#which she goes along with out of love? obligation? but not out of her own desires

[nessvn]

I CANNOT STOP THINKING ABT RAYMONDE

[mywritersmind]

Lando picking up drunk y/n from the club <3

CAREFUL -LN4

listen up : thanks for the request!! drunk!reader. that look of love. lando just being amazed at her.

word count : 915

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I got the call twenty minutes ago. I left my house nineteen minutes ago. I got here ten minutes ago and still can’t fucking find her.

Y/n called me, not unusual but odd for the time of night. When I answered all I could hear was her slurred words and music. She said something about me coming to the party and I came straight down.

I sigh in relief when I see the girl, her hair is a mess and she’s jumping up and down with her friends and some random guys on the dance floor. I push my way through the crowd and when I finally reach her, she grins wildly.

“Lan!” Her arms wrap around me and I hold her waist to stop her from falling. She’s wobbling on her heels when she faces me again, “You came! Drink time!” she goes to drink her own but is met with an empty cup.

“Hey… you wanna head home?” She frowns, her bottom lip gutting out.

“I wanna head to your-” she hiccups, “Home!”

When her hand meets my chest I suck in a breath. I look to her friends and they thank me, knowing I'm going to get her back safely.

We make it out with people yelling my name or guys hitting on Y/n. I’ve never been more relieved than when we get into my car.

She slumps across the middle console, looking up at me. Her eyes are the kind you could get lost in, and with her lip between her teeth and the sort of hazy gaze she’s giving me, I could really get lost.

I move my eyes away from her, reaching over and buckling Y/n in. She giggles when I push her over a bit so I can secure it.

“Lando!” Her window goes down, “Let’s make out!” I glance over to her, a small smirk on my face.

“Is that a yes?” She rests her head in her hands.

“That’s a no, but nice try.” she frowns again. I would happily oblige if the circumstances were different. The circumstances being if she were sober and actually felt like that for me out of her drunken mind.

“But we’re good!” She whines, putting her feet out the window now, “Soo good!” She leans her head back onto my arm like she’s remembering.

Maybe we had a bit of a makeout at a party some time ago. We were sober but drunk off my win and in the mood for something fun.

She pulls her feet back into the car, shivering a bit, “Tell me that when we’re sober, love.”

“Love…” She mimics my accent, “stop tricking me.”

“Tricking you?”

“Yes! You say ‘Love’“ she mocks me again, “and all I hear is ‘climb on top of me and suck my neck.” I let out a genuine laugh.

“Didn’t know I had that effect on you.” She sticks her tongue out, hearing my tone.

She unbuckles her seatbelt, her dress riding up and making me glue my eyes to the road. She turns her body, snaking her legs onto my lap and tilting her head out the window.

I eye her and am met with this look on her face.

Like she’s been waiting for me to look at her.

The wind is blowing her hair in all different directions, her lipstick is smudged, and she’s fucking glowing.

Her skin gleams under the moonlight, stretching her arms out of the window and leaning into the air more.

“Fuck.” I mumble under my breath, grabbing her thigh instinctively. My cool hand on her hot skin makes her squirm.

“Turn it up!” She yells at me and I do as I'm told. Head Over Heels by Tears for Fears comes through the speakers.

I can hear her wind blown laugh, her arms moving with the wind and then she starts singing… if you could even call it that. She’s screaming the words as I zip down the empty street.

“Something happens and I’m head over heels!” I join along, enjoying the view of her pure happiness.

She air drums which makes me laugh. I try to tell her to be careful but she can’t hear me, my hand tightens on her leg.

“Ahhh!” she screams out of joy, that same grin from earlier planted onto her face. Her eyes are closed, There’s glitter smudged around her eyes. It hits me in an instant how much I feel for her.

It’s ridiculous. How could one person be so beautiful? I reach over and pull her cheetah print dress down, she giggles. When she finally is back in the car, her hair is an absolute mess but the expression on her face is irresistible.

She looks at me once more, her legs still on me and her head against the closed window, “You’re really pretty.” It catches me off guard.

“Pretty?” I scoff a bit and she looks upset that I didn’t take the compliment so I look at her, my gaze softening, “Thank you, love.”

“Not going to say I'm pretty too?” She crosses her arms.

I laugh a bit, wiping my hand over my mouth, “You’re gorgeous, Y/n.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see her frown wipe away instantly. It’s like she sobered up in seconds.

She looks to the road for once, trying to cover her face but I could never miss the blush that joins her freckles.

[florencesf1blog]

Hi :) Can you write an imagine - enemies to lovers with Oscar. They both have been in love with one another but for whatever reason pretend to hate each other. They’re at the same party and some weird guy doesn’t want to leave reader alone so she goes for help to the first person she recognises at the party: Oscar. She goes to him and kisses him and he’s a little surprised at first but he returns the kiss and even grabs her waits (and maybe her butt) and deepens the kiss . And she’s like begging him to play along because that weird guy doesn’t want to leave her alone. And when he hears this he gets into a protective mode and then doesn’t let her alone/ out of his sight for the rest of the party. And the ending can be whatever you want - maybe they confess their feelings or not

please, please, please.

Oscar Piastri x Reader

In which you attend a party, and an unlikely someone saves the day.

Words: 964 Warnings: language, alcohol, inappropriate touching?

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Being close friends with Lando Norris was a struggle. Although, right now it wasn't about his own childish antics. No, this was about his teammate.

Oscar Jack Piastri.

It seemed that everything about him ticked you off. The way he always spoke in such a calm manner, the way he walked around the paddock, his stupid and yet adorable smile, his distracting biceps...

What you probably hated the most about him was how you couldn't seem to hate him at all. You had done a great job at hiding your feelings from him, especially since you two could only argue once you were in the same room. In reality, both you and Oscar are just terribly oblivious and everyone but you two could see it.

"What are you laughing at?" you almost sneer towards your friend, Lando, who couldnt hide the wide grin that was plastered on his face. "Nothing...nothing..." he trails off but he continues to snicker. You nudge his arm callously, a stern look on your face. "Oh come on...you can't expect me to believe that act you put on" he grins. You let out a scoff, brows furrowing. "What act?" you ask him, annoyed that he seemed to be catching on. "You can lie to yourself all you want, but you do not hate Oscar"

-

It was extremely hot in the club, feeling as if you could melt to the floor any moment. It was crowded, loud and flashy. Usually you'd avoid places like these, but with Lando getting his first win here in Miami you felt obligated to come.

You head over to the bar to get yourself a new drink, when you're suddenly reminded of what you hate most about these places. A man, a strange man you had never seen or spoken to before suddenly places a hand on your waist to pull you closer. Before you can even react, he leans down to whisper in your ear, completely invading your personal space as he speaks. "Let me buy you a drink, bonita. You look like you're in need of some company"

Immediately, you push him off of you. In a gentle manner that is, not wanting to cause any trouble. But even as you shake your head no and politely insist that you can pay for your own drink, he wouldn't go. He kept trying to get close to you, putting his hands on you and insisting he'd keep you company.

A sense of panic washed over you, especially once you realized this man was intoxicated. You looked around, continuing to brush the man off while trying to stay polite with your ways and words. Somewhere in the crowd, you spot a familiar face already staring back at you.

Oscar fucking Piastri. Of course. Usually, this would only make matters worse. The guy you hated (or at least pretended to) being the only familiar person around in a situation like this. He stared back at you. not looking away as he noticed the somewhat panicked look on your face. For someone who is supposed to hate you, he felt awfully worried.

"Excuse me..." you mutter, grabbing your drink as you hastily make your way through the crowd. Being left behind confused, the man takes a moment to realize you were walking away from him before he follows after you. He was determined, you'd give him that.

Once you reached Oscar, het put on his usual annoyed face. With an eye roll, he begins to ask: "What are you doi-" before being bluntly cut off with your lips crashing on his. You stood on your tiptoes, leaning forward to reach him with your hands on his neck to stabilize yourself.

It took Oscar a while to react, both his hands on your arms as if he was making sure you wouldn't fall over. He pulls you back for just a moment, but keeps holding on to your arms. "What is going on?" he asks, look behind you to see the same man that had been bothering you before.

"Please, please, please, just play along..." you begin to softly plead. "...this guy won't leave me alone and-" before you could finish your sentence, he leans down to press his lips back on yours. His hand moves down to grip your waist, moving you to stand chest to chest as his other hand moves down to your rear.

The man was left in shock, not wanting to disturb the scene in front of him. He leaves, and once you realize he's gone you pull away. Oscar looks down at you with an unreadable expression, almost disappointed now that you've pulled away from him. You let out a small sigh, feeling your cheeks redden from both the drinks you've had and the situation you put yourself in.

"Thank you" you give him a soft smile, and he gives you a reassuring nod in return. "Maybe it's best if you stay here with me tonight, you know? To make sure no one else bothers you"

The suggestion (though it sounded as if he wasn't going to let you out of his sight either way) makes butterflies swirl around in your stomach. The thought of Oscar being protective over you like this, making sure no one else would bother you, definitely did something to you.

And so for the remaining of the evening, Oscar was plastered by your side. At some point Lando even spotted you two standing awfully close together, his eyes narrowing with a knowing smirk.

You wouldn't tell Oscar how you really felt at the end of the evening, and he wouldn't mention how glad he was you came to him for saving. But after tonight, you could no longer pretend to hate the man you felt so deeply for.

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A/N: my very first work on this account. rewrote this a couple of times and im still not sure if its good or not. it ended up being a little shorter than i imagined, but i didnt want to go too deep into a story i wasnt going to continue. definitely enjoyed bringing this request to life, and i hope its what the anon wanted. let me know what you guys think! :)

[cozy-cinnamon-roll]

A Princess' Guide to Interrogating a Radio Demon (Part II)

(read Part I here!)

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Pairing: Ler!Charlie, Ler!Vaggie, Lee!Alastor (strictly platonic)

Content/Trigger Warnings: tickling, interrogation (in the most playful sense). If there are any trigger warnings you'd like me to add in the future (and/or to this fic), PLEASE let me know! I am always happy to oblige.

This is a ticklefic! If that's not your cup of tea, kindly move along.

First: MAJOR thank you for all the sweet notes and feedback on Part 1 of this fic! I was not expecting such an enthusiastic response, and it really made my week! So grateful to be part of this lovely community 💕

As promised, here is part 2... This one gets a little more intense than the last, but it's still all for fun (and Al can handle it 🤭) So excited to share it with you all!

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Vaggie is never quite sure what she's going to find when she hears a commotion elsewhere in the hotel - especially when it's coming from the direction of Alastor's room.

But nothing could have prepared her for the sight of her girlfriend pinning the most powerful overlord in Hell to the floor, tickling him to hysterics.

"Uhhhh..... Sweetie?"

"He won't tell me where he hid it!"

Vaggie just takes it in for a second. "So you're tickling him?"

"How else am I supposed to get it outta him?!"

"That's an... unconventional method, babe."

Charlie pauses her assault to shoot her girlfriend a deadpan look over her victim (who merely remains sprawled out on the floor beneath her, using his reprieve to take in as much precious oxygen as possible).

"You think I'm stupid enough to threaten real harm on The Radio Demon?"

That remark draws a maniacal little chuckle from the crumpled heap.

"Doesn't sound very effective," Vaggie observes.

But Charlie is too busy growling taunts at her victim again, tazing him in the sides. "Sorry, did I say something funny, giggles? Huh?! Did I?"

Vaggie can't help but smile herself at how hard it is for her girlfriend to keep a straight face during her "interrogation." She pokes and prods and scribbles all over the poor man, until his distinctive cackle echoes from the ceiling. And then she sits back on her heels, practically beaming with delight as he continues to shake with residual giggles.

At one point Charlie flashes her girlfriend a goofy grin. "I really think I'm wearing him down."

"Oh yeah. Absolutely, babe." Vaggie leans back against the doorframe with a smirk. "He really looks like he hates this, doesn't he."

As Charlie goes after his ribs again, Vaggie tilts her head. "He's lost his weird radio buzz."

"Oh!" Charlie abruptly clasps her hands to her chest, eyes wide with sudden worry. "Are you okay, Al?"

"Heh - yes, yes, of course..." While he is indeed too drunk on laughter maintain his usual tinny radio filter, the tiniest hint of a wheeze still edges his voice - which surprises Alastor himself more than anyone. His evil cackle is, after all, one of his signature intimidation techniques, and it's never affected his voice before.

But the uncontrolled, helpless hysterics Charlie's had him clutched in is very different from what he's used to. For all his practice intimidating his victims with a well-timed chortle, it appears his genuine laughter is rather rusty.

"I'm not hurting you, am I?"

Still breathless, Alastor can't help but chuckle at that too. "...Y-you are aware of what an 'interrogation' is, right?"

Charlie's look of concern drops to a mild glare.

"Alright, babe. Step aside." Vaggie curls a dangerous little grin of her own. "I'll handle this."

As he sees Vaggie striding toward him, Alastor scrambles to sit up. "Wait, wait- Vaggie, dear, can't we-" He presses backward, only to find himself cornered between the couch and the coffee table. "Er- can't we talk this over?"

Vaggie crouches down. "You wanna tell me where Angel's speaker is?"

"No."

Fingernails are crawling up both sides before he even registers movement. Poor Alastor is clutched over cackling within seconds.

Charlie may be a surprisingly effective ler, but it quickly becomes clear who taught her: Vaggie is ruthless.

"Get his tummy, that's his weak spot!" Charlie chirps, not even bothering to hide her delight any longer.

"Chahaharlie!!"

Alastor actually feels a spark of legitimate panic as Vaggie's nails find their way to his upper belly, tracing along the lower edge of his ribcage, sending his laughter silent for a moment.

"Hey, if you really want me to stop, you can just tell me what I wanna know."

"YOou cahan-" (gasp) "-PRY it from my-" (brief giggle fit) "-cold, dead-" (wheeze) "-fingers!!"

"Yeah? I'll show you cold, dead fingers..."

Alastor feels a hand slip under his shirt.

"AaaaAAAHH! No, no, Vaggie don't!"

"Oooh, this is a good spot, isn't it?"

"NO don't do that- please please please..."

"What? You don't want me to do this?" Her fingernails skitter across his bare tummy. The poor man can't remember the last time he laughed this hard at anything - which, for someone who literally hasn't dropped his smile for decades, is a pretty high bar to clear. And he's gotta admit, it's the best he's felt in weeks.

"Don't kill him," Charlie pipes up, "I still need him to help run the hotel after this."

"I'm not gonna kill him." Vaggie leans in close. "I'm just gonna keep tickling this sensitive, vulnerable, unbearably ticklish little belly, up and down, over and over, on and on..."

The surge of radio static induced by this one sentence is so intense that it leaves Alastor's own voice virtually incomprehensible for several seconds. He tries to summon a shadow creature, a tentacle, anything, but he's so disoriented the shadows dissipate before they can be directed anywhere.

And that's finally what breaks his resistance. Being rendered helpless under Charlie's fingers is one thing, but being unable to use his powers at Vaggie's mercy is considerably more unnerving.

"OKAY, OKAHAY! I'll talk! I'll talk!"

Vaggie lifts her hands off him, though they remain hovering just a few inches over his torso.

It takes a solid minute for Alastor to catch his breath. "For heaven's sake, you could've just asked me..."

Vaggie scrunches her fingers in the air a couple times, causing the radio demon to fold up like a lawn chair.

"Ack! Nonono I'm kidding!! I'm kidding!" He fights back a fit of nervous giggles.

"Ten seconds to spit it out before I go borrow Nifty's feather duster."

Alastor rolls his eyes. "Oh please. You think you can threaten me with cleaning tools? Don't be ridiculous..."

"Five seconds." Vaggie turns to Charlie. "Hey babe, have you tried his ears?"

A little squeak of microphone feedback. "13th floor hall closet, second-to-top shelf, under a dead rat."

Charlie recoils. "Ew! Al!"

"Pardon, two dead rats." As Vaggie withdraws her hands Alastor sits up, brushes himself off, and reaches for his microphone. "Second one came along as I was arranging the first, and... offered to help."

Charlie just stares at him in horror as he stands and twirls his mic with his usual classy flair, the very picture of eccentric elegance - as if he hadn't just spent the last twenty minutes being reduced to a hysterical mess on the floor.

"Is there any point in warning you not to pull something like this again?" Vaggie mutters, more to herself than the demon.

"No. But you can if it makes you feel better." Alastor grins and offers a hand to Charlie as she gets to her feet. "That was a lovely chat, my dears. Next time I need a good laugh I'll be sure to commit another petty theft."

Charlie rolls her eyes as he turns on his heel and strolls off.

"And let me know if you need help finding the batteries for that speaker," he tosses over his shoulder.

"OH you little piece of-"

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This was such a fun fic to write! Hope you had fun reading it too.... let me know what you think!

💜 - Cozy

[vernons-girl]

hi! yeah um i.. read ur newest fic 'not her' with kmg and i kind of wanted to add a continuation to that...? (only if u want to ofc!)

so basically reader got her heart broken by mingyu and her sister, soooo she goes on and vents her feelings and how heart broken she is to another one of her pals, seungcheol (without knowing seungcheol likes reader) so he comforts her and u can probably add the ending (fluff or angst or anything!)

im sorry this is too long.. i rlly tried to make it shorter lmao (btw i LUV ur fics so much)

not her | kim mingyu - choi seungcheol pt.2

PART 1 ; PART 2 ; PART 3 (final)

angst, fluff,wc:2.5k

taglist: @gaslysainz ; @graybaeismytae ; @mansaaay

a/n: did i completely put mingyu aside in this part? yes. will i make a part three where we really dive into the drama with everyone kdrama love triangle way? you guys tell me hehe

You couldn't bear looking at the scene that was unfolding in front of your eyes so you gathered your stuff in a hurry and left, completely forgetting the idea of shopping for a new outfit.

You made it home in record time. Rushing to lock yourself in your room once you made it through the door.

Mingyu choosing someone else than you was one thing, but your sister going behind your back to betray you, after you had confided in her? That was a whole other thing.

You couldn't help but cry as soon as you found yourself alone in the comfort of your room. You were feeling too many things at the same time and couldn't quite pinpoint why you were crying. Was it the pain? The anger? The disappointment? The heartbreak? Maybe it was all of it at once.

You couldn't bare the idea of having to face any of them about the issue right now, let alone having to see your sister when she would get back home, so you did the first thing that came to mind : you packed an overnight bag, texted your most trustful friend and headed over to his place.

You reached Seungcheol's place about an hour after you had texted him. You hadn't told him much over text, actually you hadn't told him anything besides 'can i come spend the night?' to which he agreed, of course, he didn't need to know why you needed to spend the night over at his place when you had a perfectly decent bed of your own, he just agreed without any further questions.

He greeted you at the door with a worried look on his face that he couldn't conceal no matter how hard he tried. You've confided in him before, but never did it feel so worrying. Without a second thought, he pulled you inside with a hug. The action broke down all the walls you had tried to build on your way there instantly. You felt as if you were falling apart in his arms, melting in his embrace perhaps, and you let the tears stream down your face, not caring about the embarrassing whines coming out of your mouth as you did so. He didn't seem to care either. Because all he did was hold you, closely, firmly but carefully, rubbing soothing circles on your back, shushing you like one would do with a baby. But it all felt so right amongst all the chaos around you that you let yourself be in the moment, until he pulled you straight on your feet to lead you to the living room, "Come on, let's talk about this around a warm drink, yeah?" he said, trying his best to show off a reassuring smile.

You obliged and sat down on the couch as Seungcheol got some snacks ready along with something to drink. In the meantime you allowed yourself to relax, sunking down onto the couch wishing it could somehow swallow you whole.

Thankfully, Seungcheol joined you pretty quickly so you didn't have the time to get lost in your thoughts once again. You straightened up to grab the cup he was handing out to you from the tray he had placed on the coffee table in front of you.

"Sooooo..." Seungcheol started, he didn't want to push you into it but he still needed to at least have an idea of what was going on.

You took a sip of your drink followed by a deep breath.

"So... I had a crush on this guy, and I genuinely thought that he could like me, you know?" you tried to hold back the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes once again.

"And I wasn't the only one thinking this.. my sister thought so too." Seungcheol now had a curious look and urged you to keep going.

"I was supposed to meet up with him in a few days and I really wanted to confess, I really did." this time, the tears fell from your eyes, you couldn't help it, it was so fresh, so hard, your body needed to express this unbearable inner pain it was feeling.

Seungcheol offered some comfort with his free hand coming to rub up and down your arm, "We don't have to talk about it any more if you don't feel like it," he reassured you.

"No, it's okay, you affirmed, so, you started again, I wanted to make things right, I wanted to impress him, to make him like me any more than he might already do, so I went to the mall to do some shopping, a sob escaped from your dry lips, but then I saw them, him, her" you sniffled, letting out shaky breaths in an attempt to calm yourself down.

"Them ? Him? Her?" Seungcheol asked.

"My crush and my sister" you finally said, your heart breaking a little more. The look on your friend's face changed to... confusion?

"Wait so you saw your sister with your crush at the mall? What about it?

- They were kissing, Seungcheol. Kissing."

Upon hearing this last word, his expression morphed to anger in a matter of seconds.

"What the fuck?!" he suddenly exclaimed, almost slamming his mug down onto the table.

"She kissed him knowing you liked him? This is so twisted. I can't believe it." He let out in disbelief, rubbing a hand down his face.

"And he didn't tell me either. He never told me he was seeing someone. What if she told him about my crush on him and they both fucked me over? you put your face in both on your hands, crying softly, What am I supposed to do now Seungcheol?" you questioned desperately, almost pleading him for an answer.

He leaned back in his seat, looking up in thought.

"Who is he?" he finally asked.

"Who's who?" okay maybe it wasn't the best idea to play dumb, but how could you tell him that Mingyu, your friend who also happens to be one of Seungcheol's, broke your heart ?

"The guy, he said firmly, who's the guy?" ok so now he wasn't playing. You've never seen him look this serious before, the concern and anger still obvious on his face.

You took a deep breath, preparing yourself for the worst when you breathed out : "Mingyu."

He clenched his fists upon hearing the name leave your shaky lips. As a matter of fact, his whole body tensed.

"So you saw Mingyu kissing your sister who knew you liked Mingyu ?" he summarized.

"Yeah.." you confirmed, your gaze lingering on the floor, the carpet curiously looking much more interesting than you friend who was sitting across from you.

"Does she know ? he asked

-Mh?

-Your sister. Does she know you saw them ?

-No, they didn't see me and I came over before she got home, so we didn't talk about it.

-And do you think he knew?

-Knew what ?

-That you liked him ?

-I don't know.. I don't think so, you reasoned, he would never be so cruel. you affirmed

-Yeah, you're probably right.." Seungcheol agreed, even though he wanted nothing but to punch his dear friend in the face for hurting you, he also knew it wasn't his style to hurt people's feelings. I mean this guy literally apologized to his last girlfriend for breaking up with her so of course he wasn't going to hurt one of his closest friends.

Seungcheol sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "This is a messed up situation, no doubt about it," he muttered, his expression reflecting a mixture of concern and anger.

You nodded, feeling a bit of relief knowing Seungcheol was there to listen, even if he couldn't magically fix everything. It was nice knowing there was at least one person you could trust in this whole mess.

After a moment of silence, Seungcheol leaned forward, taking both of your hands in his, his eyes fixed on you. "Listen, I know it hurts like hell right now, but you're stronger than this. I'm not going to tell you to not think about it because I know it feels impossible right now but you need to focus on yourself, okay ?

- Yeah.. you replied.

- What do you need right now?"

You thought for a moment, wiping away the tears that still lingered. "I just... I need some time to figure things out. Away from all of this," you said, gesturing vaguely around you.

Seungcheol nodded in understanding. "Alright. I get it. You can stay here as long as you need. I'll be here for you, okay?"

You managed a weak smile, feeling a sliver of hope, "Thank you, Seungcheol. I don't know what I'd do without you."

He smiled back, a reassuring presence in the middle of all of this turmoil. "You don't have to figure it all out right now. Just take it one step at a time. And remember, you're not alone in this." he finally said, giving your hands a reassuring squeeze.

And as you glanced over at Seungcheol, you couldn't help but feel a flutter in your chest, realizing just how much he truly cared for you. Perhaps, in the midst of all this chaos, there was a silver lining after all—a silver lining named Seungcheol.

"Come on, let's get you settled in bed, yeah?" he said, standing up and offering his hand out for you to take. You did so and followed him down the hallway.

As Seungcheol led you to the spare bedroom where you would be spending the night, he couldn't help but feel a mix of emotions swirling inside him. On one hand, he was glad to be able to offer you a comfortable place to rest after everything you'd been through. But on the other hand, he couldn't shake the pang of jealousy he felt at the thought of you sleeping under the same roof in a bed that wasn't his.

As he pulled back the covers and fluffed the pillows, he tried to push aside those selfish thoughts. After all, what mattered most was that you were safe and comfortable. But as he glanced over at you, he couldn't help but notice how beautiful you looked in the soft light of the bedside lamp, your eyes heavy with exhaustion yet still so full of resilience.

"Here you go," he said, gesturing to the bed. "I hope you'll be comfortable here."

You offered him a grateful smile as you sank down onto the mattress, letting out a contented sigh. "Thank you, Seungcheol. I really appreciate it."

He returned your smile, trying to ignore the way his heart skipped a beat at the sound of your voice. "Of course. Anything for you."

As he turned to leave the room, he couldn't help but linger for a moment, his gaze lingering on your sleeping form. In that moment, he realized just how much he cared about you—more than just a friend, more than just a crush. And as he quietly closed the door behind him, he made a silent promise to himself to always be there for you, no matter what.

As you settled into the comfortable bed Seungcheol had prepared for you, your mind started to buzz with thoughts of the events that had unfolded earlier. Despite your exhaustion, sleep eluded you as you thought about your sister's and Mingyu's betrayal. A notification from your phone interrupted your thoughts, a message from your sister asking where I was, seemingly worried as to what you were up to. Against you better judgment, you decided to ignore it for the moment as you let out a heavy sigh and turned your attention to Seungcheol.

He had been so kind and supportive throughout the evening, offering you a safe haven and a shoulder to lean on. His actions spoke volumes, and somehow you couldn't help but wonder if there was something more behind his gestures. The way he looked at you, the tenderness in his voice—it all hinted at a deeper connection between you. And as you drifted off into a restless sleep, you couldn't shake the feeling that perhaps Seungcheol's feelings for you ran deeper than mere friendship.

After ensuring that the spare bedroom was tidy and comfortable for you, Seungcheol made my way to the living room to clean up the mess from earlier. As he picked up discarded snack wrappers and empty mugs, his mind also ended up wandering to the events of the evening.

He couldn't shake the anger and frustration he felt towards Mingyu for hurting you, someone he cared deeply about. And yet, amidst the chaos, he couldn't deny the flutter of hope that sparked within him at the thought of being there for you, of being the one you turned to in her time of need.

As he finished cleaning up, he reached for his phone and sent a quick text to Mingyu, his fingers hesitating over the keys. Despite his anger towards him, a part of him couldn't help but wonder if this was his chance to finally confess his feelings to you. But as he stared at the blank screen, he couldn't bring myself to send the message. Instead, he pocketed his phone and made his way back to the spare bedroom, his heart heavy with uncertainty and longing.

As Seungcheol lay in bed, the weight of the evening's events heavy on his mind, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the situation than met the eye.

As he mulled over the possibilities, a nagging thought tugged at the corners of his mind. What if Mingyu wasn't entirely clueless about your feelings? What if, somehow, he had sensed your affection for him, even if you hadn't explicitly confessed it?

The idea seemed far-fetched at first, but the more Seungcheol thought about it, the more it made sense. Mingyu was perceptive, after all, and he had always been attentive to the people around him. Perhaps he had noticed the subtle glances, the lingering touches, the way your face lit up whenever you were near him.

But if Mingyu was aware of your feelings, why would he pursue a relationship with your sister? Was it out of genuine interest, or was there something more sinister at play? Seungcheol couldn't shake the feeling that there was a piece of the puzzle missing, something lurking beneath the surface that he couldn't quite grasp.

As he drifted off to sleep, his mind buzzing with unanswered questions, Seungcheol's thoughts inevitably turned to you. Despite the troubles of the evening, one thing remained clear: his feelings for you ran deep. With each passing moment, his love for you only seemed to grow stronger, anchoring him amidst the storm of uncertainty.

As he vowed to uncover the truth about Mingyu's intentions, Seungcheol's resolve was fueled not only by a sense of justice for you but also by a burning desire to protect you from further harm. For he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he would do anything to ensure your happiness, even if it meant confronting his own heartache in the process.

With that thought in mind, Seungcheol closed his eyes, feeling a sense of determination wash over him. Whatever challenges lay ahead, he would face them head-on, armed with nothing but his unwavering love for you. And as sleep finally claimed him, he couldn't help but cling to the hope that, somehow, everything would turn out alright in the end.

[zvtara-was-never-canon]

Have you noted that no one from Azula's family was shown to express love and affection towards her?

That is mostly true. Ozai's affection is clearly conditional (and full on manipulation at worse, like we see in the finale), Ursa canonically favors Zuko to the point that we never see her spending any alone time with Azula like she did with Zuko, and while Iroh gave her a toy like he did to Zuko the toy in question was so OBVIOUSLY wrong for a kid like Azula that it's comical AND show's he did not really know his niece at all.

But there is a constant exception.

Zuko's relationship with Azula is complicated. He clearly admires her strength and power, but he hates how she uses it. She lied to him many times, was seen apparently cheering Ozai on during the Agni Kai, tried to have him imprisoned and even said she'd celebrate being an only child - and then allows him to come home as a hero after Ba Sing Se, even though SHE had the control of the Dai Li and was not yet aware Aang could have survived, meaning she had nothing to gain from it.

And when she lets him know that if he's caught talking to Iroh people might think he is a traitor too, and explicitly says "Believe it or not, I'm actually looking out for you" Zuko drops his innitial suspicion that she wanted something and that's why she was helping him.

On The Beach, he just follows her when she say their old family home is depressing and they shouldn't waste their time there. When she's asking him who she is angry at, she mentions herself and Zuko explicitly says that is not the case.

He doesn't trust her and know she has a tendency to mock or full on lie to him... yet when he wants to know about Fire Lord Sozin he asks her about it, and lets it slide when she mocks him by saying he should make sure the royal painter got his good side - for a character as quick to anger as Zuko, that is a big deal. In Nightmares and Daydreams he also goes to her to find out if he'll be allowed at the war meeting.

More importantly:

1 - Iroh's infamous "She's crazy and needs to go down" line was only said because ZUKO, without anyone putting that idea in his head before, suddenly went "I know what you're going to say. She's my sister and I should be trying to get along with her"

2 - Zuko only jumped into the fight in Ba Sing Se when Azula was being cornered by Aang and Katara.

3 - Zuko looked genuinely shocked and even distressed when she was falling off that cliff. He just sounded so shaken saying "She's... not gonna make it..."

4 - In the writer's own words, Zuko felt no hate but only pity when seeing her breakdown. Katara tried to comfort him because, canonically, even though Zuko and Azula are enemies, this was never what he wanted because he still sees her as family. That's why the Last Agni Kai's music is not the epic you'd expect from a battle, but a tragic one.

5 - Aaron Ehasz, the lead writter for the show, probably the person with the most influence after Bryke, has REPEATEDLY said that he always felt Azula should have gotten a redemption arc, Zuko being an Iroh figure to give her advice and be the only one still by her side when all else was seemingly lost to her forever.

Even the comics (most of which I HATE, mainly because Azula's storyline checks nearly every box for "the mentally ill are inherently evil/less human, so it's fine if literally every other person on the planet mistreats them") didn't fully abandon their complex dynamic.

Zuko is not a perfect sibling, and for a long chunk of the story he seemed too focused on his own issues for Azula to ever be a factor in his mind (aside from the moments in which she was a potential/explict threat), but he DOES still feel a sense of obligation towards her, to the point that it made him do something no one else in their family had done before or since - actually look at Azula. Not the prodigious daughter/perfect weapon, or the problem child that is difficult to handle, or the pontentially deadly enemy that was in the way, but Azula.

His 14-year-old sister that got on his nerves a lot, was far from the kindest person alive, and that he had a ton of issues with, but that he could never fully hate or even be indifferent to. Because she's family. Because he remembers a happier time in which the gap between them didn't seem so big. Because if things had been slightly different he could have been her. Because he went from wanting to be her to seeing just how miserable her life ended up being - especially compared to the one he now had - and feeling deeply sorry for her.

Now if you guys excuse me, I'm gonna go cry in the corner. Have some wholesome/bittersweet fanart if you wanna cry too.

[cosmictyto]

💛⚔️ Villain Ambrosius AU - Tarnished Gold ⚔️🖤

I’ve listened to Will Wood’s “Vampire Culture” one too many times while stuck in the Nimona hyperfixation pit + after seeing some villain Amb fanart floating around, so enjoy these sloppy, partially finished mad ramblings edited/stylized a bit to (try and) make them a little more interesting to read. Also, you're all more than welcome to add on/ask any questions! I'll get to them when I can.

Just a heads up, this is looooong. Simply because ya girl’s a wordy bitch.

Basically, the point of this AU can be boiled down to “What if Ambrosius knew Ballister was innocent AND Nimona got to him first?” Kinda a role swap, but kinda its own thing at the same time? Idfk.

On the night of the knighting ceremony, as they’re both suiting up, Ballister verbally mentions his sword feeling off to Ambrosius. But neither of them have time to investigate that further.

The knighting ceremony goes just as horribly as it did in the movie. The queen is dead, Ballister’s lost his arm, and though they couldn’t exactly find Ballister’s body, he’s presumed dead. Lambasted as a traitor to the kingdom, but also treated as a sort of boogeyman since no one REALLY knows if he’s dead in that "I heard he's dead!" "Well, I heard he's still alive!" kind of way.

Ambrosius, meanwhile, is left completely crushed. Simultaneously being praised by some for “disarming the traitor” and mocked by others for being so close to that same traitor. For not recognizing the signs earlier. For not stopping him before their queen was killed. And though the Director reassures him that he’s done well as Gloreth’s descendant and that this will all fade as nothing more than a bad memory… he knows. Ballister didn’t do it. He KNEW something was wrong with his sword. And deep down he knew that his boyfriend was innocent. So he confronts the squire, sees the footage, and leaves with his whole world rocked.

Needless to say, the proof of ACTUAL INTENTIONAL regicide, treason, and corruption within the system, the same one he’s a literal living symbol of, isn’t on his mind at the moment. Just what he did to Bal. So full of regret and guilt. (At best, he mutilated the love of his life out of instinct which is still horrible!!) Normally when he wanted time alone to think he’d go to the top of the Glorodome. But, that spot hurt too much right now. That's where he and Bal first became friends. So, that same night, he went to the next-best place, Gloreth’s statue.

It’s late at night (he hasn’t been able to sleep much lately anyway,) and he’s sitting at the edge of that massive golden sword. Legs dangling as he stares at the ground. He’s normally not much of a drinker, usually too risky. But tonight he makes an exception. Before, everything felt manageable. The inherent weight he bore being Gloreth’s descendant, the press and citizenry looking up to him to be this bastion of goodness and pure heroism, internal familial pressures over how he should act, look, and think… with Bal at his back, he could handle it. But that stability’s gone now. And the only other person he could possibly lean on, the Director, was responsible for his lover’s death. Now, more than ever, he feels like he’s on the verge of collapsing under the weight this kingdom’s placed on his shoulders…

And then someone happens to come along.

Even despite everything, despite all the hurt this one person’s been responsible for… Nimona still carries fondness for Gloreth. And some nights, when she can’t sleep and she feels like howling at the moon, she’ll go to her old friend’s statue… tonight was one of those nights. And who does she happen to find? Her great-great-great-great… however many more, great grandkid. And he’s not looking too hot. A part of her knows she’s got no real obligation to help him, she's never talked to any of the Golden-groin brats before. But... she's had plenty of moments where she wished she had someone talk her down from doing something stupid, and she's feeling kinda sentimental n' sappy... so she strikes up a conversation.

He’s (reasonably) startled by this teen who just showed up out of nowhere. On a statue that requires a hoverbike to get to, no less. But he’s also drunk enough that he’s not as concerned as he maybe should be. One thing leads to another, and he just lets loose. Like, completely vents everything stored in him. (And, yes, “Arm chopping is not a love language!!!” Is thrown in there.)

Nims is just kinda in shock. In all those stupid commercials and interviews he seems so calm and put-together. Perfect, even. But, he's actually kind of a wreck. And now he’s unraveling real fast and is a bit too wobbly to be up this high- So she talks him down a bit. Calms him. Eventually asks, “If you never had any of this stupid “Gloreth” stuff pushed on you, who would you be? What’d you want to do?”

That legitimately stumps and breaks him. He’s thought about how nice it’d be to have this pressure off of his back. Where he could be his own person and not “the descendant of Gloreth.” But he never ONCE considered what a world like that would really look like. All he’s ever known was THIS. Being a knight, being a symbol and not a real person… there’s really only one thing he could actually say.

“Um… My hair wouldn’t be blond..? Y’know, it’s funny, this isn’t even my natural color. They make me bleach it so that I… that I can look more like her…”

And it’s at that point that Nimona decides right then and there, if she couldn’t get the kingdom to change its mind, she’ll at least get through to Gloreth's heir. Break at least one cycle. (And totally not because she feels the teensiest bit regretful he's been put in this position, naaah, nothing like that.~) She coaxes him down from that statue, and the two of them proceed to do nothing but get into mischief…

“~Blood… didn’t they want your blood? So why apologize for being blue and cold?~”

Specifically, the kind that you don’t remember until well after you wake up. All Ambrosius knows is that he’s in some strange dim dreary place and someone’s cooking something. Oh, it’s just Bal. He usually handles any meals since he doesn’t burn them like he does… but, as he’s snuggling back into the couch, he realizes there’s the sound of a girl humming? What? He sits up. Aaaand she’s there? The girl from the statue? He tries to blow some of his unkempt hair out of his face, and-... he freezes. Grabs his phone, ignores the many, many missed calls and news notifications, opens his camera app, and… black. His hair is black. Why is it black?! It’s not supposed to be-! He NEEDS to be blond! And-!

“Mornin’, sleeping beauty!~ Not gonna lie, never knew a fancy-pants knight like yourself could cut loose like that... Hm? Oh! Right, the hair! You were telling me all about how much you hated bleaching it last night. Sooo, we dyed it! Eventually, you can cut all the dyed stuff off and just leave it your real color if you want. But, for now? Bye-bye, blondie! Like it?~”

No. No he does not. He’s basically having an anxiety attack over the unsanctioned change. Then he gets a notification on his phone and starts reading the news articles. All about HIM, a “mystery girl,” and several animals going wild throughout the kingdom.

“Dude, chill. What’s done is done. We got a little crazy, you saw some pink elephants, and we dyed your hair. So what?”

“So what?! What do you MEAN “So what?!?” I’m a DESCENDANT of GLORETH! I-I can’t be doing things like that! Or be seen like this, or-!”

“Woah WOAH! Hey, look at me. Breathe. You wanna really know why you asked me to dye your hair? YOU said it was so you could be free."

“Free..?”

“Yeah! From now on? You don’t have to live by their stupid rules and expectations. You don't have to be like her, you can be YOU! You can do whatever the hell you want, whenever you want! Wanna change your name? Do it! Wanna go break stuff? Hell yeah! Want a piercing or tattoo? I can give you some. I know how! You wanna make those bastards pay for what they did to you and your boyfriend? I'm more than happy bring the matches and help you burn that bitch to the ground!~"

From that point, things just click. His whole life, the Director… no, the whole INSTITUTE forged him into nothing more than a gilded sword. One that they turned on the person he loved most. The ONE thing in his life that he chose and stuck by… and the system he was supposed to symbolize MADE him kill the love of his life… and he didn’t have to play by their rules anymore. Thus starting his fall into "Villainy."

“~Blood, didn’t they want your blood? So don’t apologize for being blue and cold…~”

Slight time skip!~

Truth was? Ballister was still alive. Heavily wounded, dazed and confused at how everything went so wrong, but alive...

Ballister's story continues as it did in the movie. Months later after the knighting, he's being hunted by the law with Sir Thoddeus Sureblade as the captain of the guard. In the meantime, he's built himself an arm and is still aiming to prove his innocence... Except his attempts to find Ambrosius, or convince the Director that he was set up, are a complete failure. Like in the movie, he's arrested and thrown in the dungeon... Except with no one to break him out. According to whispered gossip from the guards who bring him food, Ambrosius has been missing for a while, now. A fact that would not be revealed to the public anytime soon...

"It's only culture! It's only CULTURE!! It's only- Culture's not your friend..!"

At least, not until an individual in scuffed black-and-rose-gold colored armor (?) shows up with... a bear, or a tiger, and a wolf, and horse, and... even a rhinoceros?! The two of them running through the halls. Breaking things, lighting stuff on fire, and spraying paint on the walls (along with the floor, ceiling, and any statues,) and scrapping with any knights they come across. They'd already uploaded that clip of the Director swapping those swords. This? This was a diversion to keep the Institute from possibly removing or censoring that clip before the public got to see it. And Ambrosius LOVED it! He got to be loud! To make a mess! He finally got to punch Todd in his stupid dude-bro face! When you've kept someone shackled their whole lives, and then take those harnesses and leashes off? The freedom's enough to make ‘em go a just a teensy bit crazy. More than anything, since everything that happened the night of their knighting? He felt alive.

"Hey, fuck your culture! I ain't got no culture! It's only culture and it's more afraid of you than you're of it!"

During the assault, just as things are starting to get dicey for Nims and Brose, they do something so that the power ends up cutting out. Freeing Ballister and giving him his chance to escape, and... for a moment Ballister sees him. His Rose, ebony-haired with cuffs and studs on his ears. Riding on the unsaddled back of a raspberry-pink horse. A can of neon spray-paint in one hand, a sword in the other, a whole squad of knights behind him… and for a moment they lock eyes. Ambrosius’ world just comes crashing down, trying to stop and turn Nims around (Who refuses. ‘Cause, y’know, the bunch of knights behind them?!) she shifts into an ostrich to get a boost of speed, and the two just ride off with Ambrosius staring wide-eyed… looking like he saw a ghost… meanwhile, Ballister’s wondering just what the hell’d happened since the ceremony, and just -what- his boyfriend’s been hanging out with.

From this point my plot-related notes are thinner/less thought out. But here they are anyway:

- Ballister’s still firmly stuck in the Institute’s brainwashing since he’s had absolutely no time hanging out with Nimona to influence that. He’s seen the footage, but still believes that the fault solely lies with the Director specifically. That the Institute as a concept can still be preserved. A part of him hopes that by capturing this pink monster he might be able to redeem himself in the eyes of the kingdom. Prove his loyalty as a knight. (And conveniently finally meet with his boyfriend who’s apparently lost his damn mind?! Or... or has been corrupted by this thing?) So, while on the run from Todd and the other knights, he’s also trying to track down Ambrosius + Nimona and stop them from inciting a rebellion. Because all he knows is that this isn’t the man he fell in love with. (I won't lie, the Ballister side of things feels pretty shaky. I need more time to sit and stew on it.)

- If we’re using D&D alignment charts as a reference, Ambrosius is basically going from lawful-good to chaotic-good. Identity crisis and shift to anarchy aside, he genuinely doesn’t want to hurt anyone. Especially not the general populous. Yes, he happened to be raised to be a “hero of the realm” but, at his core, he’s still a good guy. Any acts of arson, destruction, or anything of the like are done with the knowledge that the spaces have been cleared out as best they can, first. And he doesn't even want to kill his fellow knights because he knows that, ultimately? They've all been forced through the same system. Children thrown into a mold to be forged into weapons. He’ll fight them. But, he doesn’t fight to kill… that being said, he doesn’t necessarily stray from violence, either.

- At some point I do see Ballister and Ambrosius getting into a fight. But, of course, Ballister’s the top of their class. No matter how hard they both sparred or competed against each other, Bal’d always managed to come out on top. In everything. So Rose is, of course, disarmed and thrown to the ground. A sword pointed at him as he looks up at the man he loves-.

“What, do you think this is some kind of a game?! You and that… that thing are tearing this kingdom apart! I… I don’t even recognize you anymore… what happened, Ambrosius?!”

“What happened? She set me free, Bal. And if you can’t see that this is who I really am, deep down..? Then you never really knew me at all…”

More miscellaneous/fun notes:

- It’s less boss/henchman in this AU. Instead, Rose and Nims 100% have a brother/sister dynamic. They bicker and tease when they’re together. But, the moment the other’s in trouble, it’s strict “No one messes with ‘em except me!” vibes. Who’s the older and who’s the younger sibling changes depending on the moment.

- Ambrosius always liked rock music. His parents and the Director always disapproved because it was “noise unbefitting of a Goldenloin” (ie. It wasn’t classical or opera therefore it was “wrong.”) but he always listened to it in private or with Ballister. So when Nims played some stuff and she caught Rose singing along to all the words? That earned instant respect points for him.

- These two also share one braincell between them at any given time. How they haven’t gotten caught is a damn miracle. Like, seriously, these two are goofballs. The moment he saw Nimona change into a shark? Oh, he totally stuck his head in her mouth. He never thought once about how “the wings” would be too noticeable. And when Nims brought up the plan to wreck the Institute? Eloquently putting it as: “We break-in, we break some stuff, smash some helmets, something-something-something, we win!~” He could only reply with a nod and, “Alright, sounds good!” And when they're playing a board game and she's going on some tangent? He's laughing his ass off. The only other person he's been this dorky around was Ballister.

- Once it clicked that he could swear?! And no one would get mad at him or clutch some pearls?! Nimona had to give him a crash-course because he was using it a bit too much. And it just kinda sounded ridiculous. Like giving a tween free rein to swear.

- He also went more crazy with his appearance. He was already used to the idea of makeup (Gloreth forbid her ancestors ever had *gasp* acne!!!) Eyes? Lined and smokey. Often with dark or fun colors. Nails? Painted. 24/7. Fingers adorned with a buncha rings. Lots of layered necklaces and bracelets. Plus silky black shirts with low necklines. And he did get his ears pierced. Both lobes, a couple in the helix of one ear, and one on an eyebrow. All of which was done courtesy of Nimona. (Needless to say, Ballister was shook the first time he got a good look at him.)

- He is still a Ballister Simp. Always gonna be his number one fan. At first, he tried to convince Ballister to join him and Nimona, but Bal wouldn’t listen. Their relationship doesn’t start to fracture until Ballister starts actively hunting them both down for the sake of capturing her. Because, while Ambrosius adores Ballister, and wants nothing more than to be with him… Nimona’s been the only one to help him see the truth. To help free him of all his expectations, she’s been there when he was at his lowest. She’s his friend. And he’s not willing to sacrifice her just so that he can go back to being the “Descendant of Gloreth” with Ballister. So, though it hurts, he still loves Bal. But he’s always waiting for the moment his lover admits he’s wrong about this.

- Speaking of Nimona’s and Ambrosius’ friendship… she’s in an awkward spot. Because, especially now with all those prissy-noble-layers stripped away… she sees so much of Gloreth in Ambrosius. In his smile, how confident every step is, that glimmer in his eye when he’s about to do something rebellious, even the way his eyes crinkle and his lips get tight when he’s mad. In so many ways he’s absolutely his own person… but it’s like she got her best friend back. And maybe that’s why she stayed and talked with him. Because she saw a chance to try again…

(Psst, you seriously read this far down? Thanks a ton! Have a cookie.~ 🍪 )

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 89

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

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

Chapter 89: Byka Ābrazȳrys

AO3 - Masterlist

Aemond lingered at the edge of the Council Chamber, enveloped in the dim light that barely touched the far corners of the room. He stood over a broad side table where various maps were spread out, his focus drawn to one depicting the turbulent waters between Dragonstone and Driftmark. With a thoughtful expression, his fingers carefully followed the marked line representing the blockade stretching from the mainland after Rook’s Rest to Driftmark and from then on to Sharp Point. He scrutinized the strategic points along the coast, his gaze intense as he contemplated naval positions and their potential impact on the ongoing Blockade. 

The Council had convened in the early hours after dawn, though the King was notably absent. The previous night, after indulging excessively in wine at the grand feast, he had ventured off to one of the more opulent establishments on the Street of Silk, a troupe of lickspittles in tow, spurring him on. Aemond, obliged to follow at the king’s command, had watched as Aegon lavishly purchased rounds of the finest wine with the crown’s coin, swiftly diverting his attention away from his presence. Once the king had immersed himself in the revelry, Aemond had slipped away, returning to the Keep shrouded in a haze of pungent perfumes that clung to his clothes, a cloying scent that lingered unpleasantly in his throat. 

Had he been on better terms with Daenera, Aemond might have sought solace in her company. He would have slipped into bed with her, burying his face in the crook of her neck to inhale the delicate floral scent that clung to her skin, and that scent that was specifically hers. His arm would have encircled her, his hand resting gently on her lower abdomen, drawing her closer against him.

But there was no such comfort to be found. Aemond had returned to the cold solitude of his own chambers, burdened by a profound heaviness in his chest–heart like a stone. The scar that split across his face had throbbed painfully, sending sharp, splitting aches through his head as if trying to cleave it in two. To dull the pain and chase sleep, he had poured himself a glass of wine, into which he mixed a dose of milk-of-the-poppy, hoping it would ease the discomfort and bring him some much-needed rest. It hardly did. 

Ser Arryk Cargyll, it seemed, had later been tasked with escorting the king back. Using a litter in the predawn hours to move the inebriated monarch through the streets, he had presumably left Aegon to sleep off the night’s excesses. With the king indisposed, the weight of the Council’s decisions had fallen onto the Lord Hand, who had presided over the morning’s proceedings in Aegon’s stead.

The Council’s discussions had primarily centered on the blockade and its burgeoning impact on the city. The squeeze on resources had made food prices rise, with the affluent hoarding supplies, leaving the less fortunate to scramble for the meager remnants. 

While Aemond cared little and less of the smallfolk and their lot in life, he had nevertheless urged for action. He had once again suggested taking Vhagar and destroying the blockade, a move that would swiftly resolve the issue at hand. However, both his mother and the Hand had swiftly rejected this idea, maintaining that Vhagar was essential for defending the city against any potential retaliation for Storm’s End. 

Aemond thought it foolish to limit Vhagar to defense only. She was their most formidable weapon, a dragon that had seen a hundred battles and survived, ridden by Visenya herself. While her presence might prevent the Blacks from retaliating against the city, it did nothing to deter their broader war efforts, such as maintaining the blockade. 

This enforced passivity left Aemond feeling stifled and restless. He itched for a role that allowed him to demonstrate his capabilities–to prove himself. As he engaged in the discussions of war, his proposals for proactive measures were met with calls for ‘patience.’ This recurring admonition did nothing to quell his growing frustrations. 

Additionally, the Council addressed the matter of the Scorpions. The city’s myths were diligently constructing these massive defensive weapons, and it sounded as though they would soon be installed on the turrets of the Red Keep. This progress, at least, was a tangible step towards strengthening the city’s defenses, a development that Aemond followed with keen interest. 

That interest waned as the council’s discussions shifted to the burdensome matters of financial matters–though he had still listened intently. Ser Tyland had raised alarm about the extravagant spending on the recent feast and the impending wedding, especially given the escalating expenses of war. It seemed strange for a Lannister to fret over expenses, yet here was Ser Tyland, voicing his apprehensions of such lavish celebrations during wartime. 

The only moment that had truly recaptured Aemond’s attention was when the conversation touched upon Rhaenyra’s continued search for her dead son, days after his demise–an endeavor Aemond viewed as fruitless. There was nothing for her to find. The mention of it had made him grit his teeth as he thought back to Daenera’s pained expression when Aegon had taunted her about her loss and her mother’s futile search. 

As the council meeting progressed, the agenda shifted to administrative concerns that were crucial yet less dramatic. The discussions grew particularly intense when the topic shifted to appointing a new Commander of the City watch. This became necessary after Ser Gregor Selter had been stripped of his role as Lord Commander and imprisoned in the dungeons for refusing to swear fealty to the King–proclaiming Rhaenyra Targaryen the Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. There were still many within the ranks of the City Watch that remained loyal to Daemon Targaryen–even those who had sworn to Aegon as their King. 

After much debate and consideration, the council reached a consensus. They decided to promote Ser Luthor Largent to the position of Lord Commander. Additionally, Ser Gwayne Hightower was chosen as his second in command, a move that reinforced the Hightowers influence within the city’s defenses and ensured a strategic alignment with the crown’s interests. 

At the heel of this discussion, the issue of vacancies within the Kingsguard was brought up–positions needed to be filled after the loss of Ser Erryk Cargyll, Ser Steffon Darklyn, Ser Lorent Marbrand and the position which Ser Criston Cole had previously filled. 

The council meeting eventually wound down without a resolution on that particular issue–the selection of new members for the Kingsguard. This matter was tabled for future discussions, with instructions given to Lord Commander Criston Cole to identify and vet competent candidates worthy of consideration. 

Aemond had stood up from his seat then as the room began to empty, moving to the splayed maps at the periphery of the room. The clamor of departing council members slowly subsided, leaving the space increasingly silent. Only a few figures remained: the Lord Hand was methodically gathering his scattered parchments, and the Queen Mother stood by the balcony, her gaze lost in the sprawling view of the city. 

As Aemond stood at the periphery of the room, his mind was entrenched in thoughts of strategy and unresolved matters of war, and in the silence of the Council Chamber, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed distinctly across the stone floor. Abruptly, a resolute voice cut through the quiet. “I wish to speak with the Council.”

“This Council meeting has adjourned,” Otto replied curtly, his tone definitive, suggesting that further discussion was unwelcome. 

“I wish to discuss my betrothal,” Daenera asserted, her gaze unwavering as she fixed her eyes on the Lord Hand, challenging the dismissal and pressing her issue with determined clarity. 

A heavy weight settled on Aemond’s heart as he turned his head slightly, catching her movement at the edge of his vision. From his position at the room’s edge, he observed her quietly, a frown etching his features. His gaze, discreet but intense, remained on her as she stood at the threshold of the Council Chambers. The determination etched on her face was unmistakable, reflecting the sharp blue of her eyes and the firm line of her lips. His attention drifted down the column of her neck to the green fabric that clung to her form. This green, vibrant yet somber, stood in stark contrast to the red dress she had donned the day before–a dress as red as blood, an act of rebellion as much as it was an indictment. 

“What is there to discuss? Your betrothal has been decided. The wedding is set,” Otto stated, his drawl weary with exasperation. He stood poised between his seat and the council table, clearly interrupted in his intent to depart by her sudden entrance. 

“Perhaps, but my compliance is not.” Daenera stepped across the threshold and rose up the steps to the Council Chambers. She positioned herself firmly above the steps, her stance defiant, challenging the finality of Otto’s words with her presence and reply.

As Aemond turned fully towards Daenera, the maps and plans he had been studying forgotten in her presence, his mother spoke up decisively, “You’re in no position to negotiate.”

He moved from the dim periphery of the room, weaving between the shadow-cast columns towards the table at the center of the room. Pausing just shy of the columns, he tilted his head, observing her with increasing restlessness itching beneath his skin. His expression hardened into a fierce glower, irritation kindling within his chest at Daenera’s resistance to the marriage–as though they haven’t already tied their souls together. 

Daenera turned her gaze firmly towards his mother, pointedly ignoring his presence–the deliberate dismissal only fueled the irritation burning within him, his agitation prickling at his fingertips. 

“You said it yourself, Lord Hand–the entirety of Maegor’s Holdfast, the realm, knows of my grief,” Daenera spoke with a calm but piercing clarity, her eyes locked on the Lord Hand. “Your standing with the realm is already precarious–the act of kinslaying is unlikely to endear the lords of the realm, or inspire them to rally to your cause. After all, there’s none so accursed as the kinslayer.”

As Daenera’s words resonated in the air around him, a chilling sensation seemed to grip his heart. He clenched his teeth, struggling against the surge of emotion that threatened to break through his composure–that mask of steel and ice he had created for himself, it always seemed to chafe in her presence, making him want to grip it all the tighter. The word ‘kinslayer,’ as it fell from Daenera's lips, was like an arrowhead embedding itself in his flesh, lodged in a place he could not reach to extract. It seemed to burrow deeper with every word, exacerbated by her refusal to acknowledge him, which only intensified the grievance of the wound she inflicted. The wound seemed to fester with a mix of guilt and resentment. As he watched her speak, the accusation echoed in his mind, amplifying the discomfort and anger beneath his composure.

He kept his gaze fixed on her, noting the subtle shift in her stance under his scrutiny. Even this slight recognition of his presence did little to alleviate the sting of being ignored. Daenera clasped her hands in front of her, both wrapped in pale silken bandages. The rough edges of scrapes and cuts were just visible, hinting at the deeper wounds concealed beneath the fabric–wounds that mirrored his own. 

She pressed on, “Moreover, the realm would find the celebration of a kinslayer in poor taste–grossly so. Worse yet, to have the grieving sister of the boy that was murdered attend such a celebration, to have her sit beside her brother’s murderer and endure the king’s taunts.”

Daenera’s head tilted slightly, her gaze sharpening with a deliberate intensity as she concluded in a tone of measured softness, “The realm will think you cruel.”

“You are fortunate we did not imprison you alongside your men for the spectacle you made yesterday,” his mother retorted sharply, her footsteps echoing against the stone as she moved away from the balcony. 

“You cannot. It wouldn’t suit the narrative you’re attempting to weave,” Daenera responded, her eyebrows arching slightly, her demeanor unperturbed by the threat. Her gaze was defiant, challenging them to call in the guards and have her dragged–presumedly kicking and screaming–to the dungeons. It was a challenge she knew would go unanswered. The slight curl to her lips betrayed her confidence.

“What do you want?” Otto finally asked. He exhaled deeply as he sank into his chair, the wood creaking slightly at his weight, clearly annoyed by the day’s proceedings and the unexpected turn it had taken. 

“You cannot seriously be considering this,” Alicent cut in sharply, her tone thick with exasperation. Her footsteps echoed more pronouncedly as she moved away from the balcony, the folds of her skirts rustling softly over the smooth stone of the floor. Aemond listened to the rhythm of her steps; they halted abruptly, likely at the end of the table near the king’s chair. 

Despite this his gaze did not waver from Daenera. He scrutinized her with the intensity of a sharpened blade, his gaze cutting as if it could slice through her composure to expose the threads of her intentions and thoughts beneath. He desired to undo her, to understand the depths of her resolve and the strategies she harbored beneath her poised appearance–he wanted to unravel her in every way, wanted to find the thread that might lead him back to her heart. 

“I wish for the remainder of my men to be released from the dungeons and seen safely out of the city,” Daenera declared, her request clear and firm. The request revealed a thread for Aemond to tug at, only to discover it led to a knot with no discernible end–spawning further questions. Who among her men were so important to her that she would bargain her own compliance for their freedom? And to what end?

Aemond’s jaw clenched, his lips twisting into a frown as he forcibly tore his gaze from her for the first time since she entered. Her steadfast opposition to the marriage–a union he had fought to maintain, knowing it would secure her safety at his side–frustrated him to no end. Yet, had that frustration not burned so fiercely within his chest, he might have found pride in the bold gamble she made. 

“Releasing your men would only embolden you to defy us further. The very reason we hold them is to ensure your compliance.” His mother scoffed, voice laced with incredulous disbelief. 

“If you do not release my men and continue to threaten their lives, I might as well consider them dead already,” Daenera declared, her voice steady and challenging. Her face remained as impassive as porcelain, giving no hint of the emotions brewing beneath–the emotions he knew were there when it came to her men.

The cold decisiveness of her statement took Aemond by surprise, a pang of disquiet stabbing between his ribs as his gaze narrowed slightly. Yet, beneath he disquiet, a spark of excitement flickered–a recognition of the darkness he knew to be lurking within her. It was a ruthless streak he had seen before: the same bloodlust she had shown after killing her attacker, the same mercilessness that had led her to poison her husband from the very start of their marriage–and had later led to his murder. This darkness mirrored his own, a similarity that was both unsettling and exhilarating.

“If you desire for me to agree to this mockery of a wedding, then you will release my men,” Daenera continued, her gaze deliberately avoiding Aemond as he searched her face, noting the subtle changes in her demeanor–the tightening grip on her hands, the way she held her head a bit higher, as if steeling herself against the weight of his gaze. The graceful curve of her neck stretched, revealing the faint, healing scar from the blade she had pressed against her own skin–a reminder of agony he had brought upon her. 

As Aemond stepped into the light, his movements seemed to shake her resolve, as if their souls were connected by an invisible thread. Each step he took sent ripples along this tether, subtly disturbing her composure and stirring the air between them. Her eyes stayed decisively fixed on the Lord Hand, deliberately ignoring Aemond, and yet her very act of avoidance served as its own form of acknowledgement. Yet, it was not the acknowledgement he longed for. He wanted her to look directly at him, to meet his gaze–even if her eyes held contempt, even if they were brimming with tears. He wanted her eyes, that cornflower blue that was to be found nowhere else. 

Positioning himself by the table, Aemond rested his hand on the back of the chair, fingers twitching as he watched her. The mask of composure he wore seemed to sharpen around the edges, his emotions kerning tumultuously beneath the surface. His heart pounded a wild, angry rhythm against his ribs, the agitation under his skin growing into something far more volatile.

“Should you decide not to release my men,” Daenera said, voice softly measured as she threatened them. “Then I swear to you, I will show you a true spectacle–one that will not be forgotten. Force me to the altar and know that I will resist every step, every inch; you will have to drag me, kicking and screaming. And I will ensure that every lord, lady, and commoner in the realm knows that this marriage is without my consent.”

A cruel, humorless laugh almost broke free from Aemond’s throat, but he swallowed it back, stifling the harsh sound before it could spill into the world. Daenera’s words only served to aggravate the wounds she had already inflicted, each one jolting the arrowheads she had embedded earlier deeper, intensifying his agony and fueling his rage. Inside him, the beast of his darker instincts thrashed and clawed, straining against the confines of his self-control, eager to break free and unleash its fury.

Her refusal might have been almost laughable if it hadn’t stung so deeply. Under different circumstances, Aemond might have found humor in her defiance, but he had no such grace to offer her now.

She was his wife. She had willingly cut her palm, traced glyphs in her own blood upon his brow, and spoke the vows. They had tied their souls together, one flesh, one heart, one soul. And they had consummated the marriage–more than once. They were husband and wife. And yet now, she resisted the very notion of their union being recognized, of bringing their secret marriage into the unforgiving light of day. 

His fists clenched so tightly that the healing skin threatened to tear open once again, but he scarcely noticed the sting of it; his focus was on her. He wanted her so desperately, so pathetically–so monstrously. The yearning for the love they once shared felt like a path towards destruction, and yet he would have embraced even death if it meant being in her arms. But he knew that she would withhold herself from him–it only intensified the urge to grasp her tighter, to ensure she could not slip between his fingers like wisps of smoke. The cruel, primal instinct within him yearned to sink its claws into her, to hold her close against all reason.

He knew what she saw when she looked at him–a monster, a kinslayer. Had he been a better man, he might have found the strength to let her go. But he wasn’t a better man. He was a monster, and he loved her monstrously–she was his, and he couldn’t bear the thought of letting her go. 

“Ñuha ābrazȳrys iksā,” he muttered, softly, like a possessive prayer.

If only he had been a better man, he would have let her go–if only he had been more of a monster, he might have been able to eradicate the weakness she inspired in him.

“I’ve had your consent,” Aemond murmured softly. Her gaze finally met his–the act of betrayal bringing him the acknowledgement he so desired. The intimacy of the moment struck him deeply; only love could betray with such devastating impact. She already hated him, and like a sinner seeking absolution, he willingly exposed himself to her scorn, knowing it would never cleanse the stain on his soul. It wouldn’t change a thing–he would always be a sinner, and here he was, sinning against her once more. “You’ve already given your consent when we wed in the tradition of our house.”

Aemond drew in a measured breath, his gaze fixed intently on Daenera as her expression shifted to one of incredulity. Her brows furrowed, the corners of her lips twitching as a slight tremor ran through the plump flesh. A flush of red crept up her neck and into her cheeks, her breath growing shallow as a sheen of tears gleamed at the edge of her eyes, threatening to spill over. She looked achingly beautiful, even as she stared at him with such a profound sense of betrayal. 

For a moment, it felt as though they were the only two people in the room, bound by an invisible tether that trembled under the weight of his revelation. The connection between them was palpable, a mix of pain, anger, and undeniable intimacy.

“You are my wife,” Aemond stated, indifferent to the chaos his confession might unleash. He could feel his mother’s shocked and disbelieving gaze on him, and Otto’s cold, glowering stare, but their thoughts and reactions were inconsequential. All that mattered was Daenera’s gaze, fixed intently on him.

Her lips curled into a sneer, teeth bared as if she were a beast ready to tear out his throat. Yet, she was not a beast–she was just a woman, and the woman he loved would prefer a blade at his neck instead of her teeth. 

“It is your word against mine, Kinslayer,” Daenera sneered, voice dripping with venom.  

Another sharp arrowhead seemed to embed itself within Aemond’s flesh as Daenera’s denial twisted it deeper still. The word ‘kinslayer’ rang in his ears, echoing incessantly. 

Spitefulness burned in her gaze as she sought to deny him again, to drive the arrowhead deeper and deeper, aiming to embed it so profoundly that it would graze his heart with every beat–as though their love hadn’t already done that to his heart. “There was no Maester or priest to bless the ceremony, no witnesses to attest to its validity. In the eyes of the Faith and the court, the union lacks recognition.”

Her head tilted slightly as she delivered the final blow, seeking to drive the arrowhead straight into his heart. “It is as though it never really happened.”

Any restraint Aemond had left snapped as he surged forward, prowling towards her and seizing her wrist before she could think to move away. Her skin burned against his as he raised her hand between them, his grip tight but not bruising–he still retained that much control. His sudden touch seemed to startle her, her breath catching in her throat as she jerked back slightly, eyes widening in surprise. 

A sneer twisted his lips. “Do we not bear the same scars, ābrazȳrys? Do we not bear the evidence upon our palms?”

Aemond's memories of that night were as vivid as the day he lost his eye—the tentative expression on her face as she indulged him, the cautious yet curious gaze she held as he retrieved the dragonglass arrowhead. He could still see her, marked by the glyph upon her brow and the line of blood on her lips, the taste of it hauntingly vivid. He remembered the vows they exchanged—one flesh, one heart, one soul. Now and forever. He recalled how the flames had played across her skin, the sensation as he pressed into her again, tasting the salt of her skin and the copper of her lips, the feel of her body against his as they consummated their vows.

And now, she was denying it all–denying that it ever really happened.

His voice lowered, seeking her acknowledgement, “Did we not seal our vows in blood?”

Daenera wrenched her wrist from his grip, her eyes burning with incredulity and her lips trembling slightly as she retorted, “What is one scar from another? That is no evidence.”

He stepped back, regarding her with cool detachment. The scar on the palm of his hand burned with the memory of the dragonglass arrowhead, burned with the memory of her skin against his. He felt an overwhelming urge to grab her, to drag her to his room and prove just how much she belonged to him, but he restrained himself. He couldn’t–wouldn’t–force her.

Averting his gaze, Aemond forcibly tore his eye away from her and recomposed himself, sliding his cold, impassive mask back into place–he refused to yield more than he already had. Despite her denials, she was his wife; they both knew the truth of their union, and soon, the realm would recognize it too. He took another step back, feeling his heart pounding heavily within his chest. 

“Aemond… Tell me this isn’t true,” his mother’s voice broke through, rising in urgency as she approached from behind. She gripped his arms, her fingers digging into the muscle of his forearm as she forced him to look at her. “Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me you aren’t this–this foolish!”

Aemond glowered at his mother, his silence laden with admission. He recognized his folly–had been a fool, terribly and irrevocably, a fool who had fallen in love. If possible, he would extricate this weakness from his being, but she was so deeply intertwined within him that extracting her seemed impossible. What else did he truly possess? She was the one good thing that remained to him. 

Alicent’s grip on his arms tightened further as her voice escalated, “Tell me it isn’t true! Tell me you didn’t marry that cursed girl!”

Her words struck him like a slap to an already raw wound–the same scorn he had endured since his return from Storm’s End now intensified, crushing him with the weight of her disappointment. It had never been the same between them since then.

“Alicent,” Otto interjected, his tone reproachful. 

“Do you grasp the gravity of your actions–whom you’ve bound yourself to?” Alicent hissed at Aemond, her dark eyes ablaze with a mix of fury and fear. Her lips curled downward, her head shaking in exasperation as she spoke as though she possessed knowledge about Daenera that Aemond did not. “She will see you cursed–she will see you suffer for what you did to her brother! She will doom us all–”

“Mother, enough!” Aemond answered, his voice sharp as he shrugged off her grasp. Her nails grazed the sleeves of his doublet as he forcefully removed her hands from him, freeing himself from her clutches, her face twisting in hurt and ire. He was acutely aware of what Daenera was–a poisoner on whose poison he had become dependent.

If bearing her resentment meant keeping her safe and close to him, he was prepared to endure it, despite the self-disgust he felt at the enormity of his desire for her, how it reduced him, yet he remained helpless against it. “It is done–”

“It is not,” Alicent countered sharply, her lips tight, her gaze fixed on him with incredulity. “There’s still a chance to undo this. As she herself declared, it’s merely your word against hers. No witnesses, no priest, nothing to consecrate the vows. The gods do not recognize it.”

It would be futile to deny it. Nothing could reverse the act–just as nothing could erase the blood that stained his hands. And he would not deny it. 

“Compose yourself, daughter,” Otto commanded, his voice firm and imbued with reproach. His piercing gaze was enough to still Alicent as she glared back at him with her own reproach. His fingers tapped irritably against the aged leather of his ledger, assessing the scene. After a moment of weary resignation, he declared, “What’s done is done. It is of no consequence now.”

“‘Of no consequence?’” Alicent repeated, her lips twisting into a frown of displeasure, her earring swaying as she shook her head and turned towards her fater. 

“The legitimacy of their union matters little at this juncture,” Otto stated, his gaze shifting reproachfully towards Aemond. “ Our priority is the forthcoming wedding–” he continued, emphasizing his next words, “one that aligns with our faith and is witnessed by the eyes of the court.”

Aemond responded with a measured–challenging–smirk, unapologetic about the Valyrian ceremony they had held. It was the tradition of their forebears after all, and Aemond found the ritual far more significant and interesting than those of the Faith. Although it lacked witnesses or a priest to consecrate their vows, it had bound them as surely as any formal vows could, as real as the cars on their palms. The forthcoming ceremony, in his view, was nothing more than a formality. 

“You’re condemning him with this marriage,” Alicent accused, her voice laden with emotion as she advanced towards the table to confront her father, gripping the back of a chair as though to steady herself. 

“The wedding is set,” Otto declared flatly, brushing aside her concerns with a dismissive wave. His cold, calculating gaze shifted to Aemond. “How long have you kept this from us?”

Aemond caught her gaze, his eye locking with hers. Her eyes, large and brimming with angry tears, seemed to burn into him. How long had it been since their entanglement began?

Had it started when she first saw his scar and did not turn away? When she invited him into her chambers that night–the chamber where her husband slept? Or during those quiet nights, when she sought his touch to erase the memory of her husband? Perhaps it was when he took her to the Isle of Faces and laid with her before the Old Gods, or the day she had summoned him after she had been hurt, and together, had taken her husband’s life–was that the beginning?

Or had it started even earlier? That day, a year or so ago, when she had knelt before him with those scornful eyes and a warm mouth, or that moment he had traced his hand up her leg in the water, watching her reaction? Maybe it was after the tourney, when she had come to his chambers and boldly pressed a knife to his throat? That night when she had given her maidenhead to him? 

Or perhaps, the fall began the day she returned to King’s Landing.

Aemond knew she would have preferred that night to remain shrouded in the darkness of night–a secret cloaked in the protective shadows of denial and silence–where she could deny it. He refused to let her forget it.

“Four months.”

“Four months? Since her husband’s death?” His mother’s voice carried a note of disbelief as she echoed his answer, her body turned to face him again. Her arms crossed protectively over her chest, her fingers nervously tracing her lips–a gesture he knew all too well. It was an anxious habit that surfaced whenever she was deeply troubled, one he once would have sought to soothe, but he didn’t-

“We married soon after,” Aemond answered, his voice steady, giving her the partial truth. It was a delicate omission, one that avoided the grim details of that day. 

Otto settled back into his chair, his gaze methodically shifting between Aemond and Daenera as he contemplated the situation. “This may be to our advantage.”

““How can this possibly serve our interests?!” Alicent cut in sharply, her voice laden with incredulity and concern. ““Lord Borros Baratheon will surely sever ties with us once he discovers his brother’s widow has remarried so swiftly after his death. He will suspect Aemond of having a hand in his brother’s demise and he will demand justice.”

“Lord Borros is a prideful man and has already pledged his loyalty to us. It would tarnish his honor to withdraw now. He wants for a royal alliance and the power of a dragon at his command. He won’t risk losing that,” Otto reasoned, his voice steady and assured. “However, we must censure that the nature of Boris Baratheons accident remains beyond reproach… We announce that their union was sealed a few weeks ago, perhaps a month, in a small ceremony, meant to keep her mother’s wrath at bay.” He continued, “We’ll weave the narrative of forbidden love, and the coming nuptials will be a formal ceremony that aligns with both the Faith and tradition, presenting the union to the court.”

“That is if I comply…” Daenera interjected, her tone defiant as she advanced towards the table, her gaze moving past him to meet his mother’s eyes. “I have an inherent obstinance, Your Grace…” Her focus then shifted back to Otto, effectively dismissing Aemond’s presence with her pointed gaze. She continued, her voice resolute, “You may weave your narrative, Lord Hand, but if I resist, your schemes will unravel. You have shown your cruelty by having me attend the celebration of my brother’s death–how will your plans fare when I am to be dragged down the aisle, tears running down my face, resisting every step?”

The image of Daenera being forcibly led down the aisle, her struggle against the guard’s grip, her hair disheveled and tears streaking down her face, flashed through his mind–it twisted cruelly within him, his heart bludgeoning itself against his ribs. 

Her eyes briefly met Aemond’s, capturing the intensity of his frustration, before she quickly looked away, continuing her argument, “How do you think the realm will respond to you forcing me to marry my brother’s murderer? How do you think my mother would react? And Daemon?”

Aemond scoffed, his gaze drifting upwards towards the ceiling, a dismissive gesture that belied his contempt for the opinions of others. He was indifferent to the realm’s view of his marriage, even less concerned about her mother’s reaction. As for Daemon, Aemond was unafraid; he was ready to face him, ready to spill as much blood as necessary for Daenera. His voice was sharp, edged with defiance as he retorted, “And how will she respond when she learns you married me willingly? Daemon had his suspicions of our relationship–how do you think he would react? Would he see it as a betrayal?”

““Do you think they’ll believe the tale that we married weeks ago, when I am dragged, crying, to the altar?” Daenera snapped back, her blue eyes narrowing in anger.

Aemond stared at her intently for a moment, his frustration burning within his chest and making its way into his response, the venom of his words palpable as he shot back, “Do you think they won’t?”

Her expression fell under the weight of his words, visibly shaken by the brutal implication. Aemond could see the poison of doubt seeping into her confidence. He  knew that her mother and Daemon’s suspicion about their relationship was likely the reason behind her summons to return home to Dragonstone–that it was the reason for her leaving him. The revelation of their prior marriage, especially before the usurpation, would undoubtedly be seen by Daemon as a betrayal. 

She abruptly tore her gaze away from him, a clear dismissal that stung him more than he expected. Retreating to the shadows, Aemond returned to standing by the column, his eye fixed on her as his frustration and anger burned within his chest.

“If we release your men, you will consent to the marriage,” Orro declared, his voice resonating with the authority of expectation rather than posing a question. 

“Yes.”

“From this day forward, you will embody the perfect bride–beautiful, radiant–and subsequently, the role of a devoted and loving wife,” Otto continued, laying out the expectations clearly.

With a voice tight with scorn, Alicent interjected, “You surely cannot be considering her terms?”

Otto quietly dismissed his daughter, disregarding her concerns as he remained focused on Daenera. “We cannot release both of your men. You must choose between the Sworn Shield and the boy. Once you fulfill your part of the arrangement, we will release the one you have chosen.”

“The Sworn Shield. Fenrick,” Daenera responded without hesitation, stepping forward and gripping the back of a chair, her resolve clear. She pointedly avoided meeting Aemond’s gaze, even as he watched her intently, even as he knew she felt his gaze on her. He gritted his teeth in annoyance. 

Alicent’s brows shot up in both surprise and reproach, before her expression settled into something more judgmental. “You choose not to save the boy? How heartless of you to leave him languishing in captivity.”

Amidst the swirl of anger and frustration that tormented him, a spark of dark curiosity flickered within him. His fingers twitched restlessly as he noticed the subtle shift in Daenera’s demeanor–a cold, dark ruthlessness that demanded his attention. Her decision to leave the boy in captivity, facing a likely grim fate, resonated with something deep within him. Aemond didn’t see her as heartless; rather, her choice was pragmatic. Still, her prioritization of her sworn shield over the boy twisted something inside of him. 

“Release Fenrick.”

Otto straightened in his seat and responded with a measured nod. “Upon your marriage to Aemond, your man will be released. The boy, however, will stay with us as insurance.”

Relief flickered in Daenera's eyes as she visibly relaxed, a slight ease returning to her breath—an expression that only served to agitate Aemond further. With a clear and measured voice, she asked, "When is the wedding to be held?"

"Seven days from now," Otto declared firmly, standing up to signal the conclusion of their discussion. His decisive stance left no room for further debate, marking the immediate future with an inevitability that hung heavily in the air.

The Council Chambers descended into silence as the Hand of the King meticulously collected the last pieces of his parchments from the table, stacking them atop the closed folder before scooping them up in a deliberate motion. With an expression of weary annoyance, Otto quietly issued a warning to his daughter. Their eyes met briefly, and Alicent, seeming to absorb the admonition, turned away to gaze out the windows, distancing herself from the conversation. Otto then lifted his gaze to Aemond, extending the same cautionary note–a warning to not further endanger their already fragile position. 

Aemond, however, dismissed his grandfather’s warning with a nonchalant curve of his lips, unswayed by the counsel. He wasn’t concerned with their position. His gaze returned to Daenera, watching how she shifted under his scrutiny, her head held high in defiance as she deliberately avoided meeting his gaze. He wanted to grasp her wrist, to lead her away to a secluded spot where they could speak freely, away from the formalities and pretenses. But he was keenly aware that such a gesture would not be welcomed. 

Before he could act on his impulse, his mother stepped in, positioning herself between them. She reached out to Daenera, her fingers brushing against Daenera’s hand. Before she could retract her hand, Alicent grasped it firmly.

“I will be going to the Sept. Join me,” she stated, making it more a directive than a suggestion, enduring that Daenera had little room to decline as she stole her away from Aemond and his intentions. 

As Aemond moved towards them, his mother sharply dismissed him with a pointed gesture. His jaw clenched tightly, and he gritted his teeth, feeling the agitation spread like wildfire from his chest through his body, creating an almost unbearable itch beneath his skin. He sought Daenera’s gaze, but she turned her face away, denying him even a brief connection.  

A low hum of frustration rumbled up from his chest to the back of his throat. Drawing in a measured breath, his gaze hardened. He walked out the room, his hands clenched tightly at his sides, each step echoing his growing turmoil. The dismissal–and deeper still, the rejection–twisted inside of him. He felt the surge of that wretched beast within, baring its teeth, as the need to unleash his pent-up frustration prickled relentlessly at his fingertips. 

Usually when he felt like this, Aemond sought solace in the tiltyard, pushing his body to its limits through grueling training sessions. He would continue until exhaustion claimed him, until his hands numbed from the impact of blows, his muscles quivered with fatigue, and his mind cleared of all distractions. At other times, he would escape to the skies on Vhagar, finding freedom above the clouds, far from the troubles that tethered him to the earth. 

This time, however, he chose neither of these releases. Instead, driven by a darker impulse, Aemond made his way to the dungeons beneath the Red Keep. He descended the stone steps into the underbelly of the fortress.

As Aemond entered the dungeon, the guards stationed at the doors quickly rose to their feet, abruptly abandoning their dice game. In their haste to assume a more formal posture, one guard's sword clanged loudly against a chair while the other's knee knocked against the makeshift table, almost knocking it over and spilling the dice and coins onto the floor. The guards shifted uneasily, faces paling slightly under Aemond's stern gaze. Without offering any explanation, Aemond strode past them, delving deeper into the dungeon's shadows. Behind him, the sound of the guards muttering to each other filled the air, accompanied by hurried footsteps and the jingling of keys as they scrambled to follow protocol.

The dungeons were enveloped in deep shadows, with only slivers of natural light managing to seep through the narrow windows set close to the ground–set at the very top of each cell wall–capturing mere glimpses of passing boots. These meager shafts of light did little to dispel the pervasive gloom. Along the walls, torches flickered erratically, their sputtering flames casting dancing shadows that played across the damp stone surface. 

The air in the dungeons was thick and oppressive, clinging unpleasantly to the back of the throat. The pungent smell of urine and excrement permeated the damp air, making each breath an assault on the senses. Intermittently, the rustle of chains or an echoed cough broke through the silence, and below that, rats squeaked in the dark corners. 

His footsteps echoed crisply against the stone as he bypassed the imposing, empty cage that dominated the center of the main room, his attention drawn instead to the smaller, more austere cells lining the walls. Behind him, the guard followed, the flickering torch in his hand casting only feeble light that were hardly able to light their way. The jiggle of keys accompanied each of his steps. 

Aemond paused in front of one of the cells, his gaze moving past the iron bars to survey its occupants. 

Inside, a small boy lay curled on a cot, tightly wrapped in a moth-eaten blanket as he slept. At the child’s feet sat a figure shrouded in shadows, his presence revealed only by a pair of narrowed eyes that glinted in the dim torchlight, fixed on Aemond. 

Fenrick’s voice broke the silence, low and cautious as if to avoid waking the boy, “Are you here to personally see to my execution?”

Aemond lingered, observing Fenrick’s worn features which the scant light of the dungeons seemed to prey upon, casting deep shadows that accentuated the gauntness etched into the man’s face. He looked older, almost fragile, and Aemond found himself wondering the value of this man’s life. What was so important about this pathetic old man that she would trade her compliance for the sake of his freedom? 

“Hmm,” Aemond hummed noncommittally, then took a measured breath before issuing a command, “Bring him.”

He turned sharply on his heels as he strode away, not sparing another glance in Fenrick’s direction. His steps were purposeful as he headed towards one of the interrogation cells. Behind him, the jangle of keys rang out, followed by the guard’s gruff voice ordering Fenrick to present his hands. The sound of metal clinking together briefly filled the air, punctuated by the grating creak of the cell door as it swung open. 

Aemond positioned himself against the wall of the interrogation room, leaning against the cold stone beneath the barred window from which light filtered, casting sharp rays across the sparse interior. In the center of the room stood a plain table flanked by two chairs–one of which was stained with dried blood. 

The door creaked open again as the guard ushered Fenrick inside, nudging him towards one of the chairs. Fenrick was forcefully seated, his shackled hands–marred with grime and dried blood–rested heavily on top of the table. Once Fenrick was in place, the guard looked up at Aemond expectantly. Aemond dismissed him with a slight turn of his head, and the guard withdrew to quietly stand outside the room, providing them a semblance of privacy, though it was clear that Aemond needed no protection against a feeble old man in chains. His knife rested at his hip, a silent promise that if Fenrick dared to make a move, he was more than ready to end it swiftly. 

Silence hung heavily in the air as Aemond took in the full extent of Fenrick injuries. Dark bruises pooled beneath his eyes, mirroring the shadows of the dungeons that seemed imprinted onto his very skin. A jagged cut marred the crook of his nose, healing crookedly–a testament to recent violence. It appeared there was still some fight left in the old man. 

Fenrick’s face was set in a grimace of simmering animosity, his eyes flickering with disdain as he met and held Aemond’s gaze. 

“You should be thankful we didn’t confine you to the black cells,” Aemond remarked, his voice taking on a conversational tone that belied the grim nature of his words. “I’m told there are rats down there as large as cats, with a particular taste for human flesh.”

“You didn’t bring me here to discuss my accommodations,” Fenrick retorted dryly, his voice stripped of any expectation of comfort or mercy, cutting through the superficiality of Aemond’s comment with weary resignation. 

Aemond looked at Fenrick with cold detachment, his gaze icy. “Perhaps you haven’t been informed here, in your cozy accommodations, but I am soon to wed Daenera. I suppose I should be grateful you’re such a poor sworn shield, otherwise you might have succeeded in stealing Daenera away.”

Genrick scoffed crudely, a sound of disbelief mingled with contempt. He shook his head slightly, his eyes locked onto Aemond with scorn. “You make it sound as though it wasn’t her choice to leave King’s Landing–to escape your clutches and the fate that awaited her should she remain. I suppose you wouldn’t see it that way, Kinslayer.”

The word ‘kinslayer’ was spat out with a sneer of palpable contempt, its echo bouncing off the stone walls of the dungeon cell. It was an indictment from which he would never escape, whispered among his allies and hurled at him by his enemies–a moniker that seeped through the cracks of the Red Keep, tainting the groundwater and poisoning the realm’s perception of him. 

Aemond bore this indictment with an expression of indifference, even as it gnawed at him like a splinter burrowing beneath his skin, a constant, nagging reminder of his actions and the blood that stained his hands. He felt that splinter fester within him each time he was called ‘kinslayer.’

“You’ve damned yourself,” Fenrick condemned with a harsh tone, his eyes hardening. “There’s no man so accursed as the one who slays his own kin. The gods will forsake you for this–”

“The gods abandoned me long before this. Your opinions of me are of no consequence,” Aemond answered flatly, his arms folded tightly across his chest. He had never cared for this man’s judgment–this man who had never seen him as anything but the enemy. Why should the opinions of such a man carry any weight?

“No,” Fenrick agreed, shiftling slightly in his seat, “It’s her opinion you’re really concerned about…”

Gritting his teeth, Aemond momentarily averted his gaze, feeling the sting as Fenrick prodded at that tender spot within him–the bruise that was his love for Daenera. Among the few opinions that mattered to him, hers were the most important. The extent to which she had managed to get under his skin continued to surprise him–continued to twist something inside of him. 

As Fenrick shifted to face Aemond more directly, the sound of his shackles scraping over the table hung in the air, punctuating the tense atmosphere. His brows were drawn together in an angry furrow as he challenged Aemond, “If you have any shred of mercy in you–if you truly care for her, you wouldn’t condemn her with this marriage.”

The sharpness of Fenrick's words seemed to wedge beneath the mask of cold indifference that Aemond wore. His remarks were crafted not merely to injure Aemond's pride but to provoke a sense of guilt—a sentiment Aemond adamantly refused to entertain. While the death of Lucerys had not been his intention, Aemond felt no sorrow or remorse for the incident. Any flicker of guilt that might have surfaced was swiftly disregarded, as he willfully turned a blind eye to such feelings.

Aemond’s heart pounded in the inferno of anger that burned within his chest, its pulse echoing not only in the cavity of it but also behind the sapphire that had replaced his eye. He could feel the contours of the gem pressing against his socket, a ceaseless that had remained with him since the death of Lucerys–a relentless reminder. With each word of condemnation, the throbbing intensified until he gritted his teeth in pain. 

“I am doing this to protect her,” Aemond stated, his voice as cold as he justified himself. “I’m doing this to keep her safe–”

“And how are you keeping her safe?” Fenrick countered sharply, his scowl deepening as he let out a scoff of exasperation. “Even as your wife, she still remains a hostage–merely a pawn in the Lord Hand’s machinations, a life to leverage against her mother. How will you protect her from the judgment and condemnation of being married to a kinslayer? How will you shield her from your own family–how will you protect her from your brother?”

Fenrick leaned forward slightly on the table, his dark eyes filled with judgment. “And when she no longer serves a purpose, what will become of her then? By forcing this marriage, you are condemning her to a life with the man who murdered her brother and seek to destroy the rest of her family.”

“What would you have me do?” Aemond sneered, pushing from the wall and striding towards Fenrick. He towered over him, asserting his presence as he continued, “Should I leave her to remain merely a hostage?” At least as his wife, she would be offered some semblance of security and comfort. “As my wife, I can protect her.”

“And if Aegon turns his eye on her?” 

Aemond stared back at Fenrick, the weight of implication sinking into him. “Aegon will not–”

“Your brother has never been one to restrain his desires,” Fenrick interrupted sharply–scornfully. “Aegon is a king now. What makes you think you could stop him if he decided he wanted Daenera for himself.”

Aemond closed the distance between himself and Fenrick, looming over him with a sneer on his lips. “I will stop him,” he growled, his voice low and threatening. “Aegon is many things, but he isn’t entirely stupid. He knows I control his greatest weapon, and he wouldn’t be foolish enough to risk it. I will protect her–I am protecting her.”

“And if it’s you she needs protection from? If you truly want to protect her, you’d get her out of the city–out of your brother’s reach.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“You could.”

Aemond straightened to his full height, his lips curling into something more menacing than a smirk–a predator baring its teeth in anger. He circled the table to firmly grip the back of the chair opposite Fenrick. His reluctance to release her was not solely driven by his desire for her. His obligation to his family precluded any possibility of releasing her. Releasing her would mean sending her back to Dragonstone, potentially motivating her mother to launch an attack. Such a risk was unacceptable to him; he simply could not allow it. 

There was no refuge on Dragonstone, only the promise of a slow death as the war continued to grow. In such circumstances, she would be deemed the enemy. And Aemond was convinced that her mother and Daemon would use her to secure an marriage alliance; she was destined to be married regardless of the circumstances. They would be pulled further and further away from each other, until either she or he perished in the war. Only one side would prevail, and Aemond was resolute in ensuring it was his. He was determined to save her from the grim fate that awaited her family–and if that meant marrying her against her will, then so be it. 

At his side, Aemond believed he could offer her protection against his own family. Although Aegon was drunken fool who enjoyed making his life miserable, he knew the boundaries and would not cross them at the risk of losing his greatest asset. He would not lay a hand upon Daenera, Aemond was determined to ensure that–she would be safe and comfortable as his wife. 

Aemond’s lips twisted into a sneer as he retorted, “And have you protected her? Where were you when her husband laid his hands on her?”

Fenrick appeared momentarily taken aback, a shadow of shame flickering across his face before it settled back into a hardened scowl. “You’re the one who sealed her fate the moment you took her maidenhead–”

Aemond’s voice was dangerously calm, his fury simmering beneath the surface as he said,“You were the one who told Daemon about us.”

He had been the reason Daenera had been forced to marry Boris Baratheon. Had Fenrick refrained from disclosing their secret dalliance to Daemon and Rhaenyra, Daenera might have avoided the marriage. Had he not told them, she wouldn’t have had to suffer through the humiliation of her husband’s whoring and sireing of a bastard. She wouldn’t have had to suffer through the marriage bed. She wouldn’t have had to suffer through his temper and beatings. 

Aemond recalled the moment his heart had plummeted upon seeing her in such a state–the way she had clutched her robe, desperately trying to conceal the extent of her injuries that he would only come to fully understand later. The memory of how her hair clung to her bloodied skin and how she trembled under his touch, her eyes wide and filled with tears came back to him. The reminders of that day were still evident on her: a cleft in her ear where it had been split, and faint scars across her back, a legacy of the leather belt that had been used on her. 

Aemond’s gaze hardened. 

“I did it to protect her from you.”

A humorless laugh escaped Aemond, his smile cold and sharp as a blade, slicing through the tension. “It seems you don’t know her as well as you think.”

“Oh, I know her far better than you ever will,” Fenrick answered, his tone laced with disdain. He licked his chapped lips, then continued, “I’ve watched her grow from a child into a woman.  I know where her heart truly lies–where it will always lie, and it isn’t with you. Daenera would never forsake her family for you. Even if she once felt some affection for you, she would never have betrayed her family for you.”

Aemond released his grip on the back of the chair and prowled towards the table, where he placed both palms flat on its worn surface. Leaning forward, his voice dropped into a low, menacing drawl, "I didn’t take her maidenhead by force. She offered it willingly. She sought me out—she has always been the one to seek me out."

Across the table, Fenrick’s face tightened, the muscle of his jaw working as he gritted his teeth. His eyes, narrowed to slits, bore into Aemond with an intensity that was almost palpable. His body tensed as if he were on the brink of lunging across the table to seize Aemond by the throat, and it only made Aemond more determined to rectify any misconceptions Fenrick held about his and Daenera’s relationship–to sow the seed of doubt in his mind. 

This confrontation was not just incidental; Aemond was here with a purpose–to ensure that Fenrick understood the truth.

Aemond’s tone was sharp and calculated as he pressed on, “She turned to me when her husband left her wanting… It was she who initiated our affair, not I.” A flicker of amusement stirred within Aemond as he watched Fenrick avert his gaze, his fists tightening on the table, the shackles clinging together at the movement. “You knew of her husband’s temper, how could you not? You, who stood as her protector, her sworn shield, knew of her mistreatment, and yet you turned a blind eye to it simply because he was her husband.”

His accusation hit its mark as Fenrick’s jaw clenched tightly. The man’s eyebrows drew together, shadowed by guilt as he locked eyes with Aemond. With a scornful sneer, he retorted, “You would know about turning a blind eye, wouldn’t you, Kinslayer?”

A taunting smirk played across Aemond’s lips as he recognized the insult for what it was–a desperate jape at his vulnerability, coming from a man ensnared in his own shame, trying to claw back some semblance of control. Aemond was not inclined to grant him any reprieve. 

“She came to me,” Aemond declared, his voice a smooth drawl. “She sought solace in my arms–sought to remove her husband's touch with mine. It was her choice, and I willingly obliged her.”

Fenrick’s expression darkened further as Aemond leaned in closer, the intensity of his gaze forcing Fenrick to look away. A flush of anger rose to his cheeks, face reddening as he struggled to contain the anger at Aemond’s words. The air between them was thick with tension, as palpable as the stench of rat droppings.

“And then her husband bound her to their bed,” Aemond continued, drawing Fenrick’s attention back with a jolt, his eyes darkening with shock, shame, and guilt. Good. He should feel ashamed. He should feel guilty. And from the extent of his shock, Aemond came to understand that he had never fully known what transpired that day–which meant that she had sought to shield him from the brutal truth, sparing him the burden of guilt. Aemond, however, held no intention of offering such leniency. “Where he beat her with his belt so violently that she was bleeding. And it was me that she turned to–it was me who protected her.”

Aemond paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in before delivering the final blow with cold precision, “You did not protect her.”

His voice was cool and measured as he straightened from his lean against the table, rising to his full height again, bathed in the light pouring in from the window. “You presume to know her heart?” His head shook, tilting slightly as he hummed. “It is I who truly knows it. And deep down, you know my words to be true.”

His heart thrummed with a blend of amusement and gratification as he meticulously unravel Fenrick’s understanding of their relationship. Each word he spoke was calculated, aimed to thoroughly dismantle his perception of her. 

Fenrick thought he knew her heart but what did he truly know but what he wished to see?

While he thought her a princess in need of protection, a daughter yearning for a father’s care, Aemond recognized her true nature; She was the embodiment of fire–capable of both nurture and destruction. At times, she was a tender flame, offering warmth and solace, her presence a gentle, comforting embrace. She possessed a kindness that nourished those around her, her nurturing touch as soothing as the hearth’s glow. Yet within the same breath, she could be an inferno. Her fierceness was unyielding, and she reveled in the blood she had on her hands, felt the power in it. She could be as merciless as the fire consuming wood. She was formidable–she was a dragon.

And Aemond accepted this, embracing even the scorn she showed him. Fenrick presumed to know her heart, but what he really knew of it was blinded by what he thought her to be–a little girl. “You see her as a gentle-hearted girl in need of protection but you forget that she is of fire and blood. It was she who sought to rid herself of her husband. Her poison runs deep, you see, and I was merely the tool with which she sought to end him.”

Aemond’s tone shifted as he leaned in, his head tilting slightly, a smirk softening into an unsettling smile. “Daenera and I are wed.” 

Across from him, Fenrick’s face contorted with shock, gradually turning into a look of sheer incredulity. His head began to shake, almost imperceptibly at first, as if trying to dismiss the very words he heard. “No, that can’t be right–I refused to believe it. She would never–”

“She did,” Aemond said, his eye locked with Fenrick. “The blood of Old Valyria runs through her veins, it seemed only appropriate we first wed in the tradition of our house. We cut out palms, we shared our blood, and we recited the vows; one flesh, one heart, one soul. Now and forever.” He hummed, pursing his lips slightly.“And we consummate the marriage of course.” He paused, letting the words settle before continuing. “It was a simple, private ceremony. This coming one in the Sept is just a formality” 

Fenrick’s expression twisted into a sneer. “Do you really expect me to believe that Daenera would marry you willingly and without a blessing?”

“She was wary of Daemon’s reproach,” Aemond answered, his voice carrying an eerie smoothness. He extended his hand to reveal his palm. The skin bore healing cuts, nestled alongside a scar still blushing pink, gradually fading into a pale whisper of its former self. “She bears the same scar.”

Fenrick’s dark eyes traced the display, following the movement of his hand as he closed it and laid it back to rest on the back of the chair. His gaze seemed to linger a beat longer–a spark of recognition flickering across his features, brows inching down in apprehension, and then, he lifted his gaze to meet Aemond’s. His expression hardened. "Daenera was on her way back to Dragonstone—she chose her family, and she always will. She may have held some affection for you, perhaps even entertained the thought of persuading her mother to approve your marriage... but those days are past,"

“We don’t need her mother’s permission to marry–and we didn’t then, either. She is my wife.”

“Her marrying you doesn’t change the fact that she would still choose her mother over you,” Fenrick said, his dark eyes narrowed. “You sealed that choice when you killed Lucerys. She will never choose you.”

A chill seemed to encase Aemond’s heart, creeping into his veins as he regarded Fenrick with an icy gaze. Though Daenera had sought to leave King’s Landing, it did not alter the truth; that she was his wife–bound to him not only by choice but by blood. Yet, she had sought to leave. She had chosen them over him. He should not fault her for it, but he did–the thought that she’d leave him twisted inside of him like some terrible blade. Had it not been for the death of Viserys and the subsequent usurpation, she would have left.

And she would have taken his heart with her. 

“Is this why you clutch her so tight? Because you know she’d leave if she had the choice,” Fenrick continued. The chains rattled as he leaned forward, resting heavily on his arms, eyes burning with disdain. “And after all you’ve done, do you think she could ever look upon you and not see the monster you are–not see her brother’s murderer? Do you think she could ever forgive you for the blood that stains your soul?”

“I do not seek her forgiveness,” Aemond growled.

Fenrick’s eyebrows furrowed, his tone sharpening as he countered, “Don’t you? Isn’t that why you are here? You want me to confirm what you already know to be true–that she’ll never forgive you, that she can never love you.”

Aemond’s hand tightened into a fist, the ring on his finger constricting, almost burning against his skin. “I brought you here so that you may know the truth, and so that if, by some miracle, you escape the city and reach Dragonstone, you may inform Daemon of it.” 

“I won’t sow the seeds of doubt for you.”

“You will,” Aemond hummed flatly. “That is, if you make it there alive.”

Aemond was well aware that the seeds of doubt had already been sown. Should Fenrick manage to make his way to Dragonstone, the information he carried would serve to nurture those growing uncertainties. The news of Daenera’s seemingly joyous wedding would raise questions about her loyalties–the statement she made with her entrance at the feast would be misconstrued as an act of support rather than the act of defiance it truly was. 

Furthermore, the revelation that Daenera had willingly married him in the tradition of their house, prior to the upheavals of the usurpation, was bound to stir unrest on Dragonstone. Such news, delivered under these circumstances, would undoubtedly sow discord among the Blacks. 

Drawing in a measured breath, Aemond clasped his hands behind his back and stepped out of the dim light pouring in from the window, circling the table as he made to leave. His part was played; his words had been delivered and had had the intended impact. He had achieved what he desired. 

Pausing just short of Fenrick, Aemond delivered one last piece of information. “You should know, you’ll be released the day after the wedding. The boy will remain.”

Aemond walked towards the door then, when Fenrick called out after him, his voice weary and pleading, “Don’t do this to her. If you ever held any love for her, spare her the curse of being married to a kinslayer.”

Pausing at the threshold of the cell, Aemond murmured, “I do this because I love her.”

“That is not love.”

What else could it be? What wretched thing could it be, if not love? 

“She will resent you for it,” Fenrick pressed on, voice like gravel beneath a heel. “You must see that.”

Without turning, Aemond let out a soft hum, “I will bear her resentment, as long as she is safe.”

“If this war ends with her family dead, what’s to prevent her from throwing herself from the cliffs into the bay? Or from slitting her wrists? Starving herself? Poison? What is to prevent her from killing your brother and condemning herself to death? She will never be safe with you, Kinslayer…”

Aemond paused and turned to face Fenrick, his frown deepening as a heavy, discordant beat thudded in his chest–an awful dread gnawing at his stomach. His fingers twitched at his sides before curling into fists. He could almost feel the blade again in his hand, the searing pain as its hilt pressed into the open wounds of his palm, embedding the glass deeper into his flesh, and Daenera’s fingers as they wrapped tightly around his, ensuring his grip remained firm as she guided the blade to her neck where the cold steel bit into her skin. The chilling recollection sent a shiver of ice through his veins. <

With those words echoing hauntingly in the air, Aemond pushed open the door and departed, their weight lingering long after he had left the room. The visit to the dungeons had failed to relieve the frustration that had driven him there; instead, he departed with a growing sense of apprehension that gnawed at him from within. As he moved through the bowels of the dungeons, a restless itch prickled beneath his skin. 

Climbing the steep, narrow steps, Aemond felt an urgent need to grasp his sword. Each step upward seemed to compound this desire for the familiar weight of the blade in his hand, a craving for some semblance of control amidst the turmoil churning inside of him. 

And, in spite of himself, all he truly wanted was to lay his head in Daenera’s lap and close his eye.

 I wanna know what YOU think of his thoughts in these scenes and why you think he went to Fenrick.

And a minor update; I've managed to go 4 years without getting covid despite working at a high risk job for 3 of those 4 years, and surviving sharing a home with someone who had covid. I had a 4 year streak and now it's ruined because my mom decided to bring covid home with her again. So yes, I have covid. It's not too bad, but it has affected my ability to write a bit, but I hope I'll manage to have enough to post Friday. What is worse yet, I think, is that covid AND my allergies has decided to collaborate and is kicking my ass.

[wanderingsoul6261]

Credit for the gif goes to spagooterx

Hodari Pavel x Human!OC

Warning: sexual content below the cut. Minors do not interact. Swear words. Lots of them. I think that's it.

Enjoy this sin of a piece. Don't write this kind of stuff often so please bear with me. Ending is kind of rushed.

Emrys sat at the kitchen table, a cup of what she had known in her previous life to be coffee, in her hands. Her chapaa sat nestled in her lap. Hodari stood opposite of her, leaning back against the counter, void of a shirt, which Emrys had rightfully stolen the night before. He wore pajama bottoms, his legs crossed slightly as he took a sip from his own cup, his other hand propped up on the edge of the counter. 

She gazed at him, her eyes and smile soft as she took in his appearance. The way his hair is in disarray, having not yet combed it out yet for the day. The subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. He caught her staring, the corner of his mouth lifting into an amused smile. 

“You're starin’, darlin.” Emrys snapped out of her stupor, catching his eyes with her own. 

“Sorry. It can't be helped.” She smiled cheekily, feeling appreciative that the two, although very hesitantly, had decided to take a day off from work. Emrys thoroughly enjoyed the domesticity between the two. 

Hodari didn't have much to say either, as his eyes moved down her body, at least what wasn't blocked by the table. He adored the way his shirt fit over her form. The way her pajama shorts fitted around her soft and plush thighs. She wasn't a model like the ones you would likely see in Bahari City, or as fit as the other humans, but he loved the little bit of extra skin on her thighs and stomach. It gave him a little extra to hold onto when he was-

Hodari let out a small cough,adjusting his stance as his head filled with pleasurable thoughts. It was Emrys’ turn to smirk in amusement, just as Najuma practically jumped out of her room, obviously excited of spending the day doing absolutely nothing with Her dad and Emrys. 

Then she registered that he wasn't wearing a shirt. 

“Eugh, dad. Put a shirt on.” She complained, skipping over to embrace Emrys in a quick good morning hug. Hodari only rolled his eyes and let out a huff, but obliged. He set his cup on the table next to Emrys, eyeing her chapaa as he stirred awake and pressed a lingering kiss to the top of her head. 

She had raised her hand slightly, her touch lingering on his hip, her fingertips touching his skin and the cloth of his pajama bottoms. Hodari shivered slightly, moving away from her and pressing a kiss to Najuma's head as he walked pass her towards his room. 

When he returned, Hodari was dressed in mote day appropriate clothes, donning a regular t-shirt not claimed by Emrys and a pair of pants, leaving his jacket in the room. He returned for his cup, Emrys flashing him a wink as he turned to Najuma. 

“Go get dressed kiddo and I'll help you with one of your projects in the workshop.” When she disappeared, Hodari turned back to Emrys, who was presently taking a sip from her cup. 

He caged her against the table, one hand remaining on his cup while the other came around to settle on the table next to her. His breath fanned across her ear, causing her to shiver as he spoke. 

“That means you too, darlin. Change out of those clothes and into something more comfortable.” her breathing hitched, but she knew what Hodari was doing, and decided to play along. It always made the end of the night activities more exciting. 

“But these are comfortable.” as much as she tried to keep her cool, her voice gave her away, and she knew that Hodari caught it. A deep hum vibrated in his chest and she could feel it against her back. 

His hand moved from the table, moving down to the ends of the shirt, lifting it slightly as his fingers lightly ran along her bare skin. “I believe they would be a bit more comfortable on the bedroom floor.” His hand softly gripped the plush of her hip, letting out a noise of satisfaction in her ear as her breath hitched in her chest. “But we promised Najuma a day with her.” And with that, he withdrew his hand, but she still felt his touch lingering, as he walked towards the livingroom just as Najuma came bounding out of her bedroom. 

“Ready?!” She asked excitedly. 

Emrys coughed, regaining her composure as she squeezed her thighs together.

“You guys go ahead. Let me change out of my pajamas.” hodari looked back at her a mischievous glint in his eyes. 

“don't take too long darlin. We’ll be waitin.” and with that, the father daughter duo wandered out of the house, Najuma’s excited rambling and Hodari’s soft chuckle being heard as they moved away from the house. 

Emrys ached to relieve herself right then and there, but in the end, had decided not to, quickly changing and meeting the other two at the workshop. She had arrived as Hodari crossed the workshop to grab some tools, looking at her with a smug look as she approached. He waited until she was in front of him and pressed a chaste kiss to her lips, before leaning forward to finish grabbing the tools he and Najuma needed. 

“Did you touch yourself?” his voice was so soft, Emrys almost missed it. Her eyes widened slightly and her cheeks grew red. Hodari looked at her briefly, reaching for the last tool, awaiting an answer. 

“No.” She answered quickly, but honestly. Hodari let out a noise of satisfaction, content with her answer. 

“Good girl.” He breathed out as he walked back towards Najuma. Emrys grew weak in the knees, leaning against the work bench to support herself. 

“Are you okay Emrys? You look a little hot.” Najuma asked, genuinely concerned for her well being. Emrys glanced briefly at Hodari, who watched her with a knowing look, proud of how flustered he had made her with those simple words. 

“I alright kiddo. Probably just need to cool down.” 

“There's a pond right behind you.” Hodari pointed out. 

“Good point. Maybe I'll go for a swim.” 

“Oh! Me And dad are almost done!  We can join you!” 

And that's where they ended up. After a small swim, Emrys sat on the dock, her feet dipped into the water while Hodari casually floated on his back. Najuma sat on the bank across from the dock, her own foot dangling in the water, mindlessly tinkering away at a small gadget, excited chatter coming from her every now and then. 

Emrys watched Hodari float for a few moments, watching him and his rare moment of peace, before completely destroying it. Using her foot, she splashed water in his direction, startling him, snickering as he paused his floating, glared at her playfully, and then proceeded to swim towards her. 

He caged her on the dock, both hands on either side of her as he hoisted himself partially out of the water, hips settling in-between her legs. 

“That was very uncalled for, darlin.” 

“I thought it was very called for.” She grinned, her hands coming up to play with his wet strands of hair. 

“Goin to get y'self in a heap of trouble.” He warned, his eyes filled with desire, watching her. 

“Sounds fun.” She whispered, just as she used her other hand to swipe briefly over his clothed dick. Hodari shuddered, His arms threatened for a brief moment to collapse and send him back into the pond. 

“Darlin.” He warned dangerously. 

“My love.” She mocked back, a mischievous grin still on her face. He was quick to replace it though with surprise. Hodari slid back into the pond, and then proceeded to settle his hands on her plush hips, pulling her into the water to join him. 

She let out a startled noise as she was plunged into the water, but kept close to Hodari as he pushed her up against the one of the dock supports. He pushed his groin into her, showing her just how excited he was by just the simple teasing between the two of them. 

“If it was just us, in this moment, I'd have already taken you against this dock.”

A spark ran through her body as he brushed his fingers against her clothed pussy at the very same time he had said that. She swallowed, trying not to show him how much she was enjoying the moment, but could tell she was failing. A glint of amusement showed in his eyes as he took in her state. Eyes glazed over with lust. Breathing just a slight bit heavier. He did it again, taking pride in the way she bit her lip to stop the needy moan from escaping. When he pulled his fingers away, she released a frustrated grumble. 

“We can always go inside.” She almost sounded like she was begging, desperate for his touch. He tutted. 

“The day is for Najuma. Remember?” He asked. She let out an annoyed huff, and made a move to grab his cock, but he stopped her, just as Najuma called out to him. 

“Dad! What about muujin for dinner?” Hodari gave Emrys a cheeky grin,before turning to look at his daughter. 

“Sounds good kiddo. Want to give me a hand?” 

“What about Emrys?” She asked. 

“She wants to cool down a bit longer. She'll join us in a bit.” Emrys had opened her mouth to say something, but Hodari beat her to it. She jolted when she suddenly felt his hand slip inside her swim suit bottoms, rubbing against her clit and teasing her before withdrawing his hand just as quick as it slipped inside. Emrys bit her tongue, preventing an even louder and more frustrated moan from coming out as Hodari swam to the shore, his deep chuckle drifting to her ears as she focused on controlling herself. 

“Two can play that game.” She mumbled, throwing a mischievous glance at Hodari as he looked back at her, the threat of a dangerous game glinting in her eyes. He only looked smug, meeting Najuma at the entrance of the house. 

When Emrys had finished swimming, ultimately diving under to shock herself with the cold water, she had wandered inside, having wrapped herself in a towel that Hodari brought out for her while Najuma was tasked with watching the Muujin on the grill. She had gotten changed, using the probability of a picnic to further tease Hodari. Jel had been gracious enough to design a few sundresses for her, as she remembered them to be. She was never sure as to how Hodari would react to them, but upon wearing one for the first time several weeks ago, there was not a single doubt that the miner didn't appreciate her wearing one, because he most absolutely did. 

So here she was now, bringing out a few items to the father and daughter duo as they requested when she went inside to change. Najuma had been the one to snatch them from her hands, excited with the process of helping her father cook. Hodari, who had turned around to look at her, likely with the probability of saying something, had stopped short. 

He took in her appearance, the way the sundress went to just about mid thigh. The way it showed off her soft body had his mind going places that were not appropriate for the moment. When his eyes finally met hers, he saw the glint of amusement in them, knowing that she was playing this game with the intention to win. 

Emrys walked over to him, standing as close as she could get. 

“Cat got your tongue Pavel?” He let out a hum, swallowing as he looked at her. 

“No.” He leaned forward until his mouth brushed against the shell or her ear. “But it will later.” 

Not expecting that comeback, Emrys’ eyes went wide, a noise of surprise emitting from her lips. It was Hodari's turn to look smug, gripping her hips and pulling her closer, the ghost of a kiss on her lips. 

“Don't worry that pretty head of your's darlin. The teasin’ will amount to somethin’. Promise.” He whispered against her lips before turning to help Najuma. Emrys’ face glowed with a blush, her eyes on Hodari's back. “Lookin gorgeous by the way darlin.” Her blush grew brighter as she let out a meek thank you. She saw the smirk on his face, But she couldn't even be mad that it seemed to be that she was losing this game they had been playing all day. If anything, she didn't mind it.

“Anything I can do to help?” She asked. 

“Nope. Just take a seat and look pretty. Shouldn't be too hard.” He turned and winked at her. Her cheeks grew read again as she took a seat, almost instantly noticing the smile on Hodari’s face. Or was it a smug grin, knowing he could get her to do anything. Like a good girl. Arousal suddenly pooled between her legs and she clenched her thighs, taking a seat. She watched as Hodari taught Najuma the basics of cooking a Muujin steak, smiling softly at the duo. Lately it seemed as if the two were on far better terms, arguments being less frequent. 

“How do you like your steak darlin'?” Emrys blinked a few times, noticing both Najuma and Hodari staring at her. Najuma stared at her excitedly, clearly having enjoyed the day between the two of them. Hodari had an eye raises in amusement, as if the cogs in his mind were trying to work out exactly what she was thinking about. 

“Medium well.” She answered. A deep hum from Hodari followed, as he turned back to the grill to help Najuma cook her steak. 

A short time later, all three steaks were finished and the other two had taken a seat at the table. Hodari sat to Emrys’ right and Najuma sat across from them. The three of them held pleasant conversation, talking about their day together, with Hodari even commenting that it might have to happen a bit more often, that he wanted to spend some more time with his girls. Her heart swelled at the comment, noticing how Najuma's smile had also widened at the mention. 

About halfway through dinner, Hodari placed a hand on her thigh, underneath her sundress, and tried not to react to it. Her body grew warm though, enjoying the feel of his rough palm on the smooth and soft skin of her thigh. Instinctively, her legs fell open slightly, but Hodari definitely caught the movement. She noticed his smirk as he put another bite of food in his mouth. However, he made no movement to give her anything further, and instead rubbed his thumb along her skin. 

And it continued like that, even after the three of them were done eating. They conversed after dinner, sitting for about an hour and talking. It was actually more Najuma talking about her inventions, while both Emrys and Hodari listened, and when it came closer to an hour and a half having passed, Najuma had asked if he would be willing to help with one last thing in the workshop before he went to bed. He agreed and pressed a kiss to Emrys’ temple. 

“I'll be inside once I'm done Darlin’.” Emrys watched as Hodari walked side by side with her daughter to the workshop, already concocting her plan. As the father daughter duo reached the bridge to the workshop, Emrys stood up, cleaning up quickly from dinner and headed inside. She made a b-line right to his room, finding the dresser put in there just for her. 

Emrys easily found the lace lingerie she had snuck in there, slipped out of her sundress, only to put the lingerie on. And now she laid on the bed, waiting almost anxiously, for Hodari. It had been the first time she decided to wear such a thing for him, not having been much comfortable doing so before, and as she finally heard the heavy footfalls of his steps throughout the house, she grew even more anxious. 

She had held her breath as he opened the bedroom and took a step in, barely closing it when he looked up and at her. His eyes focused on her and he paused briefly for several seconds, before he slowly closed the door behind him. Emrys noticed that his pants appeared tighter and his eyes moved up and down the entire length of her body, darkening with lust. 

“First the sun dress. Now this? Are you tryin’ t’kill me darlin’?” Hodari asked, his voice thick with arousal as he took slow steps towards the bed. 

“Wasn’t sure you’d like it.” She answered honestly. 

“Like it? Fuck. Darlin’. I love it.” Relief spread through her body as she allowed herself to relax against the bed. He let out a hum of approval, finally reaching the bed and climbing onto it. His hand reached for her ankle, his fingers slowly and teasingly drifting up her leg as they fell open for him. “You're gorgeous in anything you wear.” He slotted himself in between her legs, pressing his groin against her, swooping down to press a passionate kiss to her lips. His hands fell to her hips, rubbing and gripping the soft skin as He grinded into her. “I'll make you feel good darlin’. Tonight's all about you.” A weak whine escaped her lips and he swallowed it with another, even more passionate kiss. His lips moved along her jaw, and then down to the hollow of her neck. “Took my teasin’ so well earlier. Such a good girl.” 

Hodari sat up, staring down at Emrys as he pulled his shirt over his head. He took in the sight of the lacy bra over her chest, the sight of her below him knocking the breath out of his lungs. Her eyes were glazed over with lust, breathing a bit heavier than she was several moments before. 

He climbed off the bed briefly, pulling his pants off, albeit a little bit too excitedly. He had almost fallen over, and Emrys couldn't help but let out a giggle. His eyes snapped to her, a playful grin on his face. 

“Not a word.” 

“I won't if you get over here and make sure I don't.” Her eyes twinkled as he let out a low groan. 

“Fuck darlin’.” 

“We aren't yet.” He let out a huff of breath as he climbed back onto the bed, his lips ghosting over her stomach, his hands rubbing over the soft plush skin of her waist and thighs. 

“We'll get there.” He mumbled softly, his lips leaving soft, barely noticeable kisses over the expanse of her stomach. Hodari wanted to worship her, show her just how much he loved her and every other part of her, and the soft plush skin of her waist and thighs were a top contender.

Her hands came down to run gently through his hair, the two of them making eye contact as he moved lower down her stomach. Her breath caught in her throat and he smirked against her skin, moving one hand from her waist and to her clothed center. His fingers teased her, rubbing up and down her pussy through the lingerie, before focusing on her clit. Emrys jolted, a sharp exhale escaping her lips at the sensation, the hand in Hodari's hair tightening. He let out a hum of approval against her skin, continuing his ministrations for several minutes, leaving her a heavily breathing and whining mess above him. 

“Hodari, please.” She begged, rolling her hips against his fingers in an attempt for more friction. 

“Since you asked so nicely, darlin’.” Hodari pulled her panties down. “Told you the cat would have my tongue.” He mumbled, and before Emrys could say another word, he attached his lips to her pussy, two fingers slipping inside easily for extra stimulation. A sharp inhale, followed by a low whine, filled the room, creating music for Hodari's ears as he pleasured her. He sucked on her clit as he slowly thrusted his fingers in and out of her, reveling in the way she squeezed his fingers, his cock growing impossibly harder. His other arm wrapped around one of her legs, spreading it a bit more and keeping it still as Emrys started to squirm. Hodari grinded his groin against the bed trying to seek some friction for himself as his tongue lapped at her clit, while also collecting the juices that escaped from around his fingers. He moaned, the action providing more stimulation for Emrys. She let out a high pitched moan, throwing her head back and arching her back. Hodari removed his arm from around her leg, and instead, splayed his hand across her stomach.

“Come on Darlin’.” He spoke against her clit, and then reattached his lips to it with renewed fervor. Between that and the fingers that continually thrusted in and out of her, stroking that bundle of nerves inside of her, she quickly reached her orgasm, her body trembling as Hodari continued to pleasure her through it, holding her still. He only stopped when she relaxed against the bed, her breathing heavy and fingers running through his hair as he looked up at her, taking in her blissed state as he pressed kisses to her inner thighs, his hands running up and down them. She was a beautiful sight, being fucked or not. 

She looked down at him, offering a shaky smile as he crawled up the bed and pressed a kiss to her lips, allowing her to taste the juices from her orgasm. One of her hands moved down to push his boxers off of him, and he helped her, replacing her hands with his own. 

His boxers were lost to the room, thrown somewhere out of sight as Emrys laid a hand upon his cock, stroking it gently. Hodari sat back, closing his eyes as he let out a low groan, his hips bucking. 

“Fuck darlin’.” Her thumb played with the tip, causing him to shudder. She strokes him several more times, before he stops her.“Keep doing that and I won't ever make it inside of you.” Hodari pulled her in for another kiss, unclasping her bra and helping it off to her, before it too was also lost to the room. 

Hodari positioned himself against her, giving her a few seconds before he started to sink inside of her. Emrys instantly squeezed around him, causing him to pause and for another low groan to escape his mouth. Expletives escaped his mouth, before he continued to push inside, her own whines and whimpers filling the room.

He sat like that for several minutes, watching as Emrys squirmed, filled to the brim with his cock. Hodari looked down at where they were joined together, his thumb moving to flick her clit. She jolted, a whimper escaping her mouth. 

“Hodari, fucking move, please. Before I push you off of me and get myself off.” 

“Can't have that, now can we darlin’. Gotta make my girl feel good.” Hodari started to thrust his hips, letting his cock sink inside of her before pulling back and doing it over and over again, loving the instantaneous reaction he received from Emrys. Her pussy clenched around him, drawing noises from Hodari as he thrusted into her, moving his hips at a quick pace. He looked at her, catching her blissed gaze as she stared up at him. Emrys’ eyes were glazed over with pure pleasure, hooded, mouth dropped open slightly. Her breath was caught in her throat from the immense pleasure, barely able to make any noise. He looked down at where his cock thrusted in and out of her pussy, reveling in the noise and juices. One of his hands moved from her hip to her sternum, where she moved it to her throat instead.

Hodari snapped his gaze back to her, back to the hooded eyes. In her fucked out gaze, held a challenge, and he squeezed slightly, testing the waters. A moan slipped out from between her lips, filling the air, followed by more whimpers and whines. He snapped his hips a bit harshly, enjoying this newfound information,getting another sharp inhale and moan from Emrys, her back arching.

“That's it darlin’. Let me hear you.” A whine escaped her lips as she reached a hand down to rub her clit, and Hodari kissed her, drinking in the noises she emitted from the added stimulation. His lips moved along her jaw and down her neck, finding her pulse point. Both of his hands moved down to her waist, grabbing her soft and plush body, increasing the speed in which he fucked her. Her body started to tremble, legs shaking as Hodari felt the familiar feeling growing in himself. “That’s it darlin’. Cum for me. Show me how pretty you look when you do.” Her back arched again, and Hodari pressed his lips to her breasts, pressing a dozen kisses against her skin, feeling cocky and even leaving a few hickeys across her skin. She squeezed around him as her breathing picked up, before the string of pleasure finally snapped and she let out a wanton moan, her orgasm knocking into her full force, her hand halting their ministrations on her clit as her orgasm took over. 

Hodari drew in the sight, appreciating how wonderful she looked, a mess from being fucked, the smell of sex in the air and clinging to their bodies, how blissful she looked as he fucked her through his orgasm. It only took a few more thrusts from him before he spilled inside of her, her neck swallowing his own moans as his hips stuttered 

Hodari held himself above her, his face buried in her neck, before placing gentle kisses on her shoulder, moving to place a final one on her lips. He eased himself out of her, a low whine escaping her at the loss of him. His eyes focused on her though, a soft smile on his face, a blush growing on her face. 

“Absolutely gorgeous.” He pressed another kiss to her lips, his hands coming up to hold her face. “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.” Emrys watched as he tossed his shirt in her direction, before putting on his boxers. He trekked towards the bedroom door, peeking outside before leaving, only to return a few moments later with a wet towel. Hodari walked back over to her, gently spreading her legs to clean up the mess. She jolted slightly at the sensitivity, but relaxed as he wiped her clean. 

“I love you.” Emrys spoke softly, a fond gaze rested on Hodari. He turned to her, a smile on his face as he finished, tossing the towel in their basket for dirty clothes. Crossing the room, he climbed back into the bed, wrapping himself around her. 

“Love you too darlin’.” 

[verdemoun]

@alphabetpal your beautiful mind

Kieran constantly doubts his relationship with the gang. The slightest hint of annoyance and he is mentally preparing himself to be thrown out. Overthinks interactions constantly. He still thinks he needs to be useful to have a purpose to the gang, which is why asking him to 'help' with something is such a quick way to over-ride the change is scary part of his brain and introduce new things. He keeps a backpack ready with the bare necessities for survival if he did need to run. Over years, later decades, it might collect dust, but the backpack never goes away.

One of the reasons he retreats into his room when distressed is to re-pack his bag and make sure he has everything he couldn't live without. When Hosea was in hospital, he was not doing well. He cried because not only would losing Hosea be devastating, because Hosea is decent to him and they spend so much time together, but he was preparing himself to lose his home. He went through his bag a dozen times trying to figure out what he would need, certain Arthur or Bessie was going to turn around and blame him for Hosea getting sick and throw him out.

But Kieran and Bessie. If he ever thought Bessie was actually mad at him, it might kill him. Bessie is a lifeline because she wasn't there in canon era. She has no obligation to him. He whole-heartedly believes Hosea, Lenny and Arthur, despite being some of his favorite people, are only so much nicer to him in modern era because of the guilt of seeing what happened to him: both during the VDLs and his death.

He still feels like the pretender. Hosea might be like a dad to him, but he isn't his dad the way he is for Lenny and Arthur. Hosea is still Mr Matthews, right-hand of the VDLs, and he is still a former-O'Driscoll. That feeling never goes away, and every time someone else timewarps it comes back tenfold. It is a subpoint in picking up someone new from canon era is making it clear that Kieran is one of them and the 1899 gang will defend him if needed because they know how sensitive he is to that fear of being thrown out or pushed aside.

Bessie is his mom. She is so overwhelmingly kind and patient, and she has no reason to be. He was so suspicious of it at first, because people aren't just nice. Begging to know what he can do to repay her for buying him clothes because no one just gives people things. Maybe she would turn around one day and suddenly demand everything returned or repaid? She was already referring to him as her son when Kieran was still working his way through 'is she doing this because she pities me or could it actually be possible someone doesn't mind my presence'. Of course it took months for her to convince him to call her Bessie instead of Mrs Matthews.

Hosea being in hospital was actually the event where Kieran's brain finally clicked 'yes Bessie does actually like me as a person' only to steamroll into 'this is my mom and I love her and would kill or die for her'. Hospitals are sensory hell, and Kieran has his own trauma with hospitals after the first day he timewarped he is flinching and holding his sleeve over his nose because the smell of disinfectant feels like it burns. The fact he even came along was deeply touching to Hosea, how explicit the action in itself made it clear Kieran does worry and care about him. But hospitals are hell. Once he was satisfied Hosea was actually going to be okay, and was doing better, Kieran politely excused himself.

After making sure her silly husband and their poor emotional sons were okay, Bessie tracked Kieran down like a man on a mission. Sure enough, Kieran had found his way to the smoking area, because he is also one of the more useless members of the gang when it comes to quitting - and a smoking area is usually quiet, tucked away from everything, and smoking in itself is a sensory break. When Bessie Matthews held out a hand, Kieran was so shocked he almost dropped his own cigarette.

Bessie laughed and told him not to look at her like that. She has quit, quit long before the gang got to modern era - but sometimes she just needs a cigarette. Her husband being in hospital and son about to get arrested for assaulting the next nurse to walk into the room was a good enough reason to need a cigarette. It would have to be their secret. Immediately Kieran is at ease because being trusted with a secret as scandalous as the Bessie Matthews smoking is hilarious.

She proceeded to tell him about her plan to hide the cigarettes at home, which Kieran found very amusing (honestly they all have at least one pack tucked away for bad days), and also warning him that Kieran was not to give him a cigarette. She knows her husband is a bastard and would ask Kieran first because he thinks Kieran is too much of a gentle soul to say no but she was expressly giving him permission to say no and to go to her if Hosea tries to pull any funny business. When he agreed, she smiled, very gently put a hand on his shoulder and said something to effect of 'that's my boy'.

Even if she's said it a hundred times before it was the first time his brain noticed. The two of them stood there together, not needing to talk, having a very sneaky cigarette outside of the hospital, Kieran feeling a little warm and fuzzy because Bessie Matthews had decided he was her boy and it felt nice. She proceeded to let him sit in the car to avoid the escalation that was no doubt going to happen in the hospital room and it really just sank in that all those efforts to make sure he's content and happy is because she genuinely cares and thinks of him as one of her boys.

[idontusethissiteeither]

My thoughts on Gray and Gruvia

Hey everyone.

I’ve been a fan of Fairy Tail for a long time, and one character I’ve always liked is Gray. He’s consistently shown depth, integrity, and a strong sense of right and wrong. However, there’s one aspect of the series that’s been bothering me for a while now: Gray’s relationship with Juvia. Despite all the red flags, uncomfortable moments, and outright toxic behavior from Juvia, the narrative seems determined to force this relationship into something it’s clearly not.

What follows is a breakdown of why I believe this relationship is problematic, how it undermines Gray’s character, and why it’s not the romantic story that some fans, particularly “Gruvians,” seem to think it is. As well as talk about the 180 in Gray’s personality in the 100 Year Quest.

Let’s break down the ridiculousness of Gray and Juvia’s so-called “relationship” after the battle in the last arc.

First of all, after all the build-up, Gray still didn’t give Juvia an answer. Instead, he tried to use the Ice Shell spell—a move that would erase him from existence. It’s a clear indicator that Gray was ready to sacrifice himself for the greater good, but of course, Juvia had to make it about herself. She "sacrificed" herself for Gray during the battle, and this is where the narrative completely goes off the rails.

While Gruvians see this as some grand, romantic gesture, it’s painfully obvious that Juvia’s “sacrifice” wasn’t as selfless as it’s made out to be. Her body can turn into water, meaning the blade could have gone through her without causing fatal damage. But instead, it feels like she deliberately made herself vulnerable to force Gray into a corner, emotionally manipulating him into acknowledging her feelings. And unfortunately, it worked. Gray, being the good-hearted person he is, said he’d take her feelings into account now, which just feels like an obligation rather than genuine affection.

To make matters worse, the creators claimed that the transfusion Juvia gave Gray is the reason he starts falling for her. What? That’s not only ridiculous but also a flimsy excuse for Gray’s sudden change of heart. It undermines all the growth and depth Gray had as a character. He didn’t fall in love with her because he was emotionally or romantically invested in her—he fell in love because of a blood transfusion? That’s not love; that’s poor writing.

And even after all of that, Gray still doesn’t give her a straight answer. He promises to do so after the 100-year quest, which he doesn’t even bring her along for. Yet, fast forward to the sequel, and suddenly, Gray’s done a complete 180. He’s talking about being the best man for Juvia and, apparently, thinking of her when the topic of romance comes up. Really? After years of rejecting her, setting boundaries, and making it clear that he wasn’t interested, we’re supposed to believe that now, all of a sudden, he’s deeply in love with his stalker?

Gruvians take this as a huge victory, but the reality is that Gray isn’t acting out of love—he’s acting out of guilt and obligation. Let’s not forget that Gray has a tragic history of losing people who sacrificed themselves for him, starting with his mentor Ur and later Ultear, both of whom truly cared for him. When Juvia “sacrificed” herself for Gray and survived, it’s not hard to see why he might feel indebted to her. But that’s not the same as romantic love. It’s survivor’s guilt, plain and simple. Gray is putting Juvia’s happiness above his own, disregarding his own feelings because he feels like he owes her something for what she did.

And honestly, if Gray truly is in love with Juvia now, after everything he’s been through and after rejecting her repeatedly, then it’s nothing short of character assassination. The writers have completely twisted his personality to appease Gruvia shippers, ignoring all the red flags in their relationship and pretending like Gray’s long-standing discomfort with Juvia never existed. This new Gray feels like a hollow version of the character we once knew, crafted solely to pander to fans rather than stay true to who he is.

What’s even more frustrating is the lack of discussion around how bad this writing is. Why aren’t more people talking about how Gray’s character has been butchered in the sequel? It’s disheartening to see fans celebrate these new developments when they clearly ignore all the signs that this relationship is built on manipulation, guilt, and toxic behavior. Gray deserved better than to be paired with someone who stalked him for years and ignored his boundaries. Instead, the writers decided to force this unhealthy dynamic into something it never should have been.

[vashatxt]

anonymous asked: Can you… write Blade getting hor knee for Kafka when he’s Mara-struck?

i absolutely can <3

there is no obligation to send any tips but if you feel like passing on a good deed, my kofi is https://ko-fi.com/idolelysia

cw: nsfw

"Bladie," Kafka's eyes are wide, and she's trying her best not to let on that she's enjoying this. "Your strength surprises me more every day."

He's different. Usually, she can gain control over him with just the slightest command, her spirit whisper only giving him the push over the edge that he needs before he comes back to himself, but this... Blade is resisting that pull. And he's taking that energy out on Kafka, and she sure as hell isn't going to strain herself to put a stop to it. It's not her fault that she enjoyed the feeling of the rough, scarred hands that once belonged to a uniquely talented crafter of weapons on her shoulders. Blade shoving her against the wall and pinning her there, his eyes darkening, a smirk spreading across his face as he pressed his crotch against Kafka's thigh and heard her gasp at the feeling of his cock, hard, throbbing - he's hungry. He needs her.

"Do. Your. Worst."

She punctuates each word with a pause, her lips parted, running her tongue along them and watching as Blade's gaze followed it. "Submit to me, Kafka," he says.

It's a risk. But she has enough faith in her abilities to know she'll be able to regain control over him and soothe the ill effects of the mara once they're done - she's just cocky enough to not feel fear.

"Please, Bladie," she blinks, shrugging her shoulders so that he can release his grip just long enough for her to let her coat fall to the ground. "Make me yours."

A switch is flipped; Blade grabs her and buries his face into her neck, sucking and biting, intent on leaving his mark, on finding out how loud he could make her scream. It's new for Kafka, to not be in control, but she wants this - so, in a way, she still is. She leans her head back and gives him what he needs, the more she yelps and moans his name and digs her nails into his back; the harder he goes in on her.

His hands trail to her button-down shirt, and he pulls away from her now purple and red neck to watch as he rips it open, his strength popping each plastic fastener and sending them flying. Blade can feel himself begin to salivate, like an animal hunting its prey, at the sight of Kafka's chest, her tits pushed up by a translucent maroon bra. He cups them through the fabric first, and Kafka looks down, too, burning the image of his gorgeous hands on her into her mind.

Impatient as she is, Kafka then reaches behind her to unclasp the bra, and while she does, Blade follows the curve of her waist to her hips and her ass, where he can help her rid of her shorts.

"There's still a barrier," Kafka points out, once she's standing in front of him in nothing but fishnet tights.

"Not really," his voice is deep and hoarse, a darker tone to it than usual. "They're pretty easy...,"

His fingers drag down to her thick thighs. "...to...,"

They hook into the web of thread between them, and Kafka feels a shiver down her spine.

"... adjust," Blade spits the last word, which accompany another rip - Kafka spends a hell of a lot of money on her clothes, but she doesn't give a shit today - creating a perfectly positioned gap in coverage, just in the crotch of the tights.

"Beg me," he's taking enjoyment in it, Kafka moans his name as he grabs at her cunt, like it's a toy, something of his own to rough around. He then lifts his hand to his mouth, just to taste her slick that now coated his fingertips. "Come on, Kafka. Beg me."

"Please - please, Bladie," she allows the desperation to come through, her breath hitched, blinking at him like an innocent girl. "I need - I need you to f-fuck me...,"

He scoffs, then undoes his zipper, letting his pants fall to his ankles. Kafka doesn't waste time, she wraps her arms around his neck and allows him to hoist her up against the wall, holding her around the waist, her thighs spread and grinding against his cock, slowly bouncing up and down. "You want me inside you?" he whispers. "You gonna show me how loud you are for me? You fucking cock whore?"

"Please, pleaseeee," she moans. "I need... I need...,"

"If you need me to destroy your cunt, Kafka, then you're in luck."

He thrusts inside of her, and it feels different than all the other time's they've fucked, the times she's sat on his dick and spilled dirty words from her mouth while the pathetic, pretty little boy who looked at her like she was a goddess tried his hardest not to cum too quickly. This is an entirely different Blade. The Mara... it made him different. He's relentless, she can feel his thrusts all through the body, not just the familiar burning desire in her tummy to be filled up. Blade doesn't pause or take a breath, even as Kafka's eyes well with tears and her nails begin to draw little trickles of blood because of how hard she's clinging on to him, her body weak and limbs like jelly. He feels so big, her cunt tight. He kisses her while she screams and bites her bottom lip hard, until it swells and a metallic taste fills her mouth. "Bladie...,"

"You sure you can fucking take me? Or do you want me to pull out and let you fall to the ground, discard you like a piece of trash who doesn't even deserve the chance to do so?"

Kafka can feel her cheeks burning, her entire body is ablaze, she clings on tighter - "I can take you, I can, I can....,"

They cum at the same time; he spills his load into her as the pressure against Kafka's clit sends her over the edge, she's dizzy and so, so messy down there, Blade saying her name, weaker and softer each time, draining his balls with each final thrust. Kafka can feel her own cum as well as his leaking out while Blade slowly pulls out.

"Good boy," she soothes him, snapping back to reality and regaining control with her spirit whisper before the Mara can hurt him. "Thank you, Bladie."

He slumps to the ground, and Kafka follows suit. "It's okay, sweetie. You made me feel so good. We can rest here, if you need."

Blade is exhausted; she feels almost bad. But his hand reaches out for hers and their fingers intertwine; they lie down together on the concrete floor and he cuddles up on her chest without ever letting go. Maybe they both needed that. Maybe he was finally figuring out what she already knew: that he loved her, that he was weak for her and only her.

[heaven-is-in-your-arms-series]

The Romance of Inao

The story of Inao originally comes from the Javanese and Malay Panji stories, centered around Prince Panji and Princess Kirana.

The stories have spread throughout SouthEast Asia and they have their own versions of the tales with different names for the characters.

I am going to focus on the Thai dance drama version where Prince Panji is called Inao.

Brace yourselves, this one is long and complicated and a lot of information is not easily available in English so it's not as complete as I would like it to be but here goes.

Inao is the son of the king of Kurepan

Bussaba/Kirana is the daughter of the king of Daha

At birth they are betrothed to each other

When Inao is 15, his grandmother passes away in the kingdom of Manya.

The kings of Kurepan and Daha send him to represent them at the funeral.

In Manya, Inao meets and falls in love with princess Jintara.

After the elaborate funeral celebrations are over, he wishes to stay in Manya with Jintara.

But his father orders him home and Inao leaves, after sending a lovelorn letter to Jintara.

At home in Kurepan, his father decides to speed up that marriage! (Clearly sensing trouble.)

But Inao refuses to go along with this plan and goes off hunting.

Having left the palace, he takes on a disguise, along with a few loyal followers and after an encounter with a bandit, he acquires two captured princesses.

They all head to Manya where the king happily welcomes him and Inao makes Jintara his wife.

Jintra, clearly drunk on love, decides to magnanimously invite the two princesses to be Inao’s concubines (polygmy was standard in this time.)

Inao’s father orders him to return home and marry Bussaba but Inao send’s word that he is no longer willing to go along with those plans.

The king of Daha felt slighted and angry and Bussaba too, felt shamed by Inao’s actions, although at this point, they had never actually met each other. (Can you guess what is going to happen?)

Rather recklessly, the king of Daha decides to marry her off to the next person that asks and the king of Joraka, famously ugly, promptly proposes, much to the King of Daha (and Bussaba’s) dismay. Unable to back out of his rash declaration, he reluctantly accepts the proposal.

But, plot twist, the king of Kamang Kuning ALSO wanted to marry Bussaba, because unlike Inao, he knew what she looked like and he was prepared to fight to have her.

Daha Vs Kamang Kuning

Fight!

The King of Daha was obliged to ask Kurepan for help (which must have sucked) and Inao was ordered to go to Daha and help the king sort out this mess since it was all his fault for backing out of the betrothal.

Jintara does not want Inao to go, fearing the worst but Inao decides that this is one summons that he cannot ignore. Perhaps a twinge of guilt at work there too. He promises to return though. (do you think he will?)

(now in SOME versions, an alternative situation occurs where poor Jintara is tricked away and murdered and Inao goes mad with grief for a time before finally regaining his senses when his original intended comes to save him. In this version poor Jintara is usually a commoner and so, sadly, easily got rid of.)

Inao rides in to the rescue and kills the king of Kamang Kuning.

Entering the palace of Daha to celebrate, he finally comes face to face with Bussaba.

(I like to imagine a Bollywood slo-mo moment here, where a mysterious wind blows Bussaba’s hair back from her face, as their eyes meet and a song starts to play.)

He instantly falls in love and realises what a MISTAKE he’s made. (It’s really all your own fault Inao. Minimal sympathy right now.)

I particularly enjoy the accounts where he is standing by Siyatra (Bussaba’s brother) when he spots her and he is so overcome with passion that he repeatedly kisses her brother, mistaking him for her. (Ok, Inao, you tell yourself that.)

The King of Joraka was ALSO on the way to help Daha but he arrived too late to be of any assistance. (Ugly and useless!)

Inao was now desperate to prevent Joraka’s marriage to Bussaba and the king of Daha was sympathetic but he had already given his word. (Unlike some, he doesn’t renege on a promise.)

Beach holiday filler episode time!

Ok, not really but the king of Daha and his wives and followers decide they simply must climb the mountain Wilismara to make offerings and worship to the Buddha image there.

Madewi, the king's second wife, suggests that Bussaba go and ask the image about her fate. Using lighted candles to decipher the Buddha’s message.

She lit three candles, one for Joraka on the left, herself in the middle and Inao on the right.

Bussaba asks the sacred image to extinguish the candle of the person who is not her soulmate.

Inao had secretly followed her and overheard this conversation and he plays a trick, pretending his voice is that of the god’s and persuading Bussaba and Madewi that Inao is her true soulmate.

He sends his follower Prasanta to drive out the bats and extinguish the candles and the darkness he finds and embraces Bussaba.

Madwei is furious about this (Bussaba less so,) and she argues with Inao who has the audacity to claim that he never refused Bussaba. (I think your dad has a letter suggesting otherwise buddy.)

Inao reluctantly hands Bussaba back to Madewi but asks Bussaba for a piece of cloth from her clothes, to hold when he is missing her. (smooth.)

What comes next is a cycle of adventures where the lovers are separated and have to search for each other before they are eventually reunited in a happy ending but they are not all told in the Lakhon Nai dance drama.

In many versions, Bussaba has to temporarily take on the disguise of a man and she has an active role in trying to help rescue Inao.

In a Javanese version, a demon takes her place and pretends to be the princess, called Candra Kirana in this story and the real princess appears at the court, disguised as a man to win back her man.

[madisonmontgomeryimagines]

no coven alternative universe, in which reader who’s a fan of her, and her movies recognizes madison in a bar (or any place you want really), and asks for a picture. Except that madison’s a little mean and annoying (as she usually is, and we love her for that), so reader goes "yeah no you know what i’m not a fan anymore bye", and it strikes madison’s huge ego so she kinda tries to win her back

Everyone was entitled to their own privacy, and they should be granted their own anonymity if they so desired, but when every action they took only defined who they were with all of their dazzling star-studded accomplishments, it didn't seem like that was the desire at all. Still, you hung back at the table with your brother's date, watched the way other people interacted with her as you tried to quell your excitement enough for your heart to stop deafening you.

Madison Montgomery seemed to cast away nearly anyone who wanted her attention, though to be fair you had mainly seen men approaching her. There were a handful of lucky individuals who she seemed to appraise and tolerate for a few minutes, drinking in their companionship until they were dismissed. You couldn't really distinguish the deciding factor for her, and you hung back as your excitement crossed the line into anxiety.

By the time you'd worked up your nerve to even say hello, you were alone at the table and the bar was mercifully more quiet. Deciding it was as good a time as any, you finally pulled yourself from your chair and walked to the bar, still figuring out what to even say when she turned her head as if feeling your presence the second it broached the barrier of space she had claimed. Madison's piercing gaze nearly made you stop short, but the hint of a lazy smirk on her lips encouraged you to take those final two steps.

"Hi, I don't mean to bother you. I really admire your work, Madison, and you along with some of your roles have been real sources of inspiration for me." A measured breath, steadying yourself. "Would you mind if I got a picture-"

Her voice overlapped with your question.

"Then don't. If you don't want to bother me, just turn back around and..."

You missed the last few words as your brain backpedaled to process what she'd just said, letting them soak in enough for you to realize you were shaking your head. "Right. Forget it, I thought you were someone else. One less fan to breathe down your neck. Have a nice night."

And then you'd fled, turned away from her to go close out your tab and go home. Your body blazed with an inferno of discomfort, and you knew it was only a matter of time before the stunned anger evaporated to leave the hurt raw and sensitive.

"Wait-"

You didn't. You didn't want to, at least, yet you found yourself rooted to the spot. For a second everything around you felt fuzzy and too far away, making you close your eyes against the dizziness. When you opened them, you were sitting on the stool beside Madison's. You didn't remember turning back around or sitting with her, but you were again close enough to smell her perfume.

"Hear me out."

You couldn't explain it, but her words seemed to shimmer in the air between the two of you, and as much as you wanted to get up and leave, a blanket of pacification was weighing you down. In the back recesses of your mind, you felt a little like a hostage. She seemed pleased enough with your immobility.

"Look, I'm not saying it's right," that was as close as you'd get to an admission that she might be wrong, "but when so many people put you on a pedestal towering above them, tell you how much better than them you are, it's your obligation to be better than them." She paused, nodding to the bartender when a glass was set in front of you. Her elegant fingers trailed along the creased fold of the napkin beside her own glass as she studied you.

"I'm not sure this is helping your case."

"Shut up and drink your drink. Why do you love when I'm a bitch on screen but no one can take it in person?" Madison's dark eyes rolled, and you contemplated your drink, really not seeing where this was supposed to be turning around. Still, you took a sip of something that tasted like peach.

"Do you still want a picture? I'm not staying here all night."

[leohtttbriar]

this felt like a lot like a tos scene, where you have the conflicted captain and (quite literally in the blocking of the shot) the unemotional angel on one shoulder and the emotional one on the other. but it's not like b'elanna is making the appeal that bones normally makes--he would've said something as simple as "where's your human compassion jim?" and then spock would've raised an eyebrow and kirk would've come up with some genius compromise or something. in this scene, though, b'elanna frames her very compassionate appeal as entirely rational. and she does it in such a way that janeway is suddenly doing what chakotay does and goes racing off to just fix everything despite the risks. in janeway's case, she's deciding for the crew of course, but, as b'elanna points out, so was chakotay. even if his intention was to deal with seska on his own, risking no one else, that's just not what was going to ever happen. and b'elanna can see that.

point is: b'elanna knew what to say to get janeway to act. and, while we're in the area of comparing this moment to tos and all the simple allegorical alien traits that come along with tos, i'm thinking of how this was a klingon moment for her. like, klingon as a warrior culture--more akin to medievalist poetics and the """chivalry""" of pre-chivalric romance. to go into battle to save a noble brother in arms is honorable. and to protect the people that brother in arms represents (like, narratively), i.e. the crew, is honorable. wiglaf helps beowulf, beowulf helps hrothgar, hrothgar is the hall which protects all, etc.

so where tuvok says "this is risky," b'elanna, rather than saying "but jim, your compassion!" responds, "the obligation to the people outweighs those risks." which is interesting--for an engineer, for a person who joined a group of political outlaws, for someone whose main contributions in the show are normally summed up with "temporal mechanics." i just love, kind of bc of all of that, that she knew what to say.

[bestworstcase]

So you think the Crown is correlated to the Golden Cap. Are you leaning to that making everyone the Winged Monkeys or that Qrow and Raven are pulling double duty parallel wise? Because what's biting at me is that Raven never actually says what Ozpin did to her and Qrow. She shows the bird form - which would be a classic loophole around "Don't tell anyone" orders. There's an incongruity with the narrative siding with Raven thematically in Oz keeping secrets and especially missing details

Before asking for agreement See Pyrrha and being targeted to become the Fall Maiden - and how the Bird Transformation by itself is swept under the rug quickly by Qrow and Oz. And Raven has no reason to not say more if there is more to say if she can that I can think of. Especially with her trying to convince Yang to stay with her/not sign on with Oz

so, the golden cap. cliff notes backstory:

there’s this princess-sorceress named gayelette whom everybody loves, regarded as a good sorceress who uses her magic to help people and never “to hurt anyone who was good,” but she’s sad and lonely because all the men are too stupid and ugly to be worthy of her

she finds a boy named quelala who is handsome and “wise beyond his years”

like literally a child

she decides she’s going to marry him when he grows up and takes him… to her palace… to raise him… (😬)

once he is old enough she “hastens to make everything ready for the wedding” (😬)

the day before the wedding, quelala goes for a walk along the river, dressed in finery. the king of the winged monkeys thinks it will be funny to drop him in the water

they do that

quelala is fine, he laughs and swims to the riverbank

as he’s climbing out of the water, gayelette comes running out and sees that his fine clothes are sopping wet

she FLIES INTO A RAGE AND ORDERS THE WINGED MONKEYS TO BE BOUND AND THROWN INTO THE RIVER TO DROWN

the king and quelala plead with her to be merciful, so at last she agrees to spare the winged monkeys if they allow her to bind them to the golden cap, which is quelala’s wedding present, as slaves

they accept this bargain because… what else can they do?

she continues to fly off the handle whenever she sees or thinks about the winged monkeys, so quelala uses the golden cap to order them to keep away (instead of hanging around to serve him) which they’re happy to do because they’re all terrified of her

quelala never uses the cap for anything else. after him it falls into the wicked witch’s hands, and she uses them to conquer winkie country. then dorothy brings it to glinda, who breaks the curse by giving it to the king of the winged monkeys.

the oz books are, you know, written for children and very lighthearted so it’s Not That Deep. (😬)

but rwby brought a shovel. (see also, glinda laying siege to the emerald city) so.

gayelette was “known” to be a good sorceress who didn’t use her magic to hurt “anyone who was good.” but (unlike most good witches in oz, and also unlike glinda who is regarded as neither good nor bad but right), her actions DO NOT match her reputation. she adopts a literal child and raises him to be her perfect husband. she is fully going to murder all the winged monkeys over a harmless bit of fun and only relents when they agree to be slaves and then continues to be so mad about it that the Literal Child she groomed to be her husband feels obliged to exile them for their own safety. the lady was a wicked witch who knew how to perform benevolence in public.

and then the golden cap itself grants the wearer three chances to command the winged monkeys to do anything, which the winged monkey are bound to obey. so just in terms of mechanics, the way it might be translated into rwby’s crown of choice is obvious. like the lamp’s question, you get three wishes. or three times you can compel people to do as you say, or make another person’s choices for them. whatever.

contextually, if the crown of choice is the golden cap, then the god of light slots into the role of gayelette and ozma is (loosely) quelala, the manipulated pawn to whom the enslaved winged monkeys are given. and the literal winged monkeys would be the spirits in the relics, although symbolically the winged monkeys here are all of humanity—gayelette’s ultimatum is “become slaves or die,” the god of light’s ultimatum is “obey me or die,” and like quelala, ozma is desperately interceding on mankind’s behalf via guiding them toward redemption, whereas salem like glinda thinks remnant ought to be freed.

it all tracks very neatly.

the wicked witch first uses the golden cap to conquer winkie country, and second to drive the wizard out of the west.

ozma wore the crown during the final battle of the great war, whereupon even his allies bent the knee in surrender. and when he and qrow explain the bird thing: qrow says “we made a choice, we wanted this,” and ozpin, “everyone has a choice. the branwens chose to accept their powers and the responsibilities that came with them, and later, one of them chose to abandon her duties in favor of her own self-interest. now, all of you have a choice.”

the wicked witch used her second wish to drive the wizard out of the west. ozpin gave the branwens the ability to turn into birds so they could act as scouts, spies, in service of his war against salem.

(for the sake of completeness i will note, also, that in the musical adaptation of wicked, the wizard tricks the witch into giving the monkeys wings so that he can use them as scouts and spies. this is the one [1] thing in rwby i think might be a nod to wicked.)

on the plain strength of the allusion argument and how many times ozpin reiterates “choice” once confronted on the bird thing i am convinced that the branwen shapeshifting actually derived from the crown, not ozpin, and that he used the second of his three wishes to grant it to them and just straight up lied about how. (if there is a hard “three wishes per person” limit on the crown and it doesn’t reset like the lamp, would explain why the claim of finite and dwindling magical power, which i Don’t Believe. he’s not running out of magic, but he only has one wish left.)

of course, if he pulled off secret use of a relic to do this that puts a practical limit on what he could do to compel them to silence (because if he did he’d have to come up with an explanation or else not tell them and hope they never noticed the magical binding on what they were allowed to say, because THAT would not go well for him). the danger inherent to becoming known as shapeshifters and that getting back to salem was probably enough on its own to keep them quiet. i think raven’s show-don’t-tell approach was motivated by knowing they weren’t going to believe her unless they saw it with their own eyes, sprinkled with a bit of hoping to get them interested enough to stay and hear her explanation rather than go to qrow.

what i think is most likely—given how ozpin frames it as the twins “chose to accept their powers and the responsibilities that came with them”—is that the birds were a “we can fill you in on the details once we know you’re with us” deal in the same vein as pyrrha. ozpin laid out that he could make them shapeshifters and needed a pair of scouts to gather information in preparation for a vague looming threat and only after they agreed and received this power did he explain the actual situation.

once they could turn into birds it would have been much harder to back out and his “finite, dwindling magic” is one hell of a manipulative trump card: he entrusted them with some of what precious little magic he has left because they promised him they could handle it, how can they even think about backing out now? the time to leave was before he gave them magic. never mind that they didn’t know what they were getting into because he didn’t tell them. they still made their choice.