unruly as the sea. He would laugh as she wrinkled her nose in frustration, murmuring, "It’s a Targaryen mane, but it has the soul of Velaryon waves. Stubborn as the tides."

She had not understood then how precious those moments were. How fleeting. But this–this, at least–was something of him that remained. And for that, she would always be grateful.

Daenera rose from her seat, rolling her shoulders as she stretched her aching limbs, feeling exhaustion seep deeper into her bones. Every movement felt weighted, as though the events of the day had carved themselves into her flesh, leaving her heavier with their burdens. The thick layers of her night robe trailed behind her, whispering against the cold stone floor as she made her way towards the bed. 

When she reached it, she sank onto the mattress with a slow, weary exhale, feeling the feather-stuffed bedding give beneath her weight. For a moment, she simply sat there, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes, willing away the dull throb of fatigue. Gods, she was tired. The kind of tired that settled into the marrow, that no amount of sleep could truly mend. 

And yet, she knew rest would not come easily. Even if her body yielded to it, her mind would not. It would race in endless circles, retracing the same agonizing thoughts, the same bitter regrets, the same simmering anger that refused to fade. 

She let out another slow breath, lowering her hands to her lap. The chamber was quiet save for the faint crackle of the fire and the steady drum of the rain against the windowpanes. 

The quiet rustle of fabric and the soft click of the drawer were the only other sounds in the chamber as Edelin moved with quiet efficiency, gathering the leftover ribbons and slipping them neatly into their place. Her fingers worked with practiced ease, smoothing each strip of silk before tucking them away, the motion precise, almost reverent. When she finally closed the drawer, the faint snick of wood meeting wood echoed in the stillness, a small, measured sound against the hush of the room.

“Would you choose a book?” Daenera murmured at last, her voice quiet but steady.

Edelin paused, glancing over her shoulder. “A book?”

“I doubt I’ll find any rest, and I have little desire to be left alone with my thoughts,” Daenera admitted, shifting back against the headboard. She reached for the pillows, propping them up to sit more comfortably. “I thought I’d read to you, as I promised I would.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Then Edelin’s entire face lit up, her expression shifting from wary surprise to something far softer. “Really?” She asked, her voice carrying an unmistakable note of hope, her pale blue eyes bright with something almost childlike. 

Daenera inclined her head in a slow nod, and that was all the encouragement Edelin needed. Without hesitation, she turned swiftly, the fabric of her skirts whispering against the cold stone as she hurried from the bedchamber into the adjoining common room.

Beyond the doorway, the faint sounds of movement reached Daenera’s ears–books shifting, the soft scrape of parchment, fingers trailing along leather-bound spines. The quiet rustling carried through the dimly lit chamber, each sound deliberate, searching.

Moments later, Edelin reappeared, cradling a book in her hands as though it were a relic of great worth. She held it carefully, reverently, her fingers tracing the embossed title along the gilded spine before she extended it toward Daenera. The firelight flickered over the worn leather cover, illuminating its deep indigo hue. 

The Watchers on the Wall by Maester Harmune.

Daenera’s gaze flickered over the familiar gilded spine, recognition settling like a stone in her chest. It was one of Aemond’s books.

For a moment, a stubborn flicker of defiance sparked within her. A part of her wanted to refuse it outright, to push it back into Edelin’s hands and send her to find another–any other–so long as it did not bear the mark of him. The thought of reading something Aemond had once poured over, of letting his choice in words take root in her mind, was enough to make her fingers twitch with hesitation.

But just as quickly as it came, she forced it down. It was a childish, foolish kind of obstinacy, and she knew it. It is only a book. Whatever satisfaction she might gain from spiting Aemond in this small way was not worth the effort. To refuse it would be to give him more power over her than he already held.

With a quiet resolve, she took the book from Edelin’s hands and settled back against the pillows, fingers tracing the worn leather before she opened it to the first page.

When Edelin lingered at the bedside, her hands clasped before her, Daenera glanced up, a slight furrow creasing her brow. The girl stood uncertainly, her posture stiff, as though waiting for permission she had never needed before.

Daenera tilted her head, studying her for a moment before patting the empty space beside her. “Join me,” she said, her voice softer now, lacking the usual guarded edge. “You can’t very well stand there the whole time. And–I’d like the company.”

Edelin blinked, her expression shifting between hesitation and something unreadable. But the reluctance lasted only a moment before she relented, moving with careful grace as she crawled onto the bed, settling beside Daenera atop the thick layers of blankets.

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting golden light over the pages as Daenera opened the book. The weight of it felt solid in her hands, the scent of parchment and ink mingling with the lingering traces of lavender from the silken sheets.

Then, in a voice steady and measured, she began to read. 

“It is said that the wind howled across the black pines of Sea Dragon Point, carrying with it the cries of wolves and the whispers of greenseers, when the Warg King had called forth a storm from the spirit wood, thick with mist and shadow, to blind his foes. But winter was coming for him, and winter did not fear the dark.”

She read aloud from the Chronicle of Sea Dragon Point, one of the many accounts compiled within the Waters on the Wall. The words painted images of long-forgotten battles, of the King of Winter riding at the head of his armies, banners snapping in the frozen wind as he marched against the Warg King and his skinchangers. The story spoke of war-wolves the size of destriers, of ravens that carried the voices of the dead, of a battle fought beneath a sky thick with swirling snow and seething magic.

Edelin listened intently, her breath slow and measured, and as the tale unfolded, her head found its way to Daenera’s shoulder. It was a quiet, unspoken thing–no hesitation, no formality, just a simple shift in weight as she rested against her.

Now and then, she murmured soft comments, wondering aloud if the Warg King had truly wielded such power, or if the greenseers’ whispers were just the fancies of storytellers. Daenera responded when she felt inclined, but for the most part, she simply read on, allowing the cadence of the words to fill the space between them.

It was… comfortable. Almost familiar in a way she had not expected.

For a fleeting moment, it felt like another life–like the nights she once spent in the nursery, reading to her younger brothers beneath the warm glow of candlelight. She remembered Joffrey nestling close, too proud to ask outright for another chapter but lingering until she gave in. She remembered the way little Aegon would nod off before the end of the tale, his small fists curled into the blankets, his silver hair tousled against her arm.

That time was gone now. Her brothers were gone too, one buried, the others out of reach.

But here, in this quiet moment, with the fire casting long shadows across the walls and the steady weight of Edelin at her side, she allowed herself–just for a little while–to remember what it was like to be a sister instead of a prisoner.

She had fallen into a steady cadence of words, weaving through one chronicle and into the next, when the distant groan of the chamber doors echoed through the quiet. It was not a sound easily mistaken–the heavy wooden doors did not yield to passing drafts or the stirrings of servants. Someone had entered. 

Daenera stilled, her gaze lifting just slightly from the book in her hands. Beyond the lattice screen, she caught a flicker of movement–a shadow gliding across the floor, tall and deliberate. Then, a glint of silver, unmistakable even in the dim light, and the sound of measured footsteps against stone. 

Aemond.

The warmth of her head resting against her shoulder vanished as Edelin sat up abruptly, her breath catching as she straightened further. 

Aemond did not acknowledge them at first. He crossed the chamber without hesitation, his long strides carrying him toward the desk tucked into the corner, moving with the same quiet purpose he always carried. A drawer scraped open, its sound sharp against the hush. He rifled through its contents with practiced ease, plucking something from within before shutting it once more.

Only then did he turn, his gaze flickering toward them.

His eye found Daenera first.

Daenera refused to acknowledge him, her gaze fixed on the weathered pages of the book before her. The words blurred into meaningless symbols, their substance lost to her entirely. Yet she kept her eyes trained on them, feigning indifference even as she tracked his every movement from the edge of her vision, her senses sharpened to his presence. Every measured footstep, every shift in fabric, every controlled breath–she noted it all, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze.

“Leave us.”

Aemond’s voice cut through the quiet, smooth and unyielding as tempered steel. The weight of his command was absolute.

Edelin stiffened, hesitating only for a heartbeat before swiftly rising from the bed. She had been seated near him–on his side. The very thought sent a bitter taste to the back of Daenera’s throat. Would she ever allow him in that bed again? If it were her choice, the answer would be never.

Edelin dipped into a quick curtsy, her skirts whispering against the stone as she moved. Before departing, she cast a fleeting glance toward Daenera, her hesitation evident, as though silently asking if she should truly leave her alone with him. Daenera nodded in reassurance, and with no further protests, Edelin turned and hurried through the chamber, her steps light but swift. The door closed behind her with a quiet click.

Silence settled in the room like an encroaching fog, thick and unrelenting. And then, there were just the two of them.

As Aemond turned his back to her, Daenera’s gaze flickered upward. The candlelight glowed against the hard lines of his shoulders, the deep green of his doublet darkened further by the shadows. He moved with an air of quiet purpose, reaching for the flagon of wine resting upon the table. The deep red liquid sloshed against the sides of the goblet as he poured, the only sound in the heavy, suffocating silence. He lifted the glass to his lips and drained it in a single swallow, setting it down with a dull clink against the wooden surface before abandoning it entirely. Not a single drop left. 

Daenera forced her eyes back to the open book before her, though the words on the page blurred into nothingness. She turned the mover in her mind, trying to weave sense from them, to anchor herself in something that was not him. And yet, from the edge of her vision, she caught the way he moved–a controlled, deliberate pace as he wandered back to the desk, returning whatever it was he had retrieved back into its place–a habit, she knew.

When he turned at last, his gaze found her. She felt it settle upon her, heavy as a weight pressed into her skin. There was no mistaking his interest–his presence bore down on her, a silent force demanding acknowledgement. Her grip tightened slightly around the edges of the book, the parchment rough beneath her fingertips. The pages might as well have been blank for all she could read of them now. 

He leaned back against the desk, a picture of ease, though she knew him well enough to recognize the tension radiating off of him. He watched her for a long moment, the familiar prickle of irritation itching beneath her skin as his gaze slid over her. 

She would not give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. 

Then, without a word, he pushed off the desk, his movements measured and steady as he crossed the room. Each step sent a ripple of tension through her, her pulse quickening in defiance of her will. The sound of his boots against the stone floor echoed in the silence, a slow, deliberate rhythm that grated against her nerves. He rounded the bed, drawing closer, and for a fleeting moment, she bracing herself, half-expecting him to lower himself onto the mattress beside her, to claim his place without care or question. 

But instead, his hand reached out, long fingers curling around the pillow at her side. He lifted it, the fabric shifting beneath his grip, and without a glance in her direction, turned and carried it across the room. 

Daenera breathed out in relief, heart shuddering in her chest. Had he dared to settle beside her, she thought she might have driven the spine of the book straight into that cursed sapphire eye before smothering him with a pillow for good measure.

He settled on the chaise with the same quiet deliberation, shrugging off his belt and unfastening the claps of his doublet. The fire caught the hard planes of his face as he discarded the garment, his movements unhurried, effortless. Every action spoke of ownership, of familiarity, as if he had already decided this was his place to claim. 

Bitter words rose unbidden to her lips, lodging against the back of her teeth. She did not want to break the silence, did not want to acknowledge him, did not even wish to breath the same air as him. And yet, despite herself, her lips parted. 

“I do not want you here,” she said, her voice cold as iron.” From now on, if you wish to sleep well, you will do so in your own chambers–or else you’d have to sleep on the floor like a dog.”

Aemond did not flinch, nor did he seem surprised. Instead, he merely shifted, settling into the chaise with an air of measured indifference. “The chaise is comfortable enough.”

Daenera’s gaze narrowed at the page. “Not when it’s wet.”

His eye seemed to gleam with something unreliable, she felt it even as her gaze was set on the book, felt the faintest trace of amusement curling at the corner of his lips. “And if I have all the water removed?”

She hated the way he spoke–calm, controlled, so certain of himself. And she hated, more than anything, that he found humor in her defiance. 

And so, pettily–because pettiness was the only weapon left to her in this gilded prison–she answered, each word honed to a pointed edge. “Then I will fucking piss on it.”

[tossawary]

That "even if you're writing a non-canon pairing in fanfiction, you have to respect that these characters will probably still care on a basic level about their original love interest" post was inspired by a lot of things. But foremost inspired by any "Fullmetal Alchemist" fanfiction that tries to convince me that Edward Elric doesn't actually like Winry Rockbell at all.

Like, uh, no. Ed would die for Winry, so jot that down. Even if you're writing an AU where one or both of them are gay, which is fun and fine, Ed and Winry are ride or die for each other. They've known each other for so long. They trust each other so much. When they're arguing with each other or annoying the other, it's because THEY CARE. This is basic characterization for them.

I was amusing myself by thinking about an AU in which Ed's romantic interest is someone like Ling Yao, in which there's some dangerous situation where Ed has to choose between saving Winry (his sister figure in this AU) and saving Ling. I was immediately like, "Oh, he would FOR SURE pick Winry in most scenarios. Sorry, Ling." Which would suck for Ed, because he hates failing to save anyone, but is also funny to think about with Ling specifically, because I think that Ling would actually respect this decision more.

Unlike Winry, Ling is a combatant with bodyguards, and so can be trusted to handle himself in dangerous situations. (Which obviously does not make Ling a BETTER love interest for Ed than Winry, Winry doesn't need to be good at fighting, it's just a different skillset.) Ling is also a leader, someone who wants to be an emperor someday, and I think he has opinions on loyalty. Despite feeling grateful to be saved, I think Ling might think quite poorly of Ed choosing him (a relative stranger, even if he is a legit snack) over Winry (functionally a member of Ed's family / clan, a skilled specialist who is necessary to Ed's own combat capabilities), because Ed sure as shit wouldn't be considering future political advantages with Xing here, so it would be choosing a new love over family / a loyal friend. Depending on the scenario (it all depends on the specific situation for all of these cases), I also think that Ling might choose to save someone like Lan Fan or even Mei Chang over Ed in a lot of situations, especially because Ed would HATE IT SO MUCH if Ling knowingly sacrificed anyone for his sake.

Non-canon pairings and their AUs are interesting to me partially for how they interact with the existing canonical relationships and how they negotiate with canonical motivations. For some characters, romantic relationships are just not as important as familial ones or their own goals. Obviously, for Edward Elric, (depending on the specific situation at hand, of course) he's going to choose Alphonse over nearly anyone else.

[savanir]

Danyal- or well, Daniel now he supposes, seeing as none of these “kind” strangers can pronounce his name right. Has found himself a golden opportunity to hopefully get back to where he actually belongs.

His current predicament was anything but what he could have ever imagined happening to him. He remembers an attack, an assassination attempt on him and his twin. He remembers taking a hit meant for Dami, he remembers the electricity coursing through his body from the weapon the assassin used and so graciously left in his abdomen, meant to make his body seize which would make attempts to keep him from dying just a little bit harder, and his death just that little bit more painful.

After that he vaguely remembers falling, and then burning green.

Next thing he knows he’s in a foreign place with foreign people trying to “help”.

Wherever he is he’s certainly not anywhere near Nanda Parbat.

But he’ll get back, and the easiest way to do so is to secure transportation and funding.

Which shouldn’t be hard as soon as he’s “convinced” this random rich guy to adopt him.

—✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*---*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧—

Oliver is starting to regret the brilliant PR idea of sponsoring and supporting the new improved Star City foster care system.

In and of itself that’s of course a very good thing, and absolutely something he cares about and is happy to spend his money on, but these things should just be a given, just a thing that’s done because it’s the right thing to do.

Can’t just do that of course… we have to make a huge spectacle about it, showcase some poor but very adorable kids in need of a loving family. make a big party about it.

Oliver is vaguely reminded of pet adoption days that some animal shelters do. Also a good thing he’s in full support of, but that’s animals, and these are actual children.

The thought is making it rather hard to keep a pleasant smile on his face. Thankfully he’s very effectively being distracted by the little guy who somehow managed to attach himself to his leg and refuses to let go.

Oliver looks down.

The boy with the biggest most blue eyes looks up.

There are cameras and reporters and Oliver can feel the bad decision creeping up and the voice in the back of his head screaming, “don’t do it. DON’T DO IT”

Oliver lifts the boy up, “hey there little man, what is your name?”

He gets a big smile in return and the bad decision suddenly doesn’t seem so bad anymore, weird.

—✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*---*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧—

Roy had been talking, or well, it was more like venting to Dinah about something Oliver had done, or said, maybe both, probably both… When they heard the front door open and was quickly followed by a “Dinah I have a surprise but first you have to promise you won’t get mad”

Which… bad sign, very bad sign, terrible sign.

“Oliver what have you done”

The man walks into the room and proudly shows off his latest impulsive decision, “Congratulations, it’s a boy!”

…That’s a whole ass kid.

“Oliver Jonas Queen! you did not!”

But he did and that choice changes everything.

[mostly-imagines]

Things About My Jason

aka things that might weasel their way into details of stories one day, might not

your boy is clocking in at 6’4 + 3/4 inches and about 245 lbs (he’s the only batkid to be taller than bruce). 

he cusses a lot it, usually doesn’t correlate w anger or intensity its just how he expresses himself. he’ll cuss at you sometimes but not at you and he tries his best to never do it out of anger.

he’s never said it out loud but he would drop all the vigilante shit for you in a heartbeat if you wanted him to (i think he’s also the only batfam member who would do that).

you have an agreement in place to never make any big decisions in the middle of the night/post patrol—this came into place after a few too many bad nights had him coming home shaking and panicked about your safety and convinced he needed to leave you alone for good. 

he kind of zones out sometimes, its bordering on dissociation.

you have a black cat, salem, that’s been around since before you and jason had even met. his yellow eyes pierce you in a way that feels like he’s glaring straight into your soul and judging what he sees. he was suspicious of jason for a while but over time has come to love and protect jason almost as much as you.

he has a lot of nervous habits that have built up over years of stress and trauma. he’ll often double or even triple check locks and cameras. his hand tends to go to where his gun holster would be, regardless of whether or not its there. he’s very conscious of your breathing, especially when you’re asleep, and when he’s stressed or upset he’ll try to align his breathing with yours. he worries that you might get annoyed with how often he checks up on you, be it asking directly, texting you, or just looking you over to make sure you’re doing okay, that you’re happy. he’s also made a habit of standing directly behind you when you’re wearing anything short, especially skirts or dresses. You’re not entirely sure if it’s intentional or not.

day to day, he runs on very little sleep naturally so he’s awake early goes to bed late. he used to not focus much on making meals that actually taste good and have thought put into them until he started dating you. he started catering his grocery trips specifically with you in mind and the things you might like. he actually prefers going on grocery trips and little mundane errands with you bc he had no idea that these tiny aspects of life could bring him so much joy and peace. he also buys you new towels and updates your first aid kit constantly, though the latter is more out of his necessity than yours. depending on his mood, he’ll usually either take scalding hot or freezing showers. 

he’s 100% down to let you decorate the apartment however you want, even if you move into his place. his only ask is that he’s left with space to put his books (of which ne needs plenty). if he had to choose, he probably likes a warm atmosphere best, in terms of like lighting and colors. he’s really just not a fan of anything that feels cold or impersonal like the manor can sometimes seem. other than that he doesn’t really have opinions on it, whatever makes you happy he’ll like. but he’ll still happily go shopping with you to find stuff. but really that’ll just look like you saying “ooh look at this” and him saying “great, lets get it” at every single thing you pick up. 

there are unloaded guns and ammo hidden around your apartment and also stocked generously in a closet or two. he cleans them regularly, you think he does it partially as a kind of stress reliever. before you he didn’t have too much regard for his own safety, so he would sleep with one under his pillow. 

he does everything he can to keep you safe and he’ll insist on adding extra locks to the doors and windows, ones the landlord wont have keys to. yeah he’s paranoid so he’ll keep the bed as far from the door as possible and is unrelenting in his insistence that you sleep on the wall side. if you’re too tired to move, that’s okay, he’ll gently move you over himself. honestly though, your apartment is just as secure, if not more, than any of his safe houses. as such, he absolutely can and will easily hack into the lobby security cameras to check up on things. if he has to go away for a while he’ll send one of his siblings to stop by to check on you and make sure you're okay. 

he prefers to wear layers, it makes him feel more secure and comfortable. he does like cutoff sleeves sometimes but only because you like them on him. aside from that, he’s usually not such a fan of showing much skin because of a) his scars and b) he feels exposed to attacks. he has so many long sleeved and warm clothes in his closet that he heavily encourages you to bundle up in some of them when its cold. 

he goes through phases of bad sleep and they can vary greatly in severity. there’s nights he just physically cannot sleep and this usually originates from intense anxiety. these are easier to ease him back from and some simple comforting will be enough to get him to at least try to sleep. most commonly its the nightmares that make it hard for him. it’ll usually be a one-off that he just can’t fall back asleep afterwards. the worst is when he goes through phases of frequent nightmares, like every night, multiple times a night. when that happens, he will do everything in his power to stay awake for as long as he can. you’ve yet to find any techniques that hands down prevent or even slow the nightmares, but you’ve been able to find some remedial measures that work pretty well.

kissing him helps get his mind off scary thoughts (but not joker related) but not just like single peck it’s got to be a whole session to really work. the one that works best is having a hand on one of your pulse points while you sleep, or directly over your heart. unfortunately this did lead to him to accidentally choking you after a particularly bad nightmare. he was absolutely horrified and removed his hands from you completely the second he gained recognition. he actually fully got out of bed and backed away from you. he wouldn’t even hear you out about him not sleeping on the couch and continued to not budge on it for over a week. 

him punishing himself like that made you feel extra bad because that had occurred during a round of the relentless nightmares and you were sure he was still waking up panicked constantly without you there to help soothe him. you actually know for a fact he was because every couple of hours the bedroom door would creak open slightly before shutting again like he was checking to make sure you were there and okay. you ended up having to literally lay on top of him on the couch and refuse to leave him for him to agree to sleep in bed with you again, although he was still not willing to fall asleep with his hands on you for a while. 

he always needs it to be quiet when he goes to sleep so he can stay on alert which usually leads to him waking up to the littlest sounds, which is technically the point. if there’s any kind of white noise he’ll force himself to stay awake. if he does get woken up he’ll go from 0 to 100 like that. he also needs the door to be shut, non negotiable, and really prefers the apartment to be colder > hotter. it also helps that you’ll cuddle into him for warmth.

all of these things are things he did before you met, but he’d also developed some new habits after you got together. he used to sleep in the middle of the bed but now he absolutely insists that you sleep on the wall side so he can act as a protective barrier between you and any incoming danger. unless its after a rough patrol, he tends to wait to sleep until after you’ve fallen asleep. he doesn’t really have a reason for this, it just makes him feel better.

his relationship with bruce is complicated, of course. in my canon, the extent of it is that bruce didn’t kill the joker, prevented jason from doing it, and has made many attempts to stop jason from killing at all. obviously it’s not the fact that batman won’t let anybody die that broke jason’s heart, it’s that his father couldn’t let go of his moral code for a second and avenge his murdered son. the resulting anger stems from so much sadness and grief over his own death and it caused him to isolate himself even further from bruce. on a conscious level, he wanted to be far away from him emotionally as possible to protect himself while still enacting his own kind of revenge towards bruce. and so yeah, he did try to kill batman a couple times, whatever.

on an unconscious level, he’d hoped that bruce would take the initiative to try to close the space between them and apologize, and while jason didn’t know it yet: that was all he really wanted from him. inwardly, he still cares what bruce thinks and wants his approval and affection but its so conflicting for him. it also doesn’t help that it took bruce such a long time to swallow his pride and even consider that he was wrong before he could apologize. a lot of negotiations had to take place before they could even begin to really reconcile. 

about a year later they’d come to a steady, solid agreement that mostly worked for both of them. jason was allowed to kill, but only within his territory in gotham and only under agreed upon circumstances. there’s also a separate rule that jason’s not allowed out on patrol when the joker is loose—it used to be a whole thing before you’d met and oftentimes several bats were assigned to keep him away. even with these guidelines in place, things were still rocky between them and jason had only just started to come back around the manor when he’d met you. honestly you and bruce meeting was a major step in this process and everyone could feel the shift.

his relationship with his brothers is different, but just as complicated. he kind of views dick as being perfect in spite of also acknowledging his flaws. in his head, its sort of like, in comparison to himself, dick had the perfect life with perfect versions of all the same pitfalls jason had to go through. he knows its not really fair to think of it this way, but it’s hard sometimes. all in all though, he does look up to dick a lot. 

with tim, he thinks he’s a crazy rich kid—which, fair—but also in a weird way holds a lot of respect for tim for not being afraid of him. realistically, the way jason showed back up and his relationship  with tim started is insane, so its even more insane that tim was like ‘yeah, chill’ and that probably jump started their bond as brothers more than anything. 

for as much shit as he gives him, he honestly feels really bad for damian and all the shit he was raised believing. he couldn’t quite explain why, but he does see a lot of himself in damian, even past the surface level anger. 

he’s not good at resolving fights, his mind tends to jump to the absolute worst and he assumes you’re done with him, you resent him, it’s all over. it was really bad at the beginning of your relationship when he hadn’t even begun to consider that you love him half as much as he loves you. now, you’ve been able to help him understand that you still love him, even when you fight, and fighting does not equal breaking up. however, he still has trouble taking initiative in making amends. not because he doesn’t want to but more so because he feels vulnerable in ways that terrify him, having to acknowledge and speak into existence that he’d done something wrong feels like setting himself up to be exposed with no defense. 

another part of him feels like he already hurt you and if he tries to remedy things with you, he could just make it worse. So for a while at least, you’ll have to be the one to start the conversation, though not necessarily meaning you have to apologize first. 

as we know, Jason’s not immune to bouts of fear and stress. there’s times when he panics and there’s times when he has full blown panic attacks. the panic attacks are rarer, but much more severe. he’s known to lash out (especially when he’s not at your apartment) and has definitely broken a nose or two of people who got too close/tried to touch him. you’re not sure if it’s an intentional action or not, but he tends to claw at his skin or hit himself in the head when he’s very upset. after going through a couple of these with him, you’ve compiled a thorough list of DOs and DONTs for these times. DONT hold his wrists, move suddenly, touch him without warning, or corner him. DO keep your touches light, words soft, rooms vacant of other people, and loud noises. slowly but surely they’re getting less severe and overcome quicker.

[letthesunshinein]

I’ve been musing on adam’s sexuality and I know some folks feel like he’s been bi the whole time but having just done a deep pynch-focused dive through the books, I actually think adam hadn’t realized that he was into ronan Like That until they kissed. like he obviously knew ronan was into him (and actually, knew ronan was gay since like, the beginning of trb probably), but he had sort of convinced himself that the reason he enjoyed it was vanity/attention. and right before and after the kiss we get the line “adam didn’t understand anything” which feels to me like he hadn’t even comprehended this was a thing he wanted until he was doing it.

and that’s actually a very common queer experience, especially for folks who are interested in multiple genders, especially when they’re young.

so adam, despite wanting to know everything and being the perceptive one, has these increasingly big moments of “I feel like I’m missing some data here” but the data he needed was the actual experience of kissing ronan/making the conscious decision to kiss ronan again and THEN he has his eureka moment. And he can look back at the moments where he found his Latin teacher hot, or when he put a picture of an attractive man in his glove box and realize he was bi the whole time.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

You'll Be Home For Christmas

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Summary: You agree to do a favour for your coworker but it might be more than you can handle.

Character: Clark Kent

Day Nineeen of the December Daze Challenge.

Prompt - fake dating becomes too real.

Note: As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

"I know it sounds weird, but, my mom's getting up there..." Clark looks away as he pokes his tongue into his cheek. 

You're not sure how he does it. How someone like him can make himself look pathetic. He's a big man. Mountainous really. He dwarfs just about everybody in the office. Even the desks look tiny next to him. And the chisel of his face is so sharp yet in that moment, he looks heart-wrenchingly soft. 

"It's just you two this year?" You ask. 

"Um, yeah," he rubs the back of his neck then drags his hand around and down his chest. He shifts in his chair and clears his throat. "Look, I know I can be nosy but I overheard you and Maggie. You said you don't have any plans this year--" He cringes and leans forward, putting his elbows to the desk as he covers his face then peeks out between his fingers. "It's a dumb idea." 

"It seems like you're pretty stressed," you fold your hands behind you. You don't want to agree with his last statement and make him feel worse. 

"Yeah, after Lois..." he shakes his head, "my mom's convinced I'm going to be alone forever and she keeps telling me how old she's getting. Says she wants to live long enough to see me happy." 

"Wow, sounds worse than my mom," you kid but quickly deflate. "Sorry, I'm not trying to make light." 

"No, it's ridiculous," he heaves and drops his eyes. "I've asked two of my neighbours, I asked my mail lady, and oh, yeah, the girl who made my coffee today. I'm all out of shame." 

"Can I think about it?" You ask. You know you're going to say no, but you don't want to do it right away. 

He perks up and his blue eyes flick to meet yours. His brows rise hopefully and he rolls forward in his chair, "really?" 

"I didn't say yes." 

"But you're the first person not to say no," he smiles. 

Oof, there it is. You've always had a hard time in situations like these. You're a people pleaser in the worst way. 

"Anyway, I should get back to work," you say. 

"When-- when will you know?" He asks. 

You hesitate. 

"End of today?" He suggests. 

You nod. Alright. You just need to get out of there before you cave to that puppy dog sparkle in his eyes. A man who looks like that shouldn't be able to make himself so pitiful. 

✨

You don’t know why you said yes. You really were going to say no but when Clark came back to check in, you weren’t prepared. So absorbed in your work, that you forgot about the odd request. 

So here you are, right beside him, wound as tight as a spring as you try not to show it. It’s not how you imagined spending Christmas. When your typical traditional obligation felt through, you were almost relieved. Now that dread has returned but in a new flavour. Meeting someone else’s family is somehow more intimidating than your mother’s judgement. 

Clark’s own anxiety pales in his knuckles as he drives silently. Only the radio provides some softness in the tension between you. It’s always strange to spend time with coworkers outside the office and now you’re jumping headfirst into their most personal facet. 

You fidget in your seat and let your eyes blur out the window. You didn’t expect his mom to live this far, yet you should have. He’d mentioned before he grew up on a farm. It must have been nice in a way, peaceful, out where you can’t hear the city honking and hollering. 

The snow thickens as you get further into the country. His large truck doesn’t falter as he steers cautiously through snowed over tire tracks. Would the plow even get this far out here? If it did, you don’t imagine it would come very often. 

Your mind latches onto those random things to avoid the obvious. You’ve always been this way. Instead of worrying about your mother lecturing you about your stagnant work situation, you’re usually more concerned with how your hair lays or if she’s going to the like that bottle of wine you spent too much money on for her. 

“Thanks again,” Clark’s baritone rolls over you like thunder. “Really. I know it’s... strange. I’m just not ready to date again but... my mom...” 

“Trust me. I get it. My mom can be... a lot,” you chuckle, though it’s really not that funny. 

“Oh yeah? I didn’t want to be nosy, but...” 

“Right, uh, you know, my brother asked if we could have dinner on Christmas Eve instead and the rest of us agreed. She insisted that Christmas Eve isn’t Christmas...” Your heart picks up with the anxiety you bury deep down. “Well, she cancelled Christmas since no one agreed with her.” 

“Wow, really?” 

“Uh, yep,” you can’t look at him. It’s embarrassing. It’s like when your mother dumped your birthday cake in the garbage because you pointed out you were 13 not 12 that year. Or when she walked out of your graduation because your grandmother wouldn’t switch seats. “It’s whatever. Family, right?” 

“I guess,” he says. “My parents always loved holidays too. Especially when dad was around.” 

“I’m sorry about your dad,” you murmur. 

“Don’t be. Sorry if it seems like I keep bringing that up,” he sniffs. 

You look ahead to the sole structure as it looms closer and closer. A farmhouse that comes clearer through the drift of flakes, and a barn like a shadow near its rear corner. It’s like one of those classic festive paintings printed on an advent calendar or some 1950s domestic dream. 

He pulls up to the house and shifts in his seat. Concern needles in his cheek as he squints over the steering wheel. He wrenches the shifter into park and kills the engine. You sit futilely and let him take the lead. 

“Lights are off,” he mutters. 

You nod, unsure what to say. Is something wrong? 

He gets out and you watch the snow dust into his dark hair and across his broad shoulders. He is unfettered by the deep snow. You zip up your coat and turn to your door. You push it open and look out into the perilous carpet. 

Clark surprises you as he comes around. “Here,” he puts his arms out, “it’s deep.” 

You grab his hand and his other goes to your waist. He as good as lifts you and sets you down in the path he’s stomped through the piles. You thank him and awkwardly detach. He shuts the door and moves around you closely. 

He leads the way to the porch so you can walk through his footsteps. Your lashes catch the snow as you look up at the grey sky. You don’t think you’ll make it home that night. Shoot. 

Clark kicks off his boots as he digs in the pocket of his coat and pulls out some keys. He unlocks the door and gestures you in ahead of him. You try to clear off your treads before you enter. He reaches around the frame to flip on the light. 

He crowds you as he enters. You try not to step off the mat and make a mess of the floor. You slip free of your Adidas, not the best choice for the weather, and shuffle aside. He hangs his jackets and combs his fingers through his hair to clear the flakes out. The dark strands glisten with the moisture. 

“Give me your coat,” he reaches for you. 

“Oh, yeah,” you unzip your jacket and hand it over. It isn’t exactly climate appropriate either. You’ve been meaning to invest in winter gear. A lot of times your intentions are only ever that. “Thanks.” 

“Quiet...” he mulls as his eyes skim the ceiling and he hooks your jacket on the rack. 

“Yeah, a little.” 

“Ma’s probably laying down,” he utters with a hint of concern. “I’m gonna go check and see what’s going on.” 

“Oh, I hope she’s okay.” 

“No worries. She stays up all night reading,” he shakes his head. “Feel free to make yourself at home.” 

“Right, er, okay.” 

You back up as he passes you. He heads upstairs and you slowly pivot to take in the interior. The pale wood is marked with knots which give it an even more rustic atmosphere and the decor is simple but in a quaintly traditional way. The details etched into the slender drawer of a side table or the dainty trim of the area rug give a lived-in effect. 

You tiptoe into the front room and hug yourself as you feel a draught whisper in around the window. You find the light switch and flip it on to cast more light across the neatly arranged furniture. There's an old-fashioned iron firestove in the middle of the room, the flue built up to the ceiling.  

You can hear Clark moving around above. The rest of the house is silent. You look at the old grandfather clock standing against the wall. It’s just after eleven in the morning. 

You turn as the stairs creak. Clark appears in the doorway with a sober expression. “Mom’s just waking up. It might be a while. She... she’s having a tough day.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Is she sick?” 

“She is and she isn’t. Just getting older, you know? Ever since she broke her hip last year, she’s been a bit slower,” he explains. 

“Oh, gosh, Clark,” you say. “Is there anything I can do to help? You said she was planning on dinner but I can get all that started for her.” 

“Sure, she usually thaws the turkey in the sink overnight,” he says. “We should probably start there.” 

“Right,” you chew your lip. 

“It’s nice of you to offer but if it’s too much--” 

“No, no! It’s cool. I’ve just never stuffed a turkey on my own,” you say. “I was always just an observer.” 

Your mother never believed anything was done right unless she did it herself. Then she’d complain about having to do it. 

“I can help,” he offers. 

“Sure, sounds like a plan. I think she might appreciate the help, huh?” 

He smiles but doesn’t answer right away. For a moment, he only stares. He clears his throat and nods at last, “she would—will.” 

“Show me where it all is,” you show your palms, not wanting to presume too much. 

He beckons you after him as he leads you through the doorway perpendicular to the one you came through. He turns on another light. This place feels desolate with them off. 

“So uh...” he begins as he goes to the counter and peeks in the sink, “yep, turkey’s in here.” 

“Great, hopefully it’s dethawed,” you say. “Alright, do you mind if I poke around?” 

“It’s all yours. I’ll try to help but gotta be honest, as a kid, I was out in the field,” he stands back to watch you. 

“Right,” you come forward to look the turkey over. Good thing is it won’t need extra time due to being half-frozen. 

“Hum... do you know if your mother does stuffing from scratch or a box?” You turn back to him. 

“Scratch, probably,” he shrugs. 

“Cool, uh, I need bread,” you declare. It’s almost nice being in charge. A very new but refreshing feeling. 

✨

The smell of turkey wafts from the stove as you work at the other fixings. You follow the list on the fridge. The paper is a bit yellowed but you can read it nonetheless. At least Clark’s mother is a planner. Although a few of her ingredients are a bit... aged. Nothing you can’t use but the spices have a little extra dust on the caps. 

Clark appears again. He’s been pacing in and out, helping where he can, but he seems too restless to focus. You tap pause on your phone to stop the music. You don’t get any signal out here but you have a bunch downloaded. It helps ease the silence that thickens with the fall of snow. 

“So, how’s mom? She doing okay?” You ask. 

“Mom?” He hesitates, “yeah, she’s getting there. Sorry about this. I know the whole reason you did this was to make her happy. For me. I just didn’t expect--” He blows out a heavy breath and leans on the counter. “It’s hard when you get older and everyone you love starts to leave. Or change.” 

Your heart flickers. You try not to frown too deep, “I’m sorry, Clark.” You look back down at the bowl of soaking cranberries. You take your family for granted. The might be a little toxic but they’re there. 

“Not your fault. I just... I thought I had it figured out with Lois. Everyone was happy and my mom was ecstatic,” he clutches his hands together. You meet his eyes sheepishly. “I just wanted her to be that way again. And you’re so sweet and nice.” 

“Aw, Clark. Well, you know, I should thank you. At least I’m not alone on Christmas,” you try to pep yourself up. “Um, I gotta wait for these cranberries a little long. Could I use the bathroom?” 

“Right, er, it’s just down the hall,” he points towards the second doorway that interconnects with the same hallway that leads back to the stairs. 

“Thanks,” you wipe your hands on a dishcloth and leave him with a thin smile. 

As you flit out, your chest sinks. You think of everything you’ve said since you got there, how insensitive it must have seemed. And back in the car when you complained about your mom. Ugh, he must think you’re so ungrateful. 

You close yourself in the bathroom and tend to your business. You’d been holding it since he picked you up from your building. You wash your hands, pumping the soap bottle hard to dislodge a clog in the tube. You finally finish up but find the smell of mildew stuck to your hands from the towel. 

You come out of the bathroom and look up and down the hallway. You shift to see the framed picture a bit better. Those must be his parents, and little Clark. You can’t believe he was ever that small. 

There are other pictures across the table below. A cluster of frames; class photos, impromptu snaps of memories, and posed family shots. Beneath one, there’s a slip of paper. You try not to be intrusive but the fading font catches your eye. You lean in as you tilt the frame to see the full letter, the card bent and forgotten beneath. 

‘Our condolences. We were so sorry to hear of your mother’s passing. Please do let us anything we can do for you.’ The message is signed Mallory and Chuck. You blink in confusion. Maybe it’s an old card meant for his mother; for a grandparent. 

“She died last year,” Clark startles you so you whip up and nearly tip as you stand straight. “It’s my first Christmas without her,” he continues. “I’m sorry I lied but I didn’t want to be alone.” 

You shake your head. Confusion swells through your stomach and clouds your brain. The fog clears and your eyes wander up to the ceiling. 

“Your mom?” 

“I miss her,” his voice cracks. “She took care of me.” 

“Oh, well, yeah,” you quaver unevenly. You’re reeling. Why would he lie about that? And to get you here? You’re just coworkers. “That must be hard.” 

“Mhm,” he nods and pouts. As he comes closer, you tense, wavering with his steps. “You’re not mad at me?” 

Your lips part then close. The wind whistles outside and reminds you of how isolated this place is. Clark drove you here... 

“I’m just... wondering why you need to lie,” you eke out. 

“I know it’s wrong but... if I told the truth, you might say no.” 

You nod and as he reaches for you, you wince away. You hug yourself and push your shoulders up. You swallow, “Clark, what is the truth? Why am I here?” 

He tilts his head and his eyes drift to the side. The light fades in his pupils and his jaw clenches. His fingers twiddle by his leg. 

“To be with me,” he looks at you again and smiles. A smile shadowed sinisterly beneath the worn bulb above. “You’re alone too.” 

You stare at him. Terror floods your veins and paralyses you. You want to turn and run but you won’t get far. All you can do is bide your time and hope that you can find a chance and way to get out. But for now, with him so close, so much bigger, you have to pretend. That is exactly what he asked you to do, after all. 

[fear-is-truth]

dare i say ur the best squid game writer?? the namgyu hcs was def the most accurate depiction of his character ive seen ! showed his insecurities so well. chefs kiss. speakinggg of if ur taking requests from him. what abt reader finally breaking up w him? like tired of all the toxicity. how would he react?

BREAKING UP WITH NAM-GYU / PLAYER 124

a/n. omg tysm for the kind words !! i loved the idea for your request, and i hope i did it justice ! thank you again for trusting me with it ♡

at first, nam-gyu’s reaction would be pure deflection. he’d scoff, roll his eyes, and act like he doesn’t care. “fine, go,” he’d say, his tone dripping with venom. “you think i can’t live without you? watch me.” his pride wouldn’t let him admit how much it hurts, so he’d lash out, throwing barbed words your way in an attempt to make you second-guess yourself. it’s a classic manipulation tactic—turning the blame onto you, acting like you’re the one overreacting or being unreasonable.

but as soon as you walk away, he’d start spiralling—anger would segue into panic. he’d start analysing on all the moments he pushed you too far. there would be some level of guilt, but instead of owning up to it, he’d try to convince himself it wasn’t his fault—or worse, blame you for “giving up on him.”

when hours or days pass without a word from you, he’d start calling or texting, alternating between anger (“don’t you dare ignore me”) and desperation (“just tell me what you want me to do”)

when he realises you’re serious and not coming back, he’d oscillate between two extremes. on one hand, he’d try to manipulate you into staying by pulling every card he can think of: guilt-tripping, love-bombing, even reminding you of the good times to make you question your decision. he’d say something like, “you’re just gonna throw all of this away? after everything i’ve done for you?” or, “no one else will care about you the way i do.” not because he doesn’t care (he does care. a lot) it’s because he doesn’t know how else to express his desperation.

on the other hand, he’d also act like he doesn’t give a fuck to protect his ego. he’d put on a front, telling you to go and that he’s fine without you. he’d go to work, or use loads of drugs, just to prove (to himself more than anyone else) that he doesn’t need you. but deep down, he’d feel hollow. every time he numbs himself, it’d just make him think of you more.

if he’s really desperate, and you’ve been ignoring his attempts to get your attention, this might be the moment where he shows an almost childlike side of himself. he’d show up at your door, completely disheveled, and beg you to stay. he’d get on his knees if he thought it’d work, his pride be damned.

after the breakup, if you don’t take him back, he’d probably spiral even worse. he’d rely heavily on unhealthy coping mechanisms—drugs, drinking, or surrounding himself with people who don’t actually care about him. but no matter how hard he tries to distract himself, his mind would always drift back to you. he’d fixate on what he did wrong, though he wouldn’t know how to fix it.

if you did give him a second chance after all this, he’d try to be better, but it’d be a slow, messy process. nam-gyu doesn’t know how to handle his emotions or build a healthy relationship, so even his attempts at improving would be kinda flawed. but the fear of losing you again would drive him to at least try—though whether or not he can actually change is another story.

[yavvana]

I can't get over how fucking awful Mythal actually was.

Don't read below this if you haven't finished Veilguard, lmao.

The fact that Solas wore her vallaslin, and somehow still saw her as a friend, and trusted and loved her enough to do everything she asked of him makes me so angry/sad. Friends don't make their friends wear slave markings on their faces. Him being called her lapdog by Elgar'nan makes so much more sense.

And then Solas goes and accepts the blame for decisions that she made, and then manipulated him into agreeing to, and she fucking accepts no fault! If you confront her about the Blight when you meet her in the Crossroads, she basically just says, "not my problem."

And he blames himself for her death because he couldn't convince her to walk away from the Evanuris! But really, sorry Mythal, that's her own fucking fault?! She saw herself as above Solas, so she refused to heed his warnings, and then Elgar'nan killed her because Elgar'nan's a bitch.

And then if you pick the good ending, and Solas sees her again, you cannot tell me that his reaction to her is not one of someone who has been abused being confronted by their abuser. The way he curls around the dagger...Mythal, when I get my hands on you, Mythal...And then she says, "I release you from my service." Bitch. I wanted my Lavellan to punch her ghost with her prosthetic hand so fucking bad, lmao.

Solas was a spirit of wisdom! And she corrupted him from his purpose. If he had stayed a spirit, he would have become a pride demon because of her manipulations.

Cole has a couple of lines in DAI that I can't stop fucking thinking about.

"He didn't want a body, but she asked him to come. He left a scar when he burned her off his face."

And, "He wants to give wisdom, not orders."

Solas gets to be himself in Inquisition. He gets to return to giving wisdom. Regardless of whether or not you're romancing him, if you're not a dick to him, he offers these beautiful stories about the Fade, and GDL does a fucking incredible job of making each of them sound poetic as fuck. And he's so kind to all the companions. Even Vivienne who has so much contempt for him, and he tries to offer her advice when he notices things about her magic that he finds...unsettling, lmao. Like their interaction about her staff's aura and him being like, "Are you sure that's the aura you want your staff to have, I can cleanse it for you?" And she's just like, "Yup." And he just lets it go.

When he leaves the Inquisition, Solas forces himself to be what Mythal made him. Which makes the line, "You are Mythal's creature now!" so distressingly ironic.

People talk about how he hates the Dalish elves, and Qunari, but that's just factually inaccurate. He's frustrated by the Dalish because he spent how many years fighting to free the elves from the influence of the Evanuris, only to wake from uthenera to find that he is the villain in all their tales, and the Evanuris are regarded as gods. And when he tried to tell a clan the truth, they tried to kill him! And he doesn't hate the Qunari, he hates the Qun. He hates that under the Qun, people do not get to make their own decisions.

Iron Bull's biggest fear is becoming a rabid Tal'Vashoth, and he expresses as much to Solas. And if you play as a Qunari, Solas points out in party banter that Inky isn't rabid.

If you have Iron Bull side with the Chargers, Solas checks in on Bull several times in party banter, assuring Bull he won't become like the Tal'Vashoth that he fought in Seheron. Because Bull has the Inquisition, and his friends, and Solas. And then they play mental chess, and if that's not friendship, idk what is.

And his interactions with Sera, who doesn't think she's elfy enough, so she makes fun of elfy things as a defence mechanism, are fucking hilarious. The way he gets her to talk about the Fade by asking her about the Breach, and what she sees when she looks at it, and you kinda see that Sera is a lot more elfy than she realizes. And then when she realizes it and gets mad, he basically tells her it's payback for her filling his bedroll with lizards. And she just fucking giggles and is like, "yeah, fair." (These two are my absolute favorite characters in DAI and I would die for either of them, lmao) But he kinda makes her connect with her heritage even though she doesn't want to, and I think that's good for her.

Solas also gets angry with Blackwall, not for lying about actually being Thom Rainier, but because Blackwall led his men into fights, and to their deaths in many instances, for nothing more than his greed. And then he APOLOGIZES for that interaction. And Blackwall tells him it's fine, that Solas was right, and he deserved it. And then Solas commends him for taking the first step towards redemption by owning his past and his mistakes.

And then there's him and Varric constantly joking about having to clean up messes made by humans, and "Why are an elven apostate and a dwarf here, again?" Their interactions are some of my favorites, and it's why I firmly believe that if there had been one more wolf statuette to find, it would have been his regret over Varric's death.

Solas deserved better than having Mythal as a "friend." She manipulated and corrupted him. And then let him take the fall for things that she did. She regrets NOTHING about what they did to the Titans. Meanwhile, it's one of his biggest regrets.

Anyway, I love the Egg, and I hate Mythal. That is all. I hope Solas and my Lavellan Inky get to have plenty of Fade-ordered therapy. They both fucking need it.

[landograndprix]

╰┈➤ ❝ desire us • l.n ❞ ii

part one - part three

➪ life changed after you decided to go through it as a single woman, offering your daughter the best life she deserves, focusing on work, friends and family but damn, that guy.

➪ your friends are up to no good while you make another life changing decision.

➪ mom!reader x dad!Charles (platonic) x lando

➪ you really thought i was gonna keep my babies apart? Y/n's 2nd child = millie & are text messages between millie and Manon ;)

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y/nusername

📍 Paris, France

liked by charles_leclerc, landonorris and 476,321 others

y/nusername 🏡

view all 1,312 comments

chilisainz ah you're telling me this is not a happy little family? 👀

↳ yukisan just a couple of besties spending every single free minute together 🥰

chilisainz like all besties do 🥰

julieeeexo this is a last warning for zoë..stop growing

hamilt44n girl I wanna live in Paris, are you looking for a roommate?

landitonorris so you're telling me our girl flew to the UK to 'hang out' with lando and they flew back to Paris together to 'hang out' with each other at y/n her place?

↳ sharl16 they'll probably fly to Japan together as well 😅

landitonorris but they're just friends though 😉

sharl16 oh yeah for sure!!!!!!!!!

milliexoxo ...but when I ask for a sleepover you say no :(

milliexoxo ...just say you don't like me and logan

↳ norry4 love makes blind bestie, you're on your own 😔

y/nusername so dramatic and for what? :')

landonorris princess bed sleept amazing

bott_ass you're not fooling anyone my guy, you're sleeping in the same bed 😂

norrizz actually living my dream life

charles_leclerc my pretty princess ❤️

↳ landonorris thank you, you're a pretty princess too ❤️

landoscar I love this dad and (ex?)stepdad dynamic <3

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y/nusername posted to their story

manon_roux replied to your story

manon_roux

cutest little girl in the world ♡

I'm talking about zoë

kidding you cute too

Also, you can't convince me lando's able to keep his hands to himself at night when you're looking like that next to him in bed

or does he really sleep in zoë's tiny ass princess bed?

I know you're ignoring me

what secrets are you hiding from me girl?

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y/nusername

liked by milliexoxo, landonorris and 541,387 others

y/nusername 🇯🇵

tagged: milliexoxo

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sharl16 babe is okay, you can tag lando <3

yukisan we better get a 3 hours long vlog to make up for all the months you haven't posted 😭

norry4 don't be shy lando, drop those pictures you've taken of y/n

↳ norrizz and zoë

norry4 I just know he's got a ton of pictures of them 😭

hamilt44n damn Logan so lucky

lando4norris once again asking to be a third in whatever relationship y/n and lando have going on

norrislandooo I've gone nearly 6 months without a vlog, this better be worth it ma'am 😭

logiebear can logan fight?

↳ y/nusername logan's a lover, not a fighter

milliexoxo this man fights me 24/7, don't know where you got that information

logansargeant that's one way to exaggerate

milliexoxo get back in your cage captain america

logiebear millie I love u 😭❤️

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Lando taglist: @simp-for-fictional-people @landossainz @christianpulisic10 @bored-brunette2 @i83andrew @mcmuppet @justdreamersdream

Everything taglist; @thomaslefteyebrow @hopefulinlove @smoothopz @honethatty12 @cixrosie @ireadthensuetheauthors @be-your-coffee-pot @heli991113 @kodzuvk @reality-is-a-con @80sloverry @bibissparkles @myescapefromthislife @lanando4 @elliegrey2803 @ravisinghs-wife @harrysdimple05 @minkyungseoki @pretty-little-bunny382728 @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @severewobblerlightdragon @cherry-piee @namgification @mycenterfold @celestialend @jsjcue @d3kstar @themislovesf1 @mehrmonga @destinyg237

Desire taglist; @sainzluvrr @writingworlds @chezmardybum @lewisvinga @xjval @fanficweasley @rockyhayzkid @thecubanator2 @minchedchilli @crimeshowjunkie @alisoncasey21 @eeviepepi08 @shamelesspotatos @sleepybrokenmelle @leireggsworld @janeholt3 @iamahalicinationn @dessxoxsworld @kapsylia @22yuki @dark-night-sky-99 @sheslikeacurse @nerdreader