#you cannot flee me forever

[french-mcyt-are-everywhere]

AURELIEN WAS SHITTLY DOODLED (WRONG HE'S BEAUTIFUL)!

check this blog out!

I NEED AURELIENSAMA DOODLE!!!!

something about this makes me really uncomfortable

The legs get the spider treatment

[ectoplasmer]

posting about marriage again please forgive me but i had a fleeting thought/image in my brain about ryou wearing one of those ruffle collar suits and wwwgdbfcvn CRIES

[nebulaafterdark]

A Marriage For Love

Summary: When Y/N and Aegon receive news that they cannot wed, they flee King’s Landing for a simple life in Bravvos. Upon returning to visit their families, they find themselves face to face with the consequences of their actions. Cheesy, targcest, idiots in love. Based off this request.

“We mustn’t allow them to carry on like this!”Alicent shouts.

“I agree,” Rhaenyra says, heartily. “Keep your son away from my daughter.”

“Keep your daughter away from my son!” Alicent bites out. “She should begin preparing for her marriage to the Lord of the Riverlands as Aegon should be spending more time with Helaena.”

“Mayhaps there is a simpler solution.” The King sighs, with a hand to his head.

“What is it you suggest, father?” Rhaenyra wonders.

“We might betroth Y/N and Aegon.” He smiles, looking between his daughter and wife.

“You may betroth my firstborn son to her…plain featured daughter when I am cold and in my grave.”

“Alicent!” Viserys roars.

Aegon wastes no more time listening to them quarrel, setting off in search of Y/N. He finds her in the library, as she often is. “Y/N,” he kneels before her chair. Closing the book and using his finger against the binding to hold her place.

Y/N looks up at him. “What is it?”

“There is something I must tell you.” From the time they were small, Y/N has been the one to hold his secrets.

“Speak it,” she squeezes his wrist.

“Only moments ago my father offered to betroth us, our mothers rejected the proposal. They want your hand for some River Lord and mine for Helaena.”

“No.”

Aegon cups her face in his hand. “Come away with me. We can build a new life, together. It may not be as lush, but it will be ours. You will still have your cakes as they please you, I swear it.”

“You would do that for me?”

“I would do more for you and worse.” Aegon smirks.

“Well…what shall I bring?” Y/N asks, ignoring the pang of guilt in her chest.

“Pack sparingly, a change of clothes or two. We’ll need gold and jewelry to trade; enough to get us started.”

“Where will we go?”

“One of the free cities,” he decides, “no one will be looking for us there. And it does not have to be forever, long enough for us to get married. If we’ve a child, they’ll have no choice but to honor our union.”

“Alright,” Y/N swallows.

“Go now,” he presses his lips to her forehead. “Meet me at the dragon pit in one hour’s time.”

The princess nods, nuzzling against him for just a moment before they break apart.

By the time anyone comes looking for them, Y/N and Aegon are long gone. Leaving behind only a note.

‘If you will not allow us to marry for love, we will do so elsewhere.’

King Viserys is so distraught at the news, he passes with the shock of it.

Rhaenyra takes her place as Queen, refusing to rename her heir.

————————————————————————

Life is different in Braavos, no maids, dragon keepers nor castle. Aegon cuts his hair up to his chin on the day of their wedding, freeing himself from the memories it holds.

There are rumors of course, about the town baker and his wife, the tailor, who may or may not be the long lost prince and princess. Their dragons do nothing to disprove these whispers, however they do stop them from reaching the Red Keep.

Years pass, news breaks that Y/N is with child, growing rounder by the day.

After a long day’s work, Aegon is exhausted, shucking off his boots near the door of their humble abode and bringing his wife an offering of sweets.

Y/N smells Aegon before she sees him, calling out from the kitchen, “what have you brought me today, husband?”

“What if it were for me, spoiled thing?” Aegon chuckles, lying his offering on the counter to wrap his arms around her. Their babe kicking at his palms.

Y/N reaches back, cupping his cheek. “Best turn about and fetch mine then.”

He smiles, pressing kisses to her shoulder. “How is our little dragon treating you?”

“Well enough,” Y/N sighs, stirring the broth. “I have not wretched this day.”

“That is good.” He pats her belly. “I brought you cake.”

“What kind?”

“Dinner first, my heart.” Aegon insists.

“Or I could have cake for dinner.”

Aegon sighs, as she leans into him.

“Please?”

“Very well.”

Y/N turns to face him, abandoning her cooking in favor of his kiss. “Thank you.”

————————————————————————

Bringing their love into the world is a long and grueling task, Aegon keeps her spirits up as best he can. Unfortunately there is only so much a man can do for a laboring wife.

Y/N is exhausted by the time she delivers the afterbirth, fighting sleep as she nurses their newborn daughters. A task she deems horribly painful in itself.

Aegon strokes her hair, whispering words of love and encouragement until the babes are satisfied. “You rest now, I will bathe them.”

His wife does not protest, allowing her heavy eyes to close.

Neither of the twins cry, until gods forbid he sets them down. “Shh,” Aegon hushes them, taking one in each arm. “Papa put you down for only a moment, surely you cannot be held at all times.”

The babe on the left yawns, stretching out her little arms. The babe on the right merely blinks at him.

Until they learn to crawl, Dahlia and Visera are indeed held at all times.

————————————————————————

By the time their sons are born, Y/N often tells stories of her family back in King’s Landing. Her mother especially, who she wishes to meet them.

Aegon returns from the dragon’s nest with two new eggs, one for each of their boys. “Stormborn and Sunfyre are thoughtful, they deliver us clutches in pairs.”

Y/N smiles, from their dragons came an egg for each of their children. “Let’s see.” She waves her husband over.

Their eldest son, Laenor, toddles toward him, pointing to the bright golden egg, “mine.”

“Ah, ah, hold on just a moment now.” Aegon says.

“Please?” The two year old pouts.

“Yes, alright.” Aegon sets the dark blue egg down beside his wife and youngest son. “We must be careful with it now, sit in Papa’s lap. We’ll hold it together, hmm?”

Laenor claps his little hands together, reaching up for his father.

Aegon backs up to the arm chair, holding the egg above his head, “climb up.”

Laenor furrows his brow, crawling into his father’s lap.

“There we are, my boy.” Aegon holds the egg infront of him, allowing Laenor to touch the egg’s scales.

“Look, Papa.” He points.

“I see, my love. Soon it will be a little dragon, just for you.”

Laenor squeals in delight, “Mama, look.”

“I see it, sweet boy. That is a lovely egg.” Y/N grins.

Dahlia and Visera play happily on the floor with their own dragons, still small enough to tote about.

At all of six months old, Aegon the fourth has no understanding of the word gentle, he slaps at the egg like a drum.

“Aegon!” Y/N can’t help but laugh, moving him away. “You must be kind to your dragon.”

“Him fly!” Laenor tells his brother, who merely stares back at him with a toothy grin.

“Yes, he will fly.” Aegon smooths down the curls at the back of his son’s head.

“When your uncle Joffrey, was born Ser Harwin took Jace, Luce and I down to the dragon pit to find the perfect egg.” Y/N recounts, with a far off look in her eyes. “He must be a man grown now.”

Aegon clears his throat, praying he does not live to regret what he murmurs next. “What if we went to visit your mother?”

“Well…” Y/N sighs, patting her son’s legs as he climbs over her. “We couldn’t.”

“Why not?” Aegon challenges, “it’s a short trip on dragon back.”

Y/N stares down at her hands, “my mother must be very angry at me.”

“My mother was never anything but angry with me.” Aegon chortles, “Rhaenyra will get over it.”

“Are you certain?” Y/N frowns, “I know how you detest court.”

Aegon nods, “for you, the world.”

————————————————————————

Word spreads through the streets of King’s Landing like wildfire. Princess Y/N and Prince Aegon have returned to them.

Daemon is the first of their family members to cross their path, all but dragging Y/N to his wife in the throne room.

“You wait here,” he barks at Aegon. Leaving him outside with the children. “Princess Y/N Velaryon,” Daemon calls upon their entrance.

Rhaenyra moves to stand.

The king consort leaves them to it.

“Your grace, I would first like to apologize for my long absence.” Y/N says, as her mother stalks toward her; expression unreadable.

Rhaenyra pulls her daughter into her arms, cradling the back of her head. “You must never do that to me again.”

“Mother,” Y/N cries, clinging to her like a child. “I am so terribly sorry.”

“Shhh,” Rhaenyra sways her. “We can still make this right.”

“I should like that very much.”

“You need only say the word and I will have your marriage annulled.”

“What?” Y/N withdraws, “no. You cannot annul our marriage, it’s been consummated…several times over. We’ve children.”

“Children?” Rhaenyra sucks in a breath.

“Two daughters and two sons.”

“Might I see my grandchildren?”

“Of course,” Y/N holds up a finger, dashing over to the throne room doors and inviting her family inside.

The children scamper in as Rhaenyra’s eyes well with tears.

Dahlia stares at her grandmother in wonder, while Visera clings to Aegon’s leg.

“This is my mummy,” Y/N tells her children, “remember how I told you?”

Laenor moves toward her first, waving his hands.

“Well hello, my prince,” Rhaenyra bends down to greet him. “Who might you be?”

He smiles, “up.”

Rhaenyra huffs a laugh, taking him into her arms. “That’s quite a name, Prince Up.”

“It’s Laenor,” Y/N says, bringing Dahlia closer, with their hands clasped together. “This is Dahlia.”

“Good morrow,” Dahlia smiles.

“Good morrow, Dahlia. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Rhaenyra beams, “if you could put in a good word for me with your sister, it would be much appreciated.”

“Visera is shy.” Dahlia whispers, “but she will come round.”

Aegon the fourth kicks his chubby legs, squirming about in his father’s arms as they approach the Queen.

“My goodness.” Rhaenyra turns to him, “what a warm welcome.”

The little boy squeals, as Y/N takes him from Aegon, freeing his arms for Visera, who hides her face in his shoulder.

“And this is Aegon, the fourth.” Y/N smiles, presenting him to her mother.

Rhaenyra grins, “hello, sweet boy.”

He covers both eyes, with his little hands, babbling loudly.

“You are a delight.” Rhaenyra reaches a hand out, tickling his belly. “I should like you all to join us in the grand hall for supper tonight. We will feast, in your honor.”

“Mother, we did not prepare clothes for a feast.” Y/N tells her. “But if you’ve material, I will make do. In these past years, I have learned to stitch quite well.”

“And I could assist in the kitchens.” Aegon offers.

Y/N’s eyes light up, ���you must taste his baking, mother. It is divine.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head. Not sparing a glance at her half brother, “you are my guests. I will have gowns and robes sent to your rooms. You will find everything as you left it.”

Y/N smiles, “we’ll see you for dinner then.”

The Queen nods, excusing them.

Y/N and Aegon lead the children away from the throne room, up the stairs toward Y/N’s old apartments. Meeting her younger brother and his heavily pregnant wife on the stairs.

“Sister?” Jacaerys blinks at her.

“Jace!”

“My love, might you find Luce and Joffrey?” Jacaerys asks of his wife. “Tell them our sister is here.”

“Of course, husband.” Baela leans in as his lips brush her cheek.

“You’re going to be a father?” Y/N grabs for his arm.

“I am a father.” Jace grins, “this will be our third.”

“Has it been that long?”

“Some seven years, sister.” Jacaerys looks to the children behind her. “And you,” he laughs, “have more to show for it than I do.”

Again Aegon is left standing off to the side as Y/N’s family fuss over her and their children. He is glad for it, surely. This is her dream, not his.

“Aegon?” Alicent gasps at the sight of him.

He turns to her slowly, “Mother?”

The Dowager Queen grimaces, “a word?”

“But of course.” Aegon steals one last glance at his wife and children before following his mother down the corridor. For a moment he thinks she might embrace him, until she grabs his face harshly between her fingers.

“What were you thinking?” Alicent seethes, “taking off like that? Putting your father in such a state of distress; his illness took him not even a day after receiving word that you stole his only granddaughter and heir to the throne.”

“Stole her?” Aegon huffs a laugh, “I did not steal her.”

“Did you not think for one second of the shame it would bring on your siblings, or me?”

“As you thought of my wants when you promised me to Helaena?” Aegon spits back.

“It was expected of you,” Alicent seethes.

“Only my supposed wrongdoings are ever clear to you.” Aegon scoffs, “so strike me for it, as you always do and let us be done with it. How dare I desire to marry the one person in the world who loved me?”

Alicent recoils as though he’s slapped her.

“Aegon?” Y/N calls for him, “where’ve you run off to?”

“I’m just here, darling girl.” Aegon replies, striding away from his mother.

“Is everything alright?” Y/N asks, holding a hand out to him.

“All is well, my dearest love.”

————————————————————————

Dinners at the Red Keep have not been this tense in years. Namely because the Blacks and Greens rarely break bread together.

Jacaerys’ and Baela’s children dance with their cousins as the quartet plays merrily, the six of them becoming fast friends.

Y/N laughs, pointing toward their eldest son. “Look, my love.”

Aegon leans his head closer to hers peering around his brother. Laenor spins round in circles until he is dizzy enough to fall over. When he is able to stand, he goes straight back to it. Aegon chuckles, “we’ll need to keep an eye on that one.”

“Without doubt.” Y/N remarks, bouncing Aegon the fourth in her lap. He grabs a fistful of her mashed potatoes.

“Oh my,” Aegon grabs his hand, wiping it clean with his napkin.

“You’d like dinner too, wouldn’t you?” Y/N says, turning the boy toward her.

Little Aegon coos at her.

Aegon presses a kiss to his son’s cheek.

“Won’t you excuse me for a moment,” Y/N addresses the table, “I need to feed him.”

“We’ve nurses,” Daemon offers. “You’re welcome to finish your meal.”

“That’s quite alright,” Y/N says, pushing away from the table. “We’ve survived without nurses thus far.”

Aegon catches her hand, “will you return or shall I bring the children up when they are through?”

“I will return, shortly.” Y/N squeezes his fingers before moving down the row of chairs into the hall.

Aegon clears his throat, as other occupants of the table eye him, warily. “Lovely meal.”

“Indeed,” Otto agrees.

————————————————————————-

Y/N wakes the next morn to rays of sun shining through the large window of her childhood bedchamber.

Aegon feels her begin to stir, tightening his hold around her waist.

“What did your mother say to you yesterday?”

“It is far too early to raise this matter, my heart.” He grumbles.

Y/N huffs, toying with his fingers. “She was awful to you, wasn’t she?”

Aegon presses his lips to her shoulder, “it matters not.”

“It matters to me.”

Days pass, Y/N does not press the subject. Though she does exercise every opportunity to glare at her mother by law.

They spend afternoons in the courtyard garden, with their children. Picking flowers to make crowns, finding shapes in the clouds.

“Just there I see a rabbit.” Visera tells her mother and father.

“Where?” Aegon cocks his head to the side.

“There’s the ears and there’s its tail.”

“Oh, I see.” Aegon spots it, “that’s quite a coat of fur on him, hmm?”

Aegon the fourth plucks petals from the wildflowers Dahlia weaves together, sighing as she does.

“What troubles you, my love?” Y/N asks, passing a hand over her silver waves.

“Everyone has been so kind and happy to receive us…though no one seems happy to receive father.” Dahlia says, taking one of the flowers and tucking it behind her Papa’s ear.

“That is the way of things, my darling.” Aegon smiles, sadly.

“We are happy to receive him.” Y/N insists. “Give father a big hug.”

Laenor sees the pile of bodies, throwing himself on top of his elder sisters.

“Squeeze him as tightly as you can and say ‘I love you, father.’”

“I love you, father!” Even Aegon the fourth chimes in, with a loud approving babble.

“I love you too.” Aegon tells his children, wrapping his arms around them.

“I think if no one is kind to you, we ought to go back home.” Visera whispers to him. “It needn’t be the way of things.”

“Too right you are, my darling.” Y/N breathes.

“Y/N, might I have a word with you?” Rhaenyra calls out to the courtyard.

“Of course, your grace,” she smiles, looking to her children. “Keep father company for me. I’ll return shortly.”

Rhaenyra leads her farther into the gardens. “When you were a girl, your grandsire and I would bring you here to watch the changing of the leaves.”

“I remember.” Y/N says, wistfully.

“I owe you an apology,” Rhaenyra takes her hands. “For many years, I thought Aegon stole you away from me. I blamed him, for the death of our father.”

“It was not his fault, mother.” Y/N insists, “I wanted a marriage for love.”

“I see that now.” Rhaenyra assures her. “He is a fine husband to you and a good father to your children. I should not have pushed so relentlessly to end your union.”

Y/N shakes her head, “all is forgiven.”

“Even in our years apart, you have remained my heir. As I believe you would be a great ruling Queen, if that is what you desire. I will provide your children places of high status in court. For Aegon, a seat at the small council.” Rhaenyra offers, “and of course, my sincere apology for the way I have acted.”

“You wish for us to stay?”

Rhaenyra cups her cheek, “very much so.”

Y/N looks down at her wedding ring. “I know Alicent has been unkind to him. I will not stay in a place where he’s treated poorly.”

“I will speak with her.”

“And…I fear Aegon holds little interest in the small council.” Y/N admits, “I hope that too is negotiable.”

“All things are,” Rhaenyra assures her.

Taglist: @donalesaa @spacexdrago @shadowrose13-blog1 @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @niyahnotnia @oh-you-mean-me @lycaonpictusphotography

[dyingswanpavlova]

My secret obsession - Pt. 1 || 》 Aemond Targaryen 《

pairing: Aemond Targaryen, sister!reader

warnings: incest between siblings (implied)

summary: Aemond's younger sister is secretly in love with him.

The thing that hurt me the most was probably that he did not belong to me. A constant reminder of the painful truth that broke my heart every day all over again.

All I could do was silently observe from the sidelines.

His face was the most beautiful piece of art and it was engraved so deep in my memory, that I would see it whenever I closed my eyes.

His voice was...silk. Honey. Sweetness.

But at the same time he was so manly.

The was no man in the whole realm who could keep up with him. His abilities were beyond compare and so was everything else about him. Many people feared him because he had the biggest dragon. Others loathed him for his ability to be resentful for...well, forever.

I did not.

In my eyes, he was perfect. He was everything.

"Did you hear what I said, sister?"

My head snapped up and I stared at Aegon in confusion.

"What?" I muttered absentmindedly.

He groaned in annoyance.

"You have not been paying attention again." He said so slowly that it was almost offensive. I shook my head and shrugged.

"Forgive me. I was distracted. What did you say?"

Aegon shot me a suspicious look and I immediately knew I was in for a questioning. I suppressed the urge to sigh. Or flee.

"You have been distracted quite a lot lately." He said thoughtfully. "What are you so dreamy about?"

I rolled my eyes. "People tend to think, Aegon, even if you do not."

Aemond was currently swinging his sword at Criston Cole. It did not take him longer than two minutes to defeat him. Again.

I let my gaze wander along the training yard. Despite Aegon's rather weak attempts at perceptiveness, there were some things he was good at reading.

I was one of them.

I did not need to look at him to see the lazy smirk that slowly plastered across his face.

"Thinking, hm? And what is it you are so thinky about?" He raised a brow and ruffled my hair.

I rolled my eyes again and gave him a quick shove.

"None of your business."

His smirk widened and he brought his face down so he could whisper in my ear.

"I think I know the answer. And I think it indeed is part of my business, considering our kinship."

"Aegon, do not dare-"

"Do you think I am blind, sweet sister? I see the way you look at him."

My face flushed so hard it was bordering on painful.

"You know noth-"

"In fact." He interrupted me, feigning thoughtfulness. "I think everyone knows it."

"Aegon, shut up!"

He laughed and raised his hands in mock surrender.

"Aw, come on. I am your big brother after all. Who is going to tease you if not me?"

I kept my gaze glued to the ground firmly. Suddenly I felt extremely uneasy. Nauseous even.

Aegon seemed to notice my discomfort and his eyes softened. He tipped my chin up with his index finger. I tried to look away but he made me look up anyway.

"It is more than mere infatuation, is it not?" He asked softly.

I looked down and remained silent. Infatuation. What a ridiculous word. No, I was not infatuated with Aemond. I was starstruck, I was obsessed, I was insane.

I swallowed thickly and nodded, unable to meet his gaze. The pavement was suddenly very interesting.

"Does he know?"

My head snapped up and my eyes widened in horror.

"No! No, Aegon, you cannot-"

He placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it.

"Calm down. I will not tell him."

I took a shaky breath and nodded. "Thank you." I muttered.

Aegon shrugged and returned his gaze to Aemond, who was currently busy tackling Ser Criston to the ground. That drew a smirk from Aegon. Aemond was better than him.

Aemond was better than anyone.

"You should tell him." He said suddenly.

"No." I said firmly and without hesitation.

Aegon snorted and shook his head. "Are you so sure that he does not feel the same for you?"

I swallowed and shook my head. "Even if he did. It is futile. Mother did not betroth us. She betrothed you and Helaena years ago. If she wanted me to marry Aemond-"

"She only betrothed us, because she holds on to the ridiculous thought that I will be king one day." Aegon said calmly. "Aemond needs a wife. And you most certainly need a husband."

I frowned and shot him a glare.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It simply means that nothing goes against you and Aemond together."

Was it really that simple? But then again...

Aemond was currently helping Criston back up, before he shot a nonchalant look at Luke. The tension was thick, but he would not act on it. Not yet. Aemond was not one to act recklessly. But he was one for retaliation.

Everything in the right time.

"He does not love me." I said quietly.

"How do you know?"

"He never...showed..."

"And did you?" Aegon raised a teasing brow.

I shot him a helpless look. "That's different."

"Oh, yeah? And why?"

I knew no answer to that. But a part of me was so mortified to find out the truth, that I preferred dying without ever finding out.

"You are not even in love with him. You are obsessed."

I gasped in shock.

"What?" I said in a choked whisper.

He nodded. "I can see it in your eyes. You would die for him."

"I would die for you, too, idiot. Or for Helaena. We are family."

Aegon let out a mirthless chuckle and crossed his arms infront of his chest. I hated it when he got smartassy like that.

"That is not what I mean and you know it."

"Aegon, shut your-"

"Sister. Brother."

I froze and swallowed before I looked up and met Aemond's intense gaze.

"You defeated Ser Criston." I said in a breathless voice. Aegon snorted. I would have gladly pushed him off a cliff, was there a cliff anywhere nearby.

Aemond nodded once.

"He taught me well." Was all he had to say.

We stood there in an awkward silence, before he cleared his throat.

"I shall go and get myself ready for dinner." He finally said and shot me a soft look. "Shall I take you to your chambers on my way?"

I was already about to respond, when Aegon pushed me and I crashed into Aemond's steel hard chest. He immediately wrapped his arms around me to steady me and looked at our older brother with increduloucy.

"You better, brother. I was just about to try my luck with Criston." Aegon said innocently. I glared at him before he vanished further into the training yard.

Aemond's hand lingered for a moment longer on my back and I tried not to look too affected.

"Are you alright?" He asked in that sweet voice. I forced a smile and nodded.

"Aegon was just being an idiot. As per usual." I muttered as he started walking me back towards my chambers.

"What did you talk about? You seemed agitated."

You seemed agitated.

He had paid attention? While engaging in a sword fight with our most skilled knight?

"He was merely being his annoying self. Nothing in particular." I muttered.

He was silent for a while. He had his hand on the small of my back while we walked. I tried my hardest to keep a straight back and appear like the effortlessly perfect princess I was supposed to be. As effortlessly perfect as he was. But for some reason it just got harder and harder for me.

"You were really good. The way you feinted to attack him, but then spun around and made him fall was splendid. The look on his face was priceless. He told me how proud he is of you the other day."

Aemond raised a brow in surprise. "You saw that?"

I tried my best not to blush as I nodded.

"You know that I have been watching you train for years." I smirked and added: "I have been watching Aegon as well, but after a while it got boring to watch Criston constantly beat him. It was like watching the same fight over and over again."

Aemond let out a rare chuckle.

"I get your point."

After a moment, he added: "Did you read the book I gave you?"

"The philosophy one?"

He nodded. I nodded as well.

"I did not know being would be considered such a fragile thing. But considering how quickly life finds its end, it should not have surprised me so much."

He smiled. It was subtle. It was breathtakingly beautiful.

"It is indeed. The metaphor with the flower reminded me of you."

"Me?" I spun around in surprise. "Why?"

He shrugged nonchalantly. "You, too, seem to need other people around you to some degree, but you prefer the solitude of your own mind. Soliture and tranquility." After a moment, he said in a softer voice: "I am like that."

I looked at him thoughtfully.

"That could be applied to many people though."

He smirked softly. "Also, it reminded me of that book you read when you were younger."

"Ah, yes. The secret flower language." I smiled. "You remember that?"

"Mhm." He hummed softly. "Of course. You spent hours and hours explaining each flower to me and what they meant."

I bit my lip and shook my head. "Forgive me for the inconvenience."

His head spun around so quickly that he looked very unlike himself. "What are you apologizing for?"

"I thought...Well, I thought..."

"I was fascinated. Not annoyed." He said quietly. I blinked slowly, then my lips twitched into a soft smile.

"Oh."

He shook his head and smiled as well. A moment later we reached my chamber door. I looked up at him only to realize he was staring at me.

After a long moment, I said: "What?"

"You look pretty."

Without hesitation, I blushed furiously. And of course, instead of being a gentleman and ignoring it, he had to smirk knowingly.

"Can you not even handle a little compliment without blushing?"

I rolled my eyes, but I smiled, still blushing.

"Not from you." When I realized how that sounded, I quickly added: "You are my brother after all, how genuine can your compliment be then?"

He shook his head and sighed.

"I will see you at dinner." He said, reached out his hand and gently touched my cheek. Seemingly nonchalant and trivial, but my heart was pounding wildly in my chest. Every touch of his felt like the short, delicate moment of being ice, seconds away from melting. And then you are no longer ice, but water. Bland and sad.

The moment he withdrew his hand, I was exactly that.

Bland and sad.

"I will see you at dinner." I repeated in a soft whisper.

[justaz]

merlin convincing morgana to remain in camelot and bonding over magic. uther dies and arthur becomes king and merlin and morgana are eager for arthur to repeal the ban but it never happens. then arthur and gwen are courting and morgana and merlin are a bit upset but are happy for them (sorta) but mainly they’re waiting for the ban to be repealed. it never happens. then gwen and arthur get married and morgana and gwen (+ lancelot) are devastated but hanging on by a thread for the magic ban to be repealed. it never happens. morgana is growing angrier and angrier while merlin is growing more and more reckless. morgana picks fights with arthur while merlin sticks to the shadows and protects arthur from unseen threats like always but he stops putting up much of a fight. he keeps coming back beaten black and blue, bloodied, on the brink of death.

morgana finally snaps at merlin and is like “i’ve been waiting for the ban to be lifted like you promised it would be and nothings changed. i cannot stay in this kingdom and watch the love of my life be happy with my brother while hiding myself away! you can be fine with the lying and hiding but i’m done! i’ll make my own damn happy ending” and storms off to flee camelot. lancelot finds merlin and they talk about it and lancelot is like “honestly, she has a point. i’m in love with gwen and that’ll never change. it pains me to see them so happy even though i wish nothing but the best for them. the only reason i’m still in camelot is you, merlin. if you want to stay, i’ll stay with you. if you want to go, then we’ll go.” merlin unsure and lance goes “it was you and me in the beginning, it can be you and me again” and merlin tears up but is still unsure and lance compromises with “we don’t have to leave forever. just a month or two, a year or five. however long you need.”

merlin finally agrees and lancelot goes to pack while merlin finds gwaine and tells him his plan bc if he doesn’t tell gwaine then the man will hunt him down like a bloodhound. gwaine ofc immediately agrees to go with him and they all pack their things. merlin shuffles into arthur’s chambers and turns in his resignation from his service and arthur starts freaking out like “wait what?? what’s wrong?? what happened??? let me fix it. was it a nobleman? a knight? was it me?? please tell me it wasn’t me. what happened??” and merlin can’t handle it so he just restates that he’s resigning, bows and says it was somewhat of an honor, and then turns and leaves. he finds lance and gwaine in gaius’s chambers with mordred. merlin rolls his eyes but is also kinda grateful for his friends. arthur storms in and finds three of his knights also packed at they’re like “oh shoot we were gonna tell you in the morning but since you’re here, we’re resigning too”

now arthur is faced with three less knights and one less manservant than an hour ago (he has yet to find out about his sister’s fleeing). he questions them again and the room gives merlin and arthur some privacy for merlin to tell arthur that nothing is wrong but that they just need some time away. it probably won’t be permanent but they have to leave. arthur isn’t begging because kings don’t beg but he’s doing a damn good impression and merlin is on the verge of tears again and is begging arthur not to make things harder than it needs to be. arthur grows angrier now and is like “then tell me why. why are you leaving? why are my knights leaving? tell me.” and merlin can’t think of an excuse bc he doesn’t want to push his troubles of unreciprocated love onto arthur so he just stands there and arthur is like “i thought you were one of the bravest men i ever met. turns our you’re nothing more than a coward.” anyways they split on bad terms.

merlin, lancelot, gwaine, and mordred leave camelot and have their own little adventures and run into morgana again and they form their own little band of travelers. arthur, gwen, leon, elyan, and percival are still in camelot with gwen and arthur completely in the dark while the rest of the knights Know. it’s like a few months after merlin and them left and arthur and them are drunk and he brings merlin and them up and asks what happened. the knights are quiet and gwen sits up and asks elyan and her voice is desperate enough that elyan breaks and goes “morgana and lancelot were in love with you” and they all just stare at each other and elyan rushes to fill the silence with stuff like how they wanted gwen to be happy but couldn’t bear watching gwen and arthur be so in love all the time, he explains that morgana left on her own but lancelot followed merlin. arthur asks if merlin was in love with gwen too and the knights shift before percival goes “no, he was in love with you” and leon sighs before explaining the rest.

“morgana and lancelot were in love with gwen while merlin was in love with arthur. morgana left on her own and merlin was influenced by her choice to leave and lancelot and gwaine followed him. mordred followed both morgana and merlin, i’m not sure what he would’ve done had merlin stayed and morgana left. gwaine followed merlin bc he’s in love with him.” he rubs his eye bc he can’t believe the mess things are even though it’s been this way for years “morgana couldn’t stand it. lancelot was loyal to merlin. gwaine was loyal to merlin. mordred was loyal to merlin and morgana. and merlin…merlin has been protecting you for years, arthur. he’s charged into battle against the threats you can’t see, the ones in the shadows. i’ve kept an eye on him since he got here but he’s had it handled. but recently, after your wedding, he grew reckless. he came back from every fight beaten like a pulp. he stopped trying. not to let you die, but to let them get the upper hand over him. he was dancing with death. it wasn’t healthy for any of them. that’s why they left.”

the knights leave arthur and gwen in their chambers to stew in silence, drunk and guilty and missing their friends and wondering how they could’ve missed the signs. merlin and them on the other hand are traveling from town to town, village to village, kingdom to kingdom and protecting villages from raiders, protecting druids from raids, stepping in on executions and freeing sorcerers.

[noxxytocin]

Day 30 of Gaunting Salloween - Dementor

• Ominis Gaunt's POV - Sebastian's POV near the end

Art by: @wrengaunt 🫰✨ thank you mate! I hold our collabs so dear!

CW: major character death (ending is subjective), attempted suicide, abuse

No one emerges unchanged from the shadow of wicked deeds. We are never the same twice, yet we cloak ourselves in the hollow pretence of who we once were, only to suffocate beneath the weight of it.

Each sin, each brush with darkness, leaves a hole—forcibly carved into one’s soul. A wound that time cannot mend.

I lost my dearest friend to this very darkness. It twisted the very essence of who he was. How I fought to save him…yet, in the end, it was I who surrendered him to Azkaban’s frozen arms instead of my own. It was I who cast him into the iron maw of despair, sealing his fate behind those bars.

For five long years, Sebastian has suffered in that wretched place, while I am left to decay, slowly corroding beneath the guilt. His voice haunts me, in every corner of my chamber each evening. His weight is there just on the right side of my bed. With each sunlit morning, I hear his smile as golden warmth touches my skin.

His melancholic tears, only imagined, seize me from my sleep, drawing me from nightmare into a reality that feels no less harrowing. And his screams—silenced, perhaps, yet vivid in my mind—shatter me. They remain an agony only I am cursed to endure. I sacrificed his life at the altar of virtue, bartering it for a semblance of righteousness, and the cost has been nothing less than the damnation of my own soul.

His name—well, I had thought it forever consigned to the silence of memory, never to be uttered again by any living person. Yet there it was, resurrected, and the tremor that overtook my hands, the shattering of my teacup upon the floor, spoke more clearly than any words could. Not that it should have fallen from my elder brother’s lips.

“What did you just say?” I demanded, hardly believing my ears. Surely, I had misheard. Such a notion was simply inconceivable.

“There was hardly any need to disgrace a fine cup of Earl Grey over mere mention of your… paramour,” Marvolo drawled, flicking his wand to remedy the mess that, truth be told, offended him more than the matter at hand. He sighed, exaggeratedly so, before restoring the teacup to its rightful place and erasing the offending spill from the carpet as though it were a trifling nuisance. “It appears you heard me quite well. That peculiar pet of yours has made his escape. Remarkable, really.” He allowed a mocking smile to play upon his lips. “I must admit, I am rather impressed—given his apparent lack of mental faculties. Perhaps he has deceived us all. Even you, little brother.”

I could scarcely believe it. Not a single wizard or witch had ever escaped that godforsaken place—or so it was thought. And yet Sebastian, of all people, had managed to flee Azkaban? Something felt amiss. Surely, he would not dare to repeat his past folly.

“Is that all you know of it? You must tell me more,” I insisted, stepping closer to Marvolo. My hands trembled with barely restrained fury, longing to seize him by the neck—to madly wring it.

“Now, now. Why such a flutter of feathers?” Marvolo chuckled, his tone maddeningly calm as he placed a hand upon my shoulder. I recoiled instinctively at the contact. “You’re trembling, dear brother. Tell me—are you afraid he’s coming for you?”

My heart plummeted at the very notion. Never once had I entertained the thought that Sebastian might escape with vengeance in his heart, seeking retribution for my betrayal in turning him in. Could it truly be possible…? No—surely not...

“Sebastian would never—!” I began, my voice faltering as a sting crept into my eyes. “He would never…”

“Oh, do come off it,” Marvolo sneered. “I wouldn’t let him deprive me of my most cherished fantasy. What sort of brother would I be if I allowed that?” With a dismissive scoff, he pressed a folded piece of parchment into my hand. “Here. I’d rather not have your unsightly tears ruining my suit.”

He paused only long enough to mutter, “This was left on our doorstep today. It’s for you.” And with a twisted smile, he turned on his heel, calling over his shoulder as he departed, “My condolences.”

The door shut with a decisive thud, leaving me in silence.

Condolences?

With shaking hands, Ominis hastily broke the seal of the parchment, his wand poised as he cast the charm to pull the inked words into his mind.

Ominis,

Please, forgive me. All I ever wanted was to protect Anne. All I ever wanted was what was best for us. I hold no resentment for the silence, for the absence of letters, for the visits that never came. I do not fault you for turning me in. I know, perhaps better than anyone, the toll this has taken upon you.

I do not wish for you to suffer on my account any longer.

You’ll find my body by the Black Lake.

The Black Lake? His...body? What—what was happening? Surely he didn't mean to… no! Such a thing could not be. It simply could not! My fingers clenched around the parchment, crushing it as tears traced paths down my face. And then, with chilling clarity, the realization struck: if Sebastian had indeed escaped, they would send the Dementors after him. They would find him. And they would…

“Damn it!” I spat, wasting no more time, apparating to the nearest point by the Lake. I would save him. This time, I would truly save him. He couldn’t slip away like this! Not after all we had endured, all we had been to one another. The memories, the laughter, the joy shared between us—I would not allow him to erase it all. I would not let him be taken. Not like this. “Please…no…”

Sebastian's POV

Surely, this wouldn’t be too painful. All I had to do was lie here and wait. It was no different from Azkaban, really. I only wished it could be swifter. The Black Lake stretched before me, as beautiful and haunting as it had been in my school days. Still and silent tonight, fogged in a biting chill that somehow seemed less oppressive now—perhaps softened by the numbness of what I had endured. Nothing could match the icy ache of losing everyone I ever cherished. This would be simpler, far gentler than facing Ominis’s look of disappointment, that quiet agony in those sparkling, teary eyes. I was certain I’d already heard his heart shatter when we had said our farewells in the headmaster’s office, his arms clinging to me as if he would never let go.

But Ominis would never have to endure such sorrow again. And at last, I would receive the punishment I deserved. I did not merit life, not after all that I had failed to protect. I had failed my uncle, my sister, my friends, my parents. And with the Dementor’s Kiss, I would be stripped of this darkness within me, even if my wand lay broken and powerless. I would become little more than a faint memory—a ghost to haunt their thoughts but never in life.

Leaving that letter behind was absolute torment. To be mere steps from Ominis—close enough to knock, close enough to cross the threshold and fall into his arms—was a temptation almost maddening. But such a reunion was no longer within my grasp, not after all I had done. The life we shared, the trust between us, lay shattered beyond repair. I knew, with agonising certainty, that I would find no welcome in his gaze. Nor from Anne, had she survived.

Yet, in that brief moment, I caught sight of him through the tall, glass window. The sight was both a gift and a curse, a vision so achingly beautiful it rooted me in place. His skin, pale as alabaster, gleamed softly beneath the golden light. He wore his finest attire, perfectly tailored to his now slender, tall frame—a frame that time had carved with subtle grace. His face, angled and sharp, bore the same familiar beauty marks on his cheeks, delicate as though painted by careful hand. Golden hair, fine as silk, was slicked back as usual and those alluring eyes were still a set of gemstones.

“Ominis…” I muttered, tears dropping onto my cheek.

But even this vision, this fleeting glance of all I yearned for, could not compel me to reach out. Instead, gripped by fear, I let the letter slip from my trembling fingers and turned away, fleeing as if the very wind urged me onward, far from the sight that both healed and broke my heart.

And now, here I lay, alone and resolved to free him from me forever. With my soul surrendered, I would no longer have the power to bring him pain. No longer would I be the burden he clung to in silent suffering. In the void I would leave behind, he could finally find happiness. At last, he would be free.

A sigh escaped me, my breath rising in the night air, ghostly white against the pitch black—pale as the moon above. I turned my gaze towards the Lake, watching as a thin sheet of ice began to form along the shore, creeping outward until the entire surface lay frozen in solemn stillness. This was it. The end I had chosen.

Tilting my head back, I took in the brilliant glow of the moon. So bright, so achingly familiar; it reminded me of Ominis’s eyes, wide and glistening, capturing light like a silvery mirror. But the sight was shattered as a shadow crossed my vision—a figure cloaked in darkness, hovering before the moon’s face. And then another. And yet another. They were here. The Dementors had come.

“I’m ready,” I whispered, my breath shallow and weak, the bitter cold already robbing me of its warmth.

The Dementors gathered close, circling like crows, hovering just above me. Then one descended, its gaping mouth drawing out the very essence of my being. At first, I could see it—a misty blur of myself slipping from my body. Another Dementor swept down, stealing even more, and slowly, steadily, the world around me faded with each kiss of oblivion until there was only darkness.

Or so I thought. Until I saw him. Ominis—smiling.

The image bloomed with a vividness I had almost forgotten. It was the first time I had ever seen him smile, truly smile. I remembered it clearly: I had just taught him Confringo, and we’d singed our eyebrows in the Undercroft while practicing that cursed spell. I’d made some jest, something so absurd it had him laughing, his smile radiant, his laughter spilling out in waves around us. I’d often wondered why that spell had held such fascination for me. Now, it was plain as day—the memory bound to it, the warmth of his smile. And here it was again, unfolding before me as though I had been swept back in time.

The memory shifted, blurring into another scene—Feldcroft. I was back in my childhood home. Ominis and I were alone; Anne was fast asleep, and Solomon was away for work. We lay side by side in my bed—a rare and precious thing. Ominis had escaped from his own home that evening, seizing a moment of rebellion to apparate to Feldcroft the moment he’d “turned in.” I remembered the surge of pride I’d felt, seeing him stand against the grip of his family, even for a single night.

We lay there, laughing and talking in the stillness, sharing secrets and dreams. I remembered our hands, the way they moved—gliding, grasping. We pressed close, warm against one another, needing no blanket to shield us from the chill. It was, I believe, the first night Ominis truly slept. I could see him now, peaceful, his breath slow and soft, and I could feel the weight of my own heart as I realized then, in that precious moment, the depth of my feelings for him. I couldn’t look away from his lips as he lay there, utterly still, and the truth of it settled over me that next morning.

Another memory surfaced—the Sorting Ceremony. I had just been placed in Slytherin, nerves prickling at me despite Anne’s reassuring presence nearby. And then, a boy sat beside me. I didn’t know him yet; I only knew of him. The name Gaunt carried a certain weight—whispered, feared. And here he was: Ominis Gaunt, their youngest, sitting quietly at my side, as silent as a mouse.

No one dared to breathe in his presence. Students stole glances, wary, as if expecting something dark or strange from him. I was no different—I half expected Parseltongue to slip from his lips the moment he spoke. But what came instead was a soft voice, timid and gentle. “Would you mind… telling me what each food item is before me?” he asked, his hand tugging slightly at my sleeve, a faint blush colouring his cheeks. It surprised me—and endeared him to me in a way I couldn’t have understood at the time. But in that moment, I unknowingly found the truest friend I would ever have.

Then came memories of comfort, tender and bittersweet, unfolding before me. After the horrors of the Scriptorium, I saw myself holding him, his grief raw from the loss of his aunt and the fright of the Unforgivable curse used against me. He was fractured then, torn, yet I held him close, wrapping him in all the love I could offer at the time.

Now, rushing forth, the memory I cherished above all others—the moment of my first confession, however clumsy it was. It was just before Anne’s curse. I had managed to sneak a few spiked Butterbeers from The Three Broomsticks under the cover of a disillusionment charm and brought them back to the Undercroft without spilling a single drop. Ominis and I had our fill that night, laughing and emptying every last mug.

In my drunkenness, I blurted out a thought that had been buried for far too long: how I’d never kissed a boy, but if I ever did, it would be him. Of course, the both of us were stunned by my suddenness. I could still remember the look in his eyes, wide and wobbling. And then, without a word, he leaned in, his lips pressing gently against mine.

The warmth of that kiss burned hotter than the Butterbeer. I melted into its sweetness, kissing him back with nothing but my longing. When Ominis pulled away, I nearly whimpered, wanting to press back into him. We said nothing of it afterward, slipping back into our usual banter, yet we both knew it had changed us. It gave hope. Hope that perhaps in the future, we could be more than what we were.

So many memories flickered before me, so vivid and consuming that I barely noticed as I drew my final breath. I didn’t feel the chill settling in, nor the tears slipping down my cheeks. The joy of those memories held me fast, but then, I was before the Dementors once more. And faintly, I heard his voice, calling out from the distance, growing nearer with each second.

“Sebastian!” he cried.

The sound felt so real, so achingly real. I closed my eyes, letting go, feeling the pull as my soul began to slip from my body. I could see it then—a glow, bright and pure, emerging before me, filling the sky with such brilliance it blinded even the Dementors. And in my final moment, I saw him—Ominis. His face hovered above mine, his own tears falling, warm against my skin, his eyes shining with a light that outshone the moon, outshone even my soul’s glow.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered with my last breath, letting those words carry my love and my regret.

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

Let’s talk 1x08 and 2x08 epilogues and how they set up next season

Allow me to explore this idea: what clues can 2x08 epilogue give us on what to expect for Season 3, taking 1x08 epilogue as an example? In TV shows, the epilogues of season finales are meant to set up the events and the tone for the next season.

Let’s start with Season 1 finale, and how it translated in Season 2:

1) Setting up the feud between Elrond and Galadriel in Season 2:

2) Setting up Celebrimbor’s pride as the reason for him to fall prey of Sauron’s deception:

3) Setting up Eregion (mainly the forge) as the one of the major locations of Season 2:

4) Setting up Sauron’s connection to the Three rings of power:

5) Setting up the forging of the rings of power plot in Season 2:

6) The red herring:

Now, let's take a look at Season 2 finale epilogue, and what clues it might give us for Season 3:

Sauron and Fëanor Hammer:

To me, this scene is quite straightforward: it’s foreshadowing for Sauron forging the One ring in Season 3. Because the show can’t postpone that to Season 4 (Fall of Númenor), really. We know this from Tolkien lore. 

"A sanctuary. Protected... by the Elven Rings":

This location will definitely be Imladris (more known as Rivendell), and, if Season 1 finale is anything to do by, it will be one of the major locations in Season 3. With Elrond building it, and becoming an Elf-lord of his own right.

Gil-galad: Sauron's armies are roving across Eriador. All Middle-earth is within his reach now. Even Lindon. We must decide whether to attack and bring the fight to him... or to fall back, to prepare our defenses. Galadriel: The sword or the shield. Elrond: Many of Eregion's bravest fell. The few who survived are all but broken. In body or spirit. They have little strength left with which to fight. They barely had strength to flee. Arondir: What course would you advise, Commander Galadriel? Galadriel: I would remember the counsel of our dear friend, Celebrimbor, Greatest of Elven-smiths. And remind our people... that it is not strength that overcomes darkness, but light. And the sun yet shines.

From Tolkien legendarium we know several things: Sauron will attack Lindon, and lay siege to Rivendell (“First Siege of Imladris”). The Elves will also fight back, and this will culminate in the Battle of the Gwanthló (probably Season 3 finale), where Sauron allows himself to get captured by Ar-Pharazôn and brought to Númenor as prisoner, kicking off Season 4.

Will there be consequences to Morgoth’s crown wound?

What consequences will this wound have on Galadriel?

In “Fellowship of the Ring”, Frodo is injured by the Witch King of Angmar, using a Morgul blade. In spite, of being healed by Elrond, this wound never fully heals, even after the One Ring is destroyed and Sauron is defeated. On the anniversary of receiving the wound, Frodo becomes seriously ill, and he's unable to lead a normal life (like Sam, for instance). This leads him to go to Valinor, at the end of the story.

“Alas! there are some wounds that cannot be wholly cured," said Gandalf. "I fear it may be so with mine," said Frodo. "There is no real going back. Though I may come to the Shire, it will not seem the same; for I shall not be the same. I am wounded with knife, sting, and tooth, and a long burden. Where shall I find rest?” The Return of the King

Frodo: It's been four years to the day since Weathertop, Sam. It's never really healed. The Return of the King (2003)

This wound forever changes Frodo, and it’s only a blade forged by Sauron, what consequences will Morgoth’s very own crown, a object filled with dark magic, have on Galadriel? And can 2x08 already have provided us with some foreshadowing on this?

These shots can imply blood binding theory is correct, and Sauron might have transferred some of his powers to Galadriel. This is not mere “camera work”: in the first screenshot it’s Sauron looking down at Galadriel, and the second is Galadriel waking up. The effect on both is the same; hinting a sharing power between them.

In Tolkien lore, Galadriel is a powerful elf-witch, an Elven queen of great magic and power, however in "Rings of Power" we haven't seen her either dealing nor displaying any kind of magical abilities. Yet. Having her blood bound with Sauron can be the show’s explanation for her source of magical power, as well as to why she never faces him directly, working against him from afar, and why Sauron couldn’t conquer Lothlórien unless he went there, himself; as well, as to Sauron’s grouping of her mind for thousands of years into the future, and how Galadriel is able to see into his mind, too.

The Three Elven rings of power: 

Season 2 finale epilogue also focused on the Three Elven rings of power, and this is not random, because Sauron will try to get them during the “War of the Elves and Sauron”. If blood binding is correct, Sauron might take advantage of this to have Galadriel handing the rings to him.

This scene is meant to symbolize the end of Galadriel and Elrond feud over the rings, but also to showcase that Elrond trusts these rings, now.

I’m not sure if this is also foreshadowing for Elrond getting Vilya next season because it seems a bit premature, so in on the fence with that one.

Gil-galad worried expression:

This expression recalled me of Elrond’s on Season 1 finale, which makes me wonder what it can mean. Is this look connected to the rings of power or with these characters?

Gil-galad is the current ring-bearer of Vilya, and, from that perspective, it doesn’t seem to make sense for him to worry about the rings. Especially since he used its power (+ Nenya) to heal Galadriel, earlier. So, it can be related to the characters, yes. And from his angle, it can point to one in particular: Galadriel.

Where is Gandalf headed next?

Woman: Goodbye, Grand-Elf. Gandalf: Grandelf? Nori: They've never seen an Elf before. Never even left home before. [...] And what to leave. If I had my druthers, we... We'd walk the wastes of this world. Eatin' snails and beetles till the sun run out of days, but it's high time. I walked my path, and you walked yours. Gandalf: We are very different creatures, Nori. When all is said and done. Nori: Not so different at all, if you ask me. Nori and Gandalf part ways, 2x08

Can this dialogue be foreshadowing or set up for Gandalf meeting the Elves in Season 3?

Is there a red herring like in Season 1 finale?

Yes, I believe so. And it’s Galadriel appearing all victorious and light after her fight with Sauron. This can parallel Sauron Season 1 finale red herring; where he arrives at Mordor, also looking victorious and ready to take over the place (we all know how that turned out).

If this is, indeed, a red herring what can it mean? That Galadriel will find herself struggling harder than ever with the darkness in Season 3, as a consequence of Morgoth’s crown wound.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

I wish you would write a fic where no one abandons Aemond and he lives a long happy life with his family who love and trust him 😭

A tidbit for you, in the spirit of the game (not quite what you asked for, it's more Helaemond than anything else)

Where would I go?

Her question to her mother echoes back at her in her mind as she looks out at the lazily rolling waves of the sea, the horizon stretching on for an eternity against a cerulean blanket.

Here is where she has gone; where ever here is, she does not know. She gazes down at her bare feet, wiggling her toes in the sand, marvelling at the way it feels between them. Her slippers have been discarded, alongside Jaehaera's, somewhere off to the side, not far from where her daughter now plays. She smiles softly as she watches her little girl lift up shells towards the sunlight. How long had it been since either of them had felt it upon their skin? She cannot remember.

She turns, seeing her younger brother walk slowly down the beach towards them. His approach does not feel quite so heavy as it has over the last half a year. She feels no fear as he advances, there is no intent and no expectation of her from him. A weight has been lifted from him.

Come with me.

Helaena had refused Aemond's plea to accompany him to Harrenhal, though upon learning of their mother's plan to yield the city to Rhaenyra, she had agreed to flee King's Landing; he on Vhagar, she on Dreamfyre, his niece clutched tightly to her chest.

It had been an age since Aemond had had the pleasure of witnessing his older sister on dragonback, and she was as graceful a rider as he had remembered, despite the whimpering child that clutched tightly to her clothes.

The rumble of their dragons nestled beside each other within the dunes brings him a sense of peace. They are as much a comfort to each other as Helaena is to him. There is no certainty that Dorne can house them forever, but for the moment there is no war, no threat to their lives, no discontent, simply brother and sister discovering a brief moment of peace that they have never known before.

Aemond stops short of touching Helaena as he comes to stand behind her, despite the way his fingers flex with the urge to. He has not yet earned that right, not after how he has behaved, compelled by fear and desperation.

He eyes her carefully as she stares wistfully out to sea, the breeze gently blowing her silver hair around her head, as though it is strands of delicate silk.

"You want to know if I still see it, do you not?" She eventually asks, her voice soft.

"Yes," is all he is able to utter, voice thick with emotion.

She turns then, looking at him, her expression relaxed and almost dreamy. "You are never seen again," she repeats, "but it is because you are finally free."

Aemond lets out a breath he had not know he had been holding in, a tear rolling down his unmarred cheek. The relief that floods through him makes him feel as though he could simply float away. He needs to anchor himself.

As his hand wraps itself around Helaena's forearm, she does not flinch or pull away. There is understanding in her eyes as she looks upon him, and a promise that in spite of the uncertainty of their future, it is one they shall both live to see.

[imgeekgirlfan]

The Curse of Cassandra [EP : VI]

Read in Ao3 : here

Pairings:  Qimir x f!reader(SEA Reader)  [The Acolyte]

Content waring : 18+ smut/nsfw, manipulation, fingering, p in v, virgnity loss, unprotected sex, creampie (Just asking for a friend: Do the Bene Gesserit need a condom?🤔)

tags/themes : Alternate Universe - Dune & Star wars, Partners in Crime, Strangers to Lovers

Summary: On your twentieth birthday, after spending nearly three years with Qimir, you finally decide to reveal your secret to him. And from that moment, your relationship with him will never be the same again.

Status: finished writing this fic! (It will end in Episode 14)

A/N : As mentioned, This fan fiction mixes elements from two universes, so some details might not match canon perfectly. I’ve made adjustments but will try to keep key canon elements intact. I hope you read this for enjoyment, not to nitpick details.

ps. Writing smut in English is rather demanding for me. I hope you can forgive any mistakes in this EP. I’ve done my best 😭

➡  Intro // EP : 1 // EP : 2 // EP : 3 // EP : 4 // EP : 5 // EP : 7 // EP : 8 // EP : 9 // EP : 10 // EP : 11 // EP : 12 // EP : 13 // EP : 14 (Completed)

Special OS : Phantom Thread

[Episodes 6] Four things cannot be hidden—love, smoke, a pillar of fire and a man striding across the open bled.

On your twentieth birthday, after spending three years with Qimir, you finally decide to reveal your secret to him.

There is no point in hiding it any longer, especially after he has already seen something he shouldn’t have on that ship. Besides, you no longer wish to conceal it. That near-death experience has changed your perspective—not just on your own feelings but also on the visions that have surfaced from deep within your subconscious. Through the fog of time, you sense profound changes—both in the future paths and in the bond between you and him.

A bond you never wanted to form. Feelings you wish to deny. But no matter how hard you try, in the end, you can’t escape it.

Sometimes, fate has a strange way of twisting things—you can’t help but think that when you recall your first meeting. You hated Qimir with all the intensity of your feelings. You couldn’t stand him. There were moments you even plotted his death, planning to flee far away. But who would have thought that three years later, you’d find yourself lying in his arms on a small bed in a rundown hotel near the Starports on Olega, far removed from the bloody events on Tatooine.

You are uncertain if it can even be called love. But one thing is certain: Qimir's presence changes your life forever. He changes you. You change him. And you have no idea if it is for better or worse.

Resting your head on Qimir's chest, you let his large hand caress your back. It's strange how safe you feel with him, despite having witnessed him kill so many people.

But it's not just you who feels this way. Qimir doesn't seem to fear you either. His words are blunt and direct when he finally asks about what he's seen. "I saw what you did—you control people with just your words," Qimir says. "What exactly are you? A member of some witch's coven?"

He turns on his side, wrapping his arm around your shoulder, holding you close as if to comfort you from the terrifying events that have unfolded earlier. Yet at the same time, it is clear he intends to keep you there, preventing you from leaving until you answer his question honestly.

You know Qimir’s intent, but do not push back. You remain silent for a moment before replying.

"It is an ancient technique passed down by my people," you confess, feeling as though you are revealing a terrible sin to some forgotten god. "We use our voice to command others, bending their will to our desires." You pause before adding, "And no, I am not part of any witch’s coven. My mother said those covens are nothing but lowly imitators, trying to replicate what we truly are."

"Your people? What do you mean?" Qimir frowns, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. A wave of unease washes over you as you realize that the moment of truth is finally upon you.

“I am Bene Gesserit.”

Bene Gesserit—those words, foreign to most in this age, are known only to a select few who have studied ancient history.

According to old records, before the rise of the Jedi Order, the Bene Gesserit was a powerful religious order that held great power throughout the galaxy, known as the Sisterhood. They only accepted women deemed worthy into their ranks.

It is said that the Bene Gesserit were the true originators of the Force, passing down their teachings through generations. The Bene Gesserit sisters possessed mysterious powers and physical capabilities far beyond the reach of ordinary people. They could neutralize poisons within their own bodies, control others with the power of the voice, and train their minds and bodies to heights that defied natural limits. Some could even glimpse into the future with an eerie sense of prophecy, though only fragments of what was to come—except for the Reverend Mothers who led the order. They alone held the power to peer through the memories of their ancestors, journeying through the past, present, and distant future.

And it was this obsession with the visions they received that drove their beliefs. The Bene Gesserit were convinced that the universe was heading toward destruction, haunted by the prospect of a terrible future. Their only solution was to guide human evolution to its pinnacle through meticulous breeding programs that spanned generations. They strengthened their power by sending their sisters to marry and breed with the ruling houses of various planets, integrating themselves into the political and religious structures, and influencing every layer of society, from the lowest to the highest ranks—all for one ultimate goal: the creation of the Kwisatz Haderach, a superior human who transcended all others.

Yet ironically, it was the Kwisatz Haderach himself who brought about the very doom of the universe, which the Bene Gesserit had feared and attempted to avoid all along.

The Bene Gesserit succeeded in creating the Kwisatz Haderach as intended, but they utterly failed to control him. Paul Atreides, the only son of Duke Leto Atreides and Lady Jessica of the Atreides, a Bene Gesserit sister, became a religious icon before he reached twenty. He was revered as the Lisan al Gaib—Voice from the Outer World—and was worshiped as a godhead. He led the Fremen, the ancient people of Arrakis, in a jihad that spread across the galaxy. Tens of millions perished in the holy war, and hundreds of millions more during the tyrannical rule of the Kwisatz Haderach’s own son.

Eventually, the Kwisatz Haderach's dynasty was annihilated by the vengeful masses, and the universe slowly began to heal, giving rise to numerous new sects, including the Jedi Order.

The Bene Gesserit were said to have vanished during this time, and rumors of their demise were widespread. Some claimed that the Kwisatz Haderach, driven by his hatred for the Sisterhood, had eradicated them entirely, while others believed they were blamed for the jihad and were hunted down by the vengeful populace.

Regardless of the cause, the true reason for the destruction of the Bene Gesserit was their overwhelming power and the mysterious goals they pursued. It was decided that the Bene Gesserit witches should no longer exist in the universe, as no one wanted to risk the emergence of a second Kwisatz Haderach.

For thousands of years, you have been the last Bene Gesserit. Although your skills and powers are far weaker than those of your ancestors due to a lack of proper training, you still surpass both Jedi and Sith. Your power is the source of the Force they wield—an ancient power that none can fully replicate unless they are also Bene Gesserit.

“I am not only a Bene Gesserit; I am also a Fremen,” you reveal, deciding to share another layer of your secret with him. You point to your deep blue eyes, the eyes of Ibad, the distinct mark of your ancient race, now long extinct along with the Bene Gesserit. “My Fremen name is Hara[1], a name known only to my mother."

You are surprised at yourself for disclosing your Fremen name to him. For the Fremen, a tribal name carries deep meaning and significance, given only to those who can be trusted completely.

However, you feel a sense of relief after finally speaking, though it's not complete. There are still secrets you haven’t shared with him, but revealing this much is already more than enough. You trust Qimir, but you are unsure how much of this truth he can truly accept. Deep down, you are terrified he might see you as a monster, shun you, or worse, decide to eliminate you like others might. Your very existence might be too dangerous to allow you to survive.

But Qimir says nothing. He appears deep in thought, his expression unreadable. You can’t discern his feelings, and the silence grows unbearable. Finally, you ask, 'Do you fear me now that you know who I am?'"

As the words leave your mouth, you bite your lip unconsciously while waiting for his reply, worry gnawing at you. How strange it is to be afraid of his rejection more than your own death."

"Fear?" Qimir tilts his head, puzzled by your question for a moment. Seeing your distressed expression, he quickly grasps your concern. "I have no reason to fear you," he says, stepping closer to place a gentle kiss on your forehead, then the tip of your nose. "I do not fear you," he emphasizes, sealing his words with a firm kiss on your lips.

You let Qimir kiss you a little longer. When he finally gives you a chance to catch your breath, you ask, 'Even though I am dangerous?' Your voice is barely a whisper, filled with uncertainty.

Everything feels too perfect and too smooth, and instead of providing reassurance, it only makes you feel more uneasy.

Qimir smiles widely, almost as if he wants to laugh but is holding it back. "Oh, in that case, it’s me you should fear more." He teases, his tone playful, as he resumes kissing you. Not on your lips, but now on your ear, nibbling playfully, while one of his hands moves up to your breast, caressing and teasing your nipple through the fabric with his thumb.

Your eyes widen as you realize what is about to happen. You grab Qimir’s arm, quickly halting his mischievous actions before things can go any further. “Qimir,” you call out his name, your heart pounding, your voice faltering with each shaky breath.

Qimir stops immediately, pulling back slightly to look into your eyes. You see the clear reflection of desire in his dark eyes. “Don’t want to?” he asks, his voice carrying a hint of pleading, though the playful smirk at the corner of his mouth suggests something more sly, as if he knows every thought in your mind without reading it, knowing that you won’t refuse.

His knowing demeanor makes you feel annoyed, but there is little you can do. In a situation like this, you are at a disadvantage in nearly every way.

“Well, I…” You try to speak but hesitate for a moment, your cheeks burning hot as if set aflame. You don’t know how to explain it to him without making yourself feel even more embarrassed. “I don’t know how... I’ve never... you understand, right?”

That isn’t entirely true. Even though you have never been intimate with anyone, you aren’t that naive. As a Bene Gesserit, you can see the past through ancestral memories, which sometimes bring you glimpses of things you shouldn’t see, intruding into your dreams. But dreams and reality are entirely different. You feel out of place, unsure of what to do, like someone who has read extensively but fails when it comes to practical application.

Qimir lets out a clear laugh, his sly smile shifting to one of genuine amusement, making you blush even more. Before you can protest, he seizes the moment and silences you with a kiss.

This time, though, it feels different.

Never before has a kiss between you two felt so deep and intense. His lips and tongue are sharp and distinct as they invade, filled with a potent desire that permeates every touch, burning with unwavering purpose, as if he wants to touch the very core of your being, reaching the true self you have never revealed to anyone.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t move far. His mouth lingers on your lips, and his hands gently cradle your cheeks. “Relax, don’t be afraid,” Qimir whispers, his lips trailing to your neck, feeling the rapid pulse beneath your skin, then moving down to your chest. “I told you before, you don’t need to hide yourself when you’re with me.” His voice is soft, almost dreamlike, but every touch is real.

You follow his lead, as if under a spell, letting him undress you without resistance. His large hands roam over every part of your soft skin, planting kisses along the curves of your body, from your shoulders down to your hips, and finally to the inside of your thighs. His dark eyes examine your naked form without looking away, not missing a single detail, taking in every perfection and flaw—nothing hidden, nothing concealed.

“I want you to feel every emotion within you—anger, fear, and desire…” The word ‘desire’ from Qimir’s lips was as sweet as honey. “Embrace who you truly are, what you can be, and what you can do when you’re with me—only with me.”

You flinch as his fingertips brush against your delicate folds before sliding inside you. You can feel every knuckle as he slowly works his way deeper, one finger becoming two, gently stretching you as he allows you to grow accustomed to the sensation. He then begins to move them slowly, his thumb rubbing your bud, massaging every sensitive spot inside and out, sending shivers of unfamiliar pleasure through your body.

Waves of strange, stinging bliss ripple across your skin, making you restless as you writhe in the throes of sharp delight. But his other hand presses firmly on your lower abdomen, forcing you to stay still.

“Be a good girl,” Qimir admonishes, a grin tugging at his lips, clearly enjoying watching you struggle helplessly beneath him.

You moan, burying your face in the pillow, your entire body trembling with the intensity of your climax, making you feel like you are floating in a sea of stars. After catching your breath for a moment, you look up to see Qimir hastily removing his own clothes. His skin is pale, his body sculpted with lean, defined muscles, as beautiful as a statue in a temple. But what sets him apart are the scars, some small, some large, like cracks in marble. Yet these imperfections only make him more striking, unique, and beautiful.

Qimir turns to look at you, fully aware that you have been watching him the entire time. His face softens in the dim light, but his eyes remain dark. You sense the intense longing within them—a desire he’s harbored for a long time. You wonder why you never noticed the fragile restraint in him until now. He seems on the verge of snapping, as if he’s been wound too tight, ready to unravel at any moment.

Qimir wastes no time, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close until there’s no space left between you and him. His hardness presses firmly against the crevice of your thighs, the heat spreading through your body as his cock gradually sinks into your swollen slit, filling you completely.

A low moan escapes his lips, soft and barely audible. Qimir pauses briefly, giving you a chance to catch your breath and adjust. As he takes a moment to relish the closeness, he revels in the warmth of your tight, slick, silky walls that embrace his length perfectly.

"It might hurt at first, but it’ll get better soon. Just bear with it," he murmurs, his hand gently stroking your hair. He plants a warm kiss on your cheek, trying to comfort you as your face contorts with pain. It feels like he’s about to tear you apart as he pushes in fully. You lock eyes with him in shock as a flood of emotions washes over you—strange, frightening, painful, and thrilling all at once.

Your lips part, letting out a silent moan as Qimir begins to move, thrusting in to the hilt until you can feel every inch of him deep within you. He brushes away a stray lock of black hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. His lips press a kiss to your sweat-dampened temple as his hips thrust forward, quickening the pace. Your soft inner walls tighten, clenching around him as his tip repeatedly hits your sweet spot.

By now, the pain has subsided, replaced by waves of pleasure building inside you, ready to explode.

Tears stream down your cheeks as you grip Qimir's shoulders as if your life depends on his mercy. Your hips rise to meet his movements, every fiber of your being striving to get closer to him, nearly melding into one.

The rhythm changes slightly, slowing down and becoming less steady but more forceful. You pant heavily, feeling the climax approaching, each movement bringing you closer to the edge of ecstasy.

Just a few more thrusts, and you both reach the peak together. He spills into you, his release filling you up and spilling over. The hot, wet feeling of his cum makes your body shiver and feel dizzy, still unaccustomed to these new sensations.

The room gradually returns to calm. When Qimir pulls away, your body suddenly feels light and empty, like weightless cotton. You drift in the calm afterglow, enveloped in his embrace as he nuzzles you, kisses your cheeks and forehead, and caresses your hair tenderly, just as lovers do."

But there are no words of 'love' from his lips. The last thing you hear from Qimir before slipping into sleep is, 'You’re no longer alone. You belong to me.”

Instead of feeling reassured by these words, a strange unease flickers through your mind, as if you've just stepped onto a path of grave mistake.

Footnotes:

[1] In Fremen culture (as depicted in the film Dune), Fremen names are special names that differ from regular ones, only shared with outsiders when there’s deep trust and acceptance. For example, Chani tells Paul her Fremen name, 'Sihaya,' as a sign of accepting him as a lover. That’s why the reader needs a Fremen name���it’s culturally important (and I certainly WILL NOT USE Y/N as a Fremen name, absolutely no way!). I’ve hinted at this name since EP : I (if you pay attention, you’ll notice it), and it ties into the story, so I hope you're okay with the name I picked.

[varpusvaras]

The days continue like that.

Fox tries his best to continue focusing solely on Leia. He feeds her, plays with her, puts her down for a nap. Feeds her, bathes her, puts her to bed.

They continue to keep watch in turns. Ben stays up first, while Fox sleeps the best he can, and then he stays up until the suns start to rise.

Then they do it all over again.

Ben does most of the housework. Fox thinks that he takes pity on him, and lets him focus on taking care of Leia, instead of making him do any of the maintenance that the house needs every day. Fox tries not to feel too bad about it.

The days and nights go by.

Leia starts to get a little restless. Fox hasn't had the courage to let her outside, in case they are spotted. Or in case there are any of the gangs or other dangers lurking around. Or because the days are hot, and Leia's skin is light and sensitive, and Fox doesn't want to expose her to the suns too much.

He sees Ben watching them. It almost looks like he is getting a little restless, too.

That night, after Fox has gotten Leia to fall asleep, Ben speaks.

"I think we are out of immediate danger now", he says. "Of course, it might just be because they haven't managed to track us down yet, but perhaps we can afford to relax a little."

Fox is not sure if he wants to relax a little.

He is, quite frankly, a little afraid of what will happen if he does so.

He can see that there is something else tied to what Ben is saying, though.

"Are you getting tired of staying inside the house with us around the clock, Kenobi?" He asks.

Ben makes a little huff. Fox doesn't know if it's a laugh or a sigh.

"Not that I don't enjoy your company", he says. "But I do have a job. Or at least I had a few days ago. I might already be laid off for not turning up for my shifts. Things are a bit scarce here, and even though there are various jobs available, getting one that is at least somewhat on the side of legality is always a bothersome thing. And, since things are scarce, they cost credits. Even more so now, as there are three mouths to feed, instead of one."

He looks at Leia, and smiles slightly.

"Even if one of the mouths is smaller than the other two", he says. He sounds fond as he speaks, and there is a look in his eyes that Fox knows.

He wonders who exactly Ben is thinking about when he looks at her.

"I do have credits on me", he says. "A lot of them."

Ben turns to look back at him. He raises a brow.

"And they cannot be traced back to you?" He asks.

"No", Fox answers. "They were reserved exactly for a situation like this. Just like everything else we have with us."

He decides not to think too much about that right now. He's doesn't have the energy to start and really think about how everything they have with them is everything they currently have left.

Ben nods. He is quiet for a while, clearly thinking.

"I will still go out tomorrow, to see if I still have a job", he says. "We do need to get more supplies as well at some point. Might as well do it at the same time."

That is true. Fox has supplies with him, but they are not going to last forever, and they need to keep up a stock, in case they need to leave again.

So he nods.

"Good. I will leave more weapons for you. But do not stay and fight. If they come, flee. Do not worry about me or anyone else."

Fox nods again.

It's for the best. If he flees, they will probably not go after the boy.

"I don't think I could even fight against all of them", he admits. "It would be a losing battle from the start. Most likely Vader himself would come after her-"

He stops talking when he sees the expression on Ben's face.

He looks like he has seen a ghost.

He stands there, his face white and his eyes wide, and Fox isn't sure if he is even breathing anymore.

He looks more like a ghost himself.

"Ben?" Fox calls. He doesn't seem to hear him. "Ben? General Kenobi?"

Nothing.

"Obi-Wan?"

That gets him to move again. Ben breathes in sharply, and his eyes focus fully back on Fox.

"He..." His voice comes out as a strained whisper. "He's...alive? Anakin is alive?"

Fox nods.

Ben sits down on the floor. He stares at the wall, and when he doesn't get up after a while, Fox stands up, and carefully pulls him back to his feet. He walks him all the way to the bed and makes him sit down on it, next to Leia, who is thankfully still sleeping.

Ben doesn't say anything. He just keeps staring somewhere, somewhere beyond the walls of the house.

Fox takes the first watch for the night.

[senualothbrok]

Come What May

Summary: On what Gale believes is his last night alive, you cannot give him your body. But there are countless ways to declare love, and infinite ways to express it.

An alternative act 2 romance scene, featuring a Tav who is a cleric of Ilmater. "Come What May" is a song from "Moulin Rouge".

AO3 link

Non-18+. Angst with a happy ending.

Trigger warnings: references to prostitution (Tav's mother), sexual trauma, grief/bereavement, graphic depictions of illness, Gale's suicidal ideation.

A/N: This fic is a response to the anon who requested an alternative act 2 romance scene between Gale and a Tav who wants to save intimacy for after marriage. I feel that I should apologise because I am clearly incapable of writing a straightforwardly sweet/romantic piece which does not involve trauma and angst of some sort. I have no idea why this happened, please forgive me.

Please note the trigger warnings and exercise self-care. It is, however, angst with a happy ending.

I highly recommend listening to "Come What May" from Moulin Rouge during/after you read this.

I deliberated over whether to post this. It feels like my weakest work, and I feel slightly ashamed about it. I'm still not sure if it's good enough to post, but decided to bite the bullet because I wanted to give it to the anon who reached out. I really hope it does bring some comfort and enjoyment to someone out there.

I cannot thank my dear friends @inglorionamy-ammy and @dekariosclan enough for being truly wonderful beta readers and helping me with some major edits on this piece. Thank you and I am forever grateful for your kind hearts and keen minds.

“I’m in love with you.”

There is anguish in Gale’s eyes. His voice trembles with fear and urgency. You feel it all, a sunbeam shooting through the blue-green haze he has conjured around you. For you. 

You gaze at him, breathless. Nothing compares, not even the beauty and wonder of his creation. When Gale looks at you, you do not feel dread, that ancient squirming beneath your skin. He is not the lumbering colossus of your nightmares, leaving a trail of whimpering bruises on your mother’s flesh. When he is near, you feel a yearning to draw closer, not away. You had never thought that possible with a man.

In that moment, you are possessed by a wild terror. An agonising thought that he will slip through your fingers, as though he never was. His last night alive. 

Your heart surges, and you cannot stop it. You answer without thinking.

“I’m in love with you too.”

Panic seizes you. Your admission is a sacred boundary crossed. A bulwark broken. You have the urge to bolt before all is lost.

But then Gale’s face lifts. It radiates with a smile, and all at once, you are beaming with the knowledge that you are the cause. Fleetingly, you let yourself imagine the miracle of seeing that smile again and again for the rest of your days. It is not a leering grin from which you flee, nor a repulsed grimace from which you hide. Sometimes, in his presence, there is something about solitude that no longer feels like safety, but loss. It bewilders you.

He huffs out a laugh, and you are mesmerised by the curl of his eyelashes, delicate as butterfly wings. 

“That’s a relief. It’d be a shame to spend my final hours making an ass of myself.”

There is a flame in his eyes that sets you alight. You cannot look away. You do not want to. Something swollen simmers in the space between you, just as it had that night when the Weave had made you one. 

He dips towards you. You are drifting towards him, dizzy from his scent. It is like nothing you have breathed before. There is no trace of sourness, no stale grease. It is sandalwood and leather, scrolls and soap. You are entranced by the plump curve of Gale’s lips, the soft earth of his eyes. In your mind, you see the smooth curve of his shoulders, broad and welcoming. His feather light fingers turning a page, like a sculptor’s touch on setting clay. 

The glaring marks on your mother’s neck, withering into wounds. The blood of her scabs, pooling in her navel.

You flinch.

Confusion flits across his features. You shift away.

“I'm sorry,” you manage. “I can't.”

You are winded by his spasm of hurt, a storm of despair, rejection, doubt. Part of you wishes you did not have this gift, this curse of Ilmater - to read others’ pain, to feel others' suffering so deeply it becomes your own. And you know, as you reel from the chains you cannot shed, that you should say no more. But you cannot bear it. You cannot let him suffer from a lie.

“I love you,” you choke. “But I can't.”

His brows steeple. He is silent. The thought that he does not believe you is a torment. You cannot be another loss, another reason for him to believe his life means nothing. To convince himself there is no one who would mourn his death. 

The words spill out as though you are clutching, searching. 

“I made a vow.” 

He sucks in a sharp breath. “A vow.” His gaze darkens. “You're promised to another.”

“No.” You jerk your head, frantic. “No. It’s not that…” 

He stiffens, as though he is braced for a blow. That he would expect harm from you is devastating.

“I made a promise to Ilmater,” you confess. “I can't be… intimate with anyone. Not like that.”

His eyes widen. You notice that there are flecks of gold in the brown of his irises, flaring with surprise. You fumble for proof, excuses, anything to skirt around the edge of it. The scar inside you that no one but Brother Rogier has seen. Your burden, your wound. Yours and yours alone.

“It keeps me safe.” You sound frenetic. “So that I can heal. I can't be charmed, or harmed by phantasm. Ilmater protects me from–”

It is ridiculous. You feel it as you speak. To suggest that such feeble protections would keep you from the magnitude of his love, when he is certain he will soon be dust and ash. Insulting. You are ashamed.

Disbelief curdles in the tight line of his lips. 

“Please. There’s no need for that.” He looks away. “You have a compassionate heart. That much is clear. But there's no need to go to such lengths to spare what remains of my pride.”

You stare at him, bereft. “Gale–”

“I understand perfectly.” His voice is broken glass. “And I would never force my heart on someone who doesn't reciprocate my affections, no matter how pitiful I may appear.”

He turns his back to you. You can no longer see his face. This is the right thing, you tell yourself. The good thing. He will walk away, and you will remain intact. Safe. You will endure. 

But a frenzy has come over you. As you watch the sagging of his shoulders, the clenching of his hands, you realise that you do not want it. You do not want this sacrifice, this secret. 

You want him.

You have never wanted anything so much.

You lurch forward. He spins around at the desperate questing of your fingers, lacing into his. You fall to your knees, pressing his hand to your heart. Recognition sparks in his eyes as your tadpole brushes against his.

“Please,” you whisper. “Let me show you.”

****

She used to be beautiful, you thought, kneeling there beside her. You stared at the welts marring her olive skin, her scarlet hair flaking to rust. There was a sore on your mother's thigh, weeping with pus, and you looked away when Brother Rogier pressed on it, ashamed at your squeamishness. 

You had seen far worse, waiting in dark alleyways and side streets while she heaved, clamped against the wall by some hooded giant, or kneeling as a grunting shadow loomed over her. You had never felt disgust or shock, only vague impatience, as you watched her finish and rearrange her skirts. Coins jangled in her pockets as she took your hand, bounding towards the promise of candlelight in the distance.  Later on those nights, she would hold you close in a warm bed, lulling you to sleep with whispered songs. With a full stomach and a formless hope, you ignored the greasy stench of strangers’ sweat which she could never shed.

It angered you, how nauseous you felt, as you listened to the bubbling crackle of your mother's breathing. You were only ten, but you were no longer a child, and you knew her moments were numbered. To feel disgust as she lay there, leaking into a peeling pallet, a guttering flame - it was the greatest betrayal. A sin you could never forgive. When Brother Rogier covered your mother's modesty with his usual gentleness, you started to cry. 

You had been suspicious of him at first, stooped and shrouded in his tattered grey robe. You had never met a priest of Ilmater. All you could see was his bald head, so shiny it looked wet, and the backs of his calloused hands, hairy as a beast’s. When he first took hold of your mother after her collapse, you screamed.

But he did not scold or strike you. He spoke to you softly, as an equal, not a child. 

“I want nothing from your mother, or from you,” he said. “I have sworn a vow of chastity.”

He had crouched to look you in the eye. It was a dignity you had never been given before, as the ugly runt of a streetwalker. It made you feel like he truly saw you, in a way that no one but your mother did.

“It means I will never take a woman or a man. She is safe with me. And so are you.”

And you were. With him, you felt safe. He was the only other person who would touch her, when  the sickness ravaged her body and her mind.  He tended to her in the temple with poultices and prayers, giving you food, water and shelter. She was well beyond thanking him by then, all speech and thought swallowed up in decay. Yet when her fire was snuffed out, he was the one who stood with you, cleaning her for burial. He was the one who anointed her so carefully, so reverently, for a return to Ilmater’s embrace.

“Ilmater sees you,” Brother Rogier had said. “He bears your suffering.”

And as you wept into your mother's cold, hard hands, with Brother Rogier steadfast beside you, you thought of every stranger who sucked and thrust your mother's beauty out of her. You thought of their relentless claws in the darkness, and Brother Rogier’s tender fingers in the light. You thought of your life, broken and empty, but for Ilmater's unexpected kindness.

And you made a promise. You promised you would never give your body as your mother had. All that you were, all that you had, you vowed to give to the Crying, Broken God, the one who stood with you and endured.

****

There is a tiny scar near his temple, framed by a dew drop of a mole. You had never noticed them before. As you lie facing him, cocooned in the illusion of the lush grass beneath and the boundless night above, you drink in every pore of his bronze-kissed face, every shadow that lifts as his gaze roams over you. You feel it like a caress, drifting over the patches and blemishes marring your skin, and for the first time in your life, you do not feel the need to hide them. 

“Tav.” His voice is so low, you strain to hear it. “I’m so sorry.”

He draws closer. He has seen the gaping hole inside you, and he remains. You can feel his longing to comfort, his desire to heal. It is a familiar urge, your second nature. It would be a gift, if you could accept his reassurance. If you could rest in his embrace. If only.

He senses your hesitation. Abruptly, he pauses, his fingers hovering above yours.

“Is this… alright?” Worry twists his features. “Are you comfortable with–”

“It’s alright.” 

He gestures between you. “Because if it makes you feel uncomfortable, I can–”

“It doesn’t.” 

He frowns, questioning, fretting. 

“I'm sorry.” You look down. “I'm sorry I can't…”

He jolts. Your breath hitches as his fingers find the point of your chin, tilting your face up to meet his.

“I love you.” His brow quivers. “There are countless ways to declare love. Infinite ways to express it. The joining of bodies, the pleasures of the flesh…they're but one stitch in a vast tapestry. My love for you goes far deeper, burns far brighter.”

You gaze at him, motionless. When you speak again, your voice is torn.

“I want to. With you. One day, when I’m not...” 

You grimace as the images flash through your mind. The weeping scratches on your mother’s breast. The oily sheen on her calloused skin. You try to blink them away.

“When I can, I want to.”

He nods slowly, firmly. He shines, as though there are no more shadows between you. That there never could be.

“It’s different with you.” You try to explain. “When I’m with you, I don’t have to hide. When I’m close to you, I feel…safe.”

You know it is not enough, but it is all you have. You can only give him the truth, no more, no less.

“You’re not like the others,” you say finally. “I… want to be with you. To…touch you.”

You clasp his hand. There is the faintest glow of lavender that trails down the muscles of his neck, a glinting sliver of his chest through the opening of his robe. You look at him with concern. He grimaces slightly. You think you see a trace of embarrassment, but you are not sure. 

“I - ah –” 

His mouth opens, closes. He struggles for words.

“Is it hurting?” You wince. “We can try that poultice again, I have some in my–”

“I’m alright,” he huffs. “I’m quite alright, Tav.”

“Are you in pain?”

“Not…quite.” He shakes his head. “Not now. It’s–”

He bites his lip. There is a strange silence, as though you have reached a frontier you cannot pass. And yet, the intensity of his gaze draws you, like a thread tethering your soul to his. Your fingers follow its path, hovering over the dark ring at his centre. He tilts his head, and almost imperceptibly, he nods.

His eyelids flutter at your touch. The lines of the orb feel like a scar, a stitch sinking into his skin. There is a coldness to the purple pulse under your fingers. You notice that Gale has stopped breathing. You draw back.

“Am I hurting you?”

“No,” he answers immediately. His lips are parted. You catch the wet glimmer of his tongue. “Not at all.”

He clears his throat. You swallow. For a moment, you cannot look at each other. He runs his hand through his hair, while you fuss at your tunic. A hushed heat falls over you, and as if on cue, you both roll onto your backs, fixing your gazes on the celestial canvas. 

It is quiet for a long time. And then your hand returns to his, as if it belongs there. You trace the grooves on his palm, as he caresses the callouses of your knuckles.

“I would wait an eternity for you.” His voice is rough, fractured. “If only I could…but the orb, the fate Mystra demands of me–”

“You don’t deserve this,” you choke.

He scoffs, a burst of anger and disgust. “I was foolish. Selfish. It was unconscionable. I endangered everyone around me–”

You spin back to him. “You don’t deserve this, Gale. Not this. Not her abandonment and punishment. Not any of it.”

He stares at you. There is both a hardening and a softening in him as he wrestles with your words. You understand. You know how it feels to grapple with a burden, haunted by whether you can ever lay it down. Plagued by whether you should.

A tangle of hair falls into your eyes. Slowly, tentatively, he reaches up to tuck it behind your ear. Your skin tingles from the ghost of his touch.

“I could never tire of looking at your face,” he breathes. “Hearing your voice, seeing you smile. Watching you laugh. Being with you, basking in the miracle of your presence.” He closes his eyes, as if committing you to memory. “When the time comes, this is what I’ll picture. Only you.”

The sorrow of his smile floods you. The resolution, the resignation in it. All at once, you are drowning. He gasps, flinching forwards. 

“Please.” His thumb draws gentle circles on your cheek, brushing away your falling tears. “My love, please don't cry.”

He speaks with a tortured awe, as though no one has ever wept from his pain. 

“I would never want to bring you grief. Only joy. Beauty. Happiness and wonder.”

“Then don't do it.” You try to stifle your sobs. “We can work this out together. You don’t have to die.”

You cup his flickering hand against your skin. 

“Any goddess who would ask you to do this isn’t worthy of your love. You're worth more than any mistakes you’ve made. So much more than this cruel forgiveness. You’re… everything.”

Ilmater would never ask this. He would see Gale, his regrets, his triumphs, his goodness and kindness. His love. Ilmater would bear his suffering as his own. He would walk with Gale through the roses and the thorns. You wish you could make him see.

But he does not see it. “Please don't cry,” is all he says, as he wipes away your tears. 

***

“What's your happiest memory?” 

It feels like a deflection at first. A misguided focus on your sorrow instead of his own. You do not want to back down. You want to convince him that Mystra is wrong, that he deserves to live, that he should endure. But there is a plea in his question, a ragged insistence, and you cannot refuse him.

You close your eyes as you consider. 

“My mother loved to sing,” you start. “When she sang, it was like time stood still. Her voice was so beautiful… I can’t describe it, but I remember it. Everything about her was beautiful… until she got sick.”

You feel your mother’s crimson waves, wrapped like a veil around you. The cradle of her arms, so thin and willowy, yet strong as spider silk. 

“Just before she got sick, my mother took me to a tavern to see Red Millie. A singer - you won’t have heard of her, but she was a celebrity around our parts. The barkeep took one look at us and tried to throw us out, but we managed to hide away at the back.”

You remember your glee, sneaking with your mother through the gaps in the crowd, shrouded in shadows. There was a whimsy, a spirit within your mother that no amount of degradation and destitution could ever kill. Not until the very end.

Gale’s jaw clenches. “Blind prejudice. Needless cruelty, to deny such simple pleasures to a woman and her child. What I wouldn’t do to give that fool a piece of my mind.” 

A tide of tenderness washes over you. You squeeze his hand. 

“It wouldn’t have changed anything. But thank you.” 

Reluctantly, he eases. His anger moves you in a way you cannot describe. You are reminded of how Brother Rogier chased off the boys that spat and threw stones at you, as though there was nothing that mattered more than your dignity. 

“It was incredible, anyway,” you go on. “My first time at a real show. It was the only time I saw my mother’s face light up like that. Red Millie had red hair just like hers, and a voice that could bring warriors to their knees. And that night, she sang this song, a song I’ll never forget.”

It takes you unawares, how clearly you can still hear it. How it echoes inside you like a temple bell.

“Afterwards, my mother looked at me like she’d never done before. She was smiling, and there were tears in her eyes, and she held me so tightly I thought she would never let me go.”

Your chest heaves. She is a bottomless ache. You struggle to find your breath.

“What was the song?” Gale asks softly. 

The grasp of his hand stills you. No one but Brother Rogier has ever heard you sing. You have always thought your song fragile, brittle, like thawing ice. It has always been a secret part of yourself, set aside for your mother and Ilmater alone. But when Gale asks, it is a foregone conclusion. Something you give him freely and without reservation.

And so, with your tears mirrored in his eyes, you sing him your mother’s song.

“Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place

Suddenly it moves with such a perfect grace

Suddenly my life doesn't seem such a waste

It all revolves around you

And there's no mountain too high

No river too wide

Sing out this song and I'll be there by your side

Storm clouds may gather

And stars may collide

But I love you

Until the end of time

Come what may

I will love you

Until my dying day”

****

“Come.” He stands suddenly, lithe with determination. “I want to show you something.”

He reaches down to you, and when you take his hand, the world around you dissolves into a whirl of blinding light. You stumble, but with his fingers intertwined in yours, there is no space inside you for trepidation. There is only wonder.

He strides forward. You gasp as a vista of oak, marble, and vellum streams from his free hand. Not for the first time, you are enthralled by Gale in his element, working miracles from the Weave. You marvel at the sculptures and paintings that appear around you, the plush seats and ornate walls enlivened by the spines of a thousand books.  Within this sanctuary of deep reds and gilded greens, open tomes and scribbled notes gleam in the glow of the fireplace. All you see and feel and smell is Gale.

“This is my home in Waterdeep. The centre of my universe.”

You stand speechless, taking it all in - the gift of Gale’s trust, the purity of his love as he bears his soul to you. With a flourish, Gale leads you towards an intricately carved piano that waits in the corner of the room. 

“This is beautiful, Gale.”

You are referring to all of it - Gale's art, his home and haven, Gale himself. But Gale beams down at the piano with a special focus.

“It was my mother's.” 

His thumb grazes its elaborate markings. There is such a delicacy in the gesture. An act of worship.

“She gave it to me, when I finally got my act together and moved into my own place. What a day of joy and mourning that was.” 

He chuckles, brimming with memories. You wish you could see them all.

“She was a marvellous pianist, back in the day, when her fingers were nimbler. Truly exceptional. She was no wizard, but to hear her play–”

His hands dance, fervent with admiration.

“She played with such passion, such unparalleled mastery, that her music had a magic of its own.”

He gestures to the bench in front of the piano. As you sit, your thigh brushes against his. His fingers trail idly over the keys.

“It was always a treat as a child, to perch here beside her and watch her play. No matter how much of a menace I'd been, how exhausted she was from the endless havoc I wreaked and all the questions about the universe I demanded she answer. No matter how incandescent she was with me for burning this or summoning that…” 

He gives a huff of affection. 

“She would still invite me to sit beside her and listen. Every time.”

Gale's smile illuminates every part of him. It is a smile like no other, a fixed star in an endless night. 

“She sounds like a wonderful woman.”

He bobs his head. “Indeed. Formidable, and fearsome, and wonderful. You would like her. And she would adore you.”

There is an instant before he holds your gaze - a flurry of his fingers, a low murmur. And then, the piano bursts into life with a familiar song that shatters your heart into a thousand pieces before restoring them one by one, sealed in gold.

You are shaking. “Gale,” you whisper through tears. “The song–”

He takes your hand and presses it against his cheek. You feel it all - the roughness, the smoothness, the swelling storm, the steady sea. There is so much more you want to tell each other, things that spill over the seams of speech, lapping at the edges of all your empty spaces. In this moment, you do not need it. You simply listen.

****

You are sitting on the balcony. Framed by golden shafts of sunlight, he looks like a vision from your dreams, real and unreal at the same time. You know everything around you is an illusion, a haze of yearning and remembrance. Yet it is truer than anything you have ever seen or felt, greater than all your nightmares, the spectres of the past. It is his world, melting into yours, making you one.

“My favourite spot.” 

He pats the velvet seat beneath you. Dust motes shimmer in the rising air.

“Many times, evening turned to night and back to daybreak once more while I sat here, lost in words.”

He looks out into the horizon, the shifting waves and seagulls soaring overhead. You are reminded that he has created all of this from memory. The undulations of the arches before you, the chiselled grooves of the stone floor beneath you. The bustling docks and well worn buildings of Waterdeep in the distance. The empty wine glasses on the table, reflecting the setting sun. You feel the love and longing in his creation. You see the mourning in his frown, the dark determination in the twisting of his mouth. A farewell. 

“You'll come back here,” you tell him. “When this is all over. You'll be back.”

He turns back to you. There is a faltering, a crack in his conviction. You hope, with every ardent prayer within you, that it is enough.

Your hand seeks his. “What's your happiest memory?”

A fleeting surprise passes over his features, but there is no hesitation. 

“This,” he says. “Now. Being here with you.”

You are taken aback by the force of his sincerity, the gratitude that glistens in his gaze. Of all his accolades, all his many accomplishments and adventures, of all the people he has loved and lain with, this is what he cherishes most. You, bruised and battered as you are. Only you.

“And for you, I’ll wait.” He clasps both of your hands in his. “I'll wait for as long as it takes. A thousand years could pass, and I'd still be here, waiting.” His lips curl. “If you'll still have me, that is.”

You cannot help but laugh at his unexpected pun, and the hint of pride in it. Your cheeks flush with the implication of his smirk. It takes you a beat to register what he has said. When you do, you halt.

“Is that a promise?”

He freezes. Desperately, you search his face.

“It's a promise.” You surge forward. “You're going to wait till the day I can give myself to you completely, mind, body and soul. You're going to live.”

He looks down at his hands, wrapped up in yours. You can feel the roiling inside him, the relentless battle between hope and sacrifice. And when his eyes meet yours again, you are overcome by a love that blazes through everything hidden and broken within you. 

There is the ghost of a nod, and his hair skims your neck as you reach for him. When your lips find his, he trembles, his hands questing, coming to rest at the small of your back. You cup his cheeks, and the caress of his tongue against yours is a prayer answered. A vow.

In the warmth of his embrace, you watch the weary sun take its dive into the sea. He holds you close, and as the piano whispers your mother’s song, you let the gentle rhythm of his breaths lull you into sleep.

******************************

Liked this fic? Check out my other work.

[satans-codpiece]

Ramattra for the first time ask - 62 or 65

-dalishthunder

Hehehe I write about 62 a lot, so I'm gonna do 65 >:)

65) …you talk about being with them for the rest of your life.

It comes after a fight.

A screen is shattered in his office, half the contents of his table thrown to the floor. He lays with you as best he can on the tiny couch that was only ever meant for just you. His head on your belly, both arms pressed onto either side of you, his legs so long he's almost having to crouch just to get this close.

"Why are you here?" He asks after a while. His words are quieter, his voice raw and synthetic, not quite processed fully.

You stroke your hand through the thick cables of his hair, pushing them idly from side to side. "What do you mean?"

"Why are you with me?" As soon as he speaks his vents open again- but none near your hands. Steam only rises from his lower back.

"Because I love you." His whole chassis shudders and he turns, pressing his faceplate into your belly. The ribbon cables fall loosely around him, obscuring his audials. He's always so shaken by the confession, how you can say such a thing so easily. "And you can't scare me off that easily. Really, you're the one stuck with me."

How you can speak with such levity while he's drowning in shame baffles him every time.

"Stuck with me forever, actually." You lean down, stretching to press your lips against one bundle of wires. His faceplate is just out of reach- until he looks up, his chin digging into you- but you reach forward anyway and kiss his array.

"You don't mean that." The self-hatred flees his voice, leaving only disbelief. "Surely, you cannot be serious."

Your eyesbrows screw together in one of those human expressions he can't quite understand. "Of course I do. I'm gonna be here as long as you want me here. Ideally, I hope it's for the rest of my life. Which is practically forever for me." You hesitate, then try to grin, to bring back that softness you're spoken with before. "Is that... okay?"

Your life.

His processes hang, cycling through and re-analyzing your speech over and over. He wants to answer, wants to say anything. He knows his internals are buzzing louder, can see the vibration meter embedded in his spine beginning to tick up- can feel the warmth that gathers about his body.

"Ramattra?"

Your entire human life.

A million questions run through his circuits, queries on longevity and survival rates. The answers don't actually matter. Because the thought of denying you this, of denying that he wants this so badly, it feels like the desire itself would rip open his plates one by one. So he nods, a jerky motion of actuators not quite obeying him. "Yes," He finally croaks, the word hardly distinguishable- and just as quickly lays his faceplate down to your stomach again.

Your fingers rifle through his cables again, the only hand stroking along his jaw plate. Warmth of his body permeates through to yours. His hand shift, turning so each palm is pressed up to your ribs. So easily could he kill you with only a motion, only a thought. Instead he squeezes, holds you just a little tighter and hopes you meant it.

[justmymindandstuff]

Bounded by fire and pain - Helaena Targaryen x Aegon II Targaryen // Green Siblings

summary: In the night Aemond finally gets his dragon, he also loses an eye. Aegon can hardly bear the guilt and hatred. He can't stand the sight of himself. Strangely, the person who helps him the most is the last person he expected it from. His sister and future wife, Helaena. And somehow Aegon manages to find his place again.

words: 2.552

Warnings: Blood, injuries, family problems, Fluff(?), Targtower Siblings dynamic, this family needs therapy like soo much therapy

AO3

A/N: I need more Helaegon fics ( If you know some good ones please send them to me). I love their doomed failmarriage. Soo I write out this headcanon I have about the Night after Driftmark. I hope you like it :) It was actually planned as a Helaegon exclusive but somehow I got carried away at the end so we also have a "guest appearance" from Alicent and Aemond and is a bit more about family.

sequel/ part 2

Enlish is not my native language

Gif not mine // requests are open :)

Anyways have fun and be kind.

The room is illuminated only by a few candles, Aegon stumbles over some of his belongings as he enters. His steps are unsteady. The wine in his blood still troubles him. He would prefer to reach for the next cup right away. He wants to drink so much that he completely forgets this entire evening.

Aegon sits down on the uncomfortable bed. The room is unfamiliar. Everything here is unfamiliar. He hates it. He wished he could just walk out, mount Sunfyre, and flee from this island. But of course, all exits are now better guarded, and a Kingsguard stands at the end of the corridor. Aegon has to wait until tomorrow before he can finally leave Driftmark. And hopefully these memories as well.

Aegon closes his eyes for a moment to soothe the headache a little. An image of his brother appears, his pain-wracked face, the clenched hands around the chair, and the tightly pressed lips.

Aemond was brave. Not a single sound escaped his lips as the master removed the rest of his eye and stitched up the wound. At the sight of it, Aegon feld sick. He had to turned away. He couldedn´t bear the sight of his little brother, now forever mutilated.

Aegon opens his eyes again and gets up from the bed. He starts to pace restlessly back and forth in the room. The desperate pleading of his mother ringing in his ears. She demanded justice, but his father simply ignored her and brushed her aside like a doll.

He's been doing that his whole life, Viserys pushes aside his mother, his siblings, and him. Usually he ignores that they even exist.

Aegon's temples throb, he searches for a cup of wine, but finds nothing. He needs to distract himself. He can't think about it. His steps are getting faster, he keeps pacing back and forth. Aegon feels the tiredness pulling at him, yet he cannot close his eyes. He cannot bear the memory of his brother.

And the strong bastards have once again gotten away without punishment.

A hot rage rises within him.

He is angry with his nephews.

Angry about his half-sister.

Angry about his father.

He hates them all.

Aegon grabs the nearest object and throws it against the wall. The small wooden box breaks against the stone wall into its individual pieces. He couldn't care less.

His gaze lingers on the mirror. His long blonde hair is sticking out in all directions and is tangled. Restless and dull eyes stare back at him. Aegon cannot stand his own reflection. He approaches the small mirror and wants to smash it.

But his gaze is distracted by an old pair of scissors.

Without really thinking, Aegon reaches for it and begins to roughly cut individual strands of his blonde hair haphazardly. His hand trembles as the first strands of hair fall to the ground, and with them, the first tears fall from his eyes. Aegon angrily brushes them away with the back of his hand. Then he roughly grabs his hair again to cut off the next strand. His scalp pulls painfully when he tugs at his hair. But this pain is preferable to the pain in his heart.

His hand trembles, and his reflection in the mirror is blurred by the tears in his eyes. In the next moment, a pain shoots through his hand. Damn! The scissors had caught his hand.

Aegon throws them onto the table and looks at his hand. Blood flows over the palm of his hand and his fingers, dripping onto the ground.

The sight of his furious mother as she goes after his half-sister comes back to his mind. She bleds today as well. Aegon had never seen his mother like this before. He knows that Aemond is her favorite son and that she loves him with all her heart. But that she fights for him like that surprised him. And his heart filled a little with warmth. At least his brother has someone fighting for him. Aegon curse quietly.

"What are you doing there?"

Startled, he flinches and turns around. Unnoticed by him, his sister opened the door and entered the room.

"Nothing," he says. "Go away." He sounds meaner than he actually intended, but he wants to scare her off, so being meaner is better.

But Helaena does not disappear. Instead, she approaches him. While she goes to him, she tears the fabric of her skirt. Aegon watches her skeptically. She stops in front of him and reaches for his injured hand. Aegon is pulling it away.

"I said go away." he hisses at her again.

Helaena looks at him critically for a moment. Her gaze is uncomfortable for him. He doesn't want her to see him like that. He doesn't want anyone to see him like that.

"No." she answers and simply reaches for his hand again. Her fingers are warm as she touches his hand.

Aegon could theoretically shove them away. But he doesn't want to hurt her. After all, she is his sister.

Even if she is strange.

Even if she constantly has disgusting creepy-crawlies with her.

Even if she will someday be his wife. Or maybe precisely because of that?

Helaena starts to wipe away the blood and then bandages the cut with the fabric she tore from her skirt.

"That's just a small cut. It will heal without a scar," she then says. Helaena examines him closely. Aegon cannot stand her gaze, so he looks at his hands. Helaena still holds his in hers. She wasn't really thorough when it came to wiping off the blood. She even stained her own hands with blood.

"How do you know that?" Aegon asks, as the silence in the room is so uncomfortable that he can no longer bear it. He has no idea why he is asking that. He doesn't know what else to ask.

Helaena is his sister and his future wife, but she is also a stranger.

Aegon knows that it's his fault. He pushed her away from him, called her crazy, and repeatedly stated loudly that he did not want to marry a crazy woman.

"I am listening," Helaena replies, reaching for the scissors. "Sit down, otherwise I can't reach the top hair."

He is surprised by himself that he listens to her and sits down. Would she stab him with the scissors?

He deserves it.

He hasn't been a good brother for a long time. If he ever was one.

Helaena starts cutting his hair. She is cautious, and it is clearly more pleasant as it was as he tried to cut it.

"I also always hear what you say about me."

Aegon's mouth is dry. He never thought about how his sister felt with all his silly remarks. He didn't even think she would pay attention to him.

"I'm sorry for what I said," he whispers, unsure if she even heard him.

"I know," she replies to him. Aegon doesn't know what to say. He just keeps watching as more and more bundles of blonde hair fall to the ground. He feels that with each strand, a little of the weight on his shoulders lifts. The burden of the Targaryens.

He hates them all. His father, his half-sister, and his uncle. He hates the way they look at his mother, the way they smile at his siblings and him. He hates them all.

But he loves his mother, he would die for her and he will fight for her, just as she fought for Aemond today.

He loves his brother, even though he is always mean to him.

He loves his sister, even if he doesn't understand her in the slightest. Aegon can hardly looking at her for more than five minutes. Every time he did, guilt crushes him.

Once they are married, she can no longer escape him. Aegon will pull her into his darkness, and in the end, nothing will be left of the girl who was once his sister. He would plunge her into her misfortune.

How could she ever be happy with someone like him?

Aegon knows that he is not good enough.

His father shows it to him every day. He is not good enough for him, and that's why he is not the heir.

Helaena sets the scissors aside and runs her fingers through his hair, allowing the last loose strands to fall to the ground. Aegon leans into the almost tender touch and closes his eyes for a moment. Helaena carefully tucks a strand behind his ears. When Aegon opens his eyes again, he has to blink away tears and has to swallow a few times.

"Thank you for your help," he whispers and only then looks in the mirror. The typical long hair of the Targaryens is gone, instead, his blonde hair stops just below his ears. He wishes for a moment to get rid of the blonde, but he's not a strong bastard, so he has to live with it. Aegon suddenly feels lighter, and as he breathes in, he has the feeling that the air is truly reaching his lungs since a long time.

"That looks good on you," says his sister with a slight smile. Aegon turns his head towards her.

"Why are you so nice?" he asks confused. "I don't deserve this. I have neglected you, insulted you, and made fun of you. I don't deserve this kindness. You should have stabbed me with that damn scissors, then we would both be freed from our fate."

Helaena is silent for a moment. "Our fate," she says then and sighs. "There is nothing we can do to escape our fate."

Her voice sounds a bit distorted, and Aegon has to suppress the reflex to make fun of her and say something mean. Instead, he sighs.

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry that I'm such a bad brother. I did not deserve any of your kindniss." he admits then.

"You deserve kindniss because you are a human Aegon. And I am your sister. I am you Family. You don´t have to earn that your Family cares for you and loves you. You are not a monster, Aegon. You are simply lost. But you will find your way back," she says with such confidence that Aegon wants to believe her. Even if he doesn't know if he can do it. He nods and tries it with a smile.

"I will do better." it sounds like a vow even though it isn't one.

"You will. Come on now," Helaena says, extending her hand to him.

"Where are we going?" Aegon asks, confused. He doesn't reach for her hand, and after a moment, she lets it drop again.

"To Mother and Aemond. It is better if we are all together today."

Helaena turns around and leaves her brother's room. She doesn't turn around, she knows that he is following her.

Helaena does not go to Aemond's chambers but to those that have been assigned to the queen.

Ser Criston stands dutifully at the door. When he sees the two children, he nods slightly and opens the door. Aegon steps behind Helaena, trying to hide behind her.

The queen's chambers are almost deserted, a small fire still burns in the fireplace, and otherwise, candles are lit. Alicent lies in the bed, holding her younger son tightly in her arms. Aegon can hear Aemond sobbing even though he is hiding his face against her shoulder. He sees how the body of his little brother trembles under his sobs. Aegon feels sick at the sight and would prefer to turn around and run away. But Helaena's hand closes around his and she squeezes it gently. Her grip is gentle even though he notices that she is tensing her muscles, ready to hold him firmly at any moment should he attempt to escape. Helaena is Aegon's little sister, but she is also Aemond's big sister, and Aemond needs his family now.

His mother lets her gaze glide over the short hair, the blood-stained hands of her children, and the bandage on Aegon's hand.

"Are you allright?" she asks her older children while her hand gently cares over Aemond's narrow shoulders.

Aegon just nods.

"Yes. We wanted to be together tonight," says Helaena as she approaches the bed. "May we stay?"

The corners of his mother's mouth twitch slightly, and Aegon is sure she almost smiled. But she doesn't do it. Aegon is afraid that his mother will never smile again. Alicent lifts the blanket that is over her and Aemond. Helaena gently pulls on his hand so Aegon has to move. Helaena slips under the covers next to Alicent. Aegon hesitates for a moment but then climbs into the big bed and lies down next to his brother under the blanket. Suddenly, Aegon feels like he is five years old again, and his mother has taken them all out of their beds to let them sleep with her in the queen's large comfortable bed. A strange feeling of warmth spreads within him.

Aemond slightly turns his head towards him. At the sight of the large red wound across his face, Aegon has to swallow. This scar would never disappear. Just like the scar on Aemond's heart. They all have the same scar on their hearts. In this case, it was Viserys who wielded the blade.

"You look terrible with short hair," Aemond says with a trembling voice but a hint of a smile on his lips. Tears gather in Aegon's eyes.

"You too," he replies in a hoarse voice. Aemond laughs briefly and then his body is shaken by the next sob. Aegon doesn't know if he is in pain or if he is simply hurt because of the injustice that has happened to him. He hesitates for a second, but then he carefully puts his arm around his little brother. Carefully, he gently pulls him closer.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers with a trembling voice, blinking to hold back the tears. Then he hears his mother's sobbing next to him, so he looks at her. Tears are running down Alicent's cheeks again. She holds Helaena in her other arm and now reaches out her hand to Aegon. He hesitates again for a moment before reaching for her hand. She wraps her hand around his, and as he feels the warmth of her hand, he can no longer help himself but let the tears run down his cheek.

"Mummy I´m sorry I failed you. It will not happend again. I promise. I will protect all of us from now on. I swear it Mummy." this time it is a vow.

His mother nods slightly and squeezes his hand. Then she kisses Helaena's blonde head and Aemond's forehead. She always did that before she put them to bed. Aegon had forbidden it years ago. Now, however, he slides closer to her and lets his mother kiss his forehead. Her tears hit his cheeks and mix with his. But as Aegon sinks back into the pillows and holds his little brother in his arms, the anger, the hatred, the fear and the guilt feels just a little bit less terrible.

Aegon had forgotten what it feels like to be with his family. That wouldn't happen to him again.

**

part 2/sequel

[deancasbigbang]

Title: work song

Author: dothraki_shieldmaiden

Artist: tallula03

Rating: Explicit

Pairings: Dean Winchester/Castiel

Length: 70000

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Tags: Murder Husbands, Revenge, Canon-Typical Violence, Break Up and Make Up, Mutual Pining, Getting Back Together, Criminal!Castiel, Angst with a Happy Ending

Posting Date: October 31, 2024

Summary: Two years ago, Dean Winchester's life came crashing to a halt when his boyfriend, Castiel Novak, died in a tragic accident. After painstakingly putting his life back together, Dean goes on a vacation with his best friend, where he sees a face he never thought he would see again. Now reunited, Castiel tells Dean the truth about his past and the reason for his disappearance. However, all is not well--Dean cannot move past Cas' betrayal and lies, and the ghosts from Cas' past refuse to remain there. With danger looming, Dean and Cas start on a mission of revenge and justice, but they're badly outnumbered. With the hurt of the past colliding with the fragile promise of the future, Dean and Castiel need to learn how to create a new path--or else risk being lost forever.

Excerpt: Dean settles on the edge of the couch, ready to jump away at a moment’s notice. The surrealness of the situation — him, talking to Castiel two years after he thought Cas died, furious instead of joyful, wanting nothing more than to flee from Cas as fast as he can — would flatten him if he thought about it for longer than two seconds.  So he just doesn’t think about it. He sits and he waits.  Cas takes a long time to get to the point, twisting his fingers around each other, so abruptly that Dean winces at the sharp pop of his knuckles. Cas stares at a stain on the carpet like the secrets to the universe are written in its oblong edges.  By the time Cas finally speaks, Dean is ready to jump out of his skin with anticipation. He’s ready for Cas to yell at him, to call him pathetic. He just wants Cas to say something, but he’s completely unprepared for what Cas does eventually say.  “You are…” Cas’ throat bobs as he says, with an inflection that sounds like something soft and small dying, “were… one of the most important things in my life. The most important thing in my life.”  Cas sounds so sincere. Dean could almost believe him.  “I never would have left if I had the choice. Those two years I spent with you… They were the happiest of my life.”  Cas takes a deep breath, fortifying himself. Dean does the same, rebuilding his wall that had started to crack at the first sign of Cas’ vulnerability. He’s imagining everything from Cas actually admitting that he’s just shit at breaking up with someone and couldn’t figure out a different way to end the relationship, to Cas saying that he had to flee due to problems with the IRS. “When I said you were in danger… Dean, I wasn’t lying. When I first met you, I had been on the run for over a year. I knew that staying with you was only tempting fate — bringing danger right to your doorstep — but I couldn’t help myself. You were so…” Castiel swallows. His hands are clasped so tightly together that his knuckles are bleeding white. “And for two years, I thought it might be all right. I thought… I thought maybe I was allowed to have you. But then I saw someone from my past, and I knew that if they had managed to find me, they could threaten you. They could hurt you.”  “Hurt me? Cas, I don’t—”  He doesn’t know what to expect, but he still couldn’t have prepared himself for what Cas says next.  “Dean, I was a member of the Archangel crime organization until it was taken over by Lucifer Morningstar. I was on the run because he put a bounty on my head, and I know you might not believe this, but the reason I left was to protect you.”  Fucking what?

DCBB 2024 Posting Schedule

[moronkombat]

op the breeding/preganncy stuff w reptile had me insane. can we get some for havik please?

hehe tw: dubcon/noncon, pregnancy, violence, afab pronouns and anatomy

Havik had gotten you pregnant purposefully. All to keep you closer to him.

All of you will belong to him and he will have you tied to him by laying his seed inside you

You would cry, you would scream and beg for him not to but this only fuels his sick intentions with blazing flames

How he will relish in painting your womb with crystal white pearls. How ravaging it will be gaze into your wide and pathetic eyes

There is no escape for you, not in the slightest. You will bear his child and deliver them to him through screams and blood

Wretched hands hook into her skin, the tattered flesh of wrists so abraded and worn from the metal that binds them. Chains dance and their song ripped from them as they are pulled and tugged. Crimson flees down the length of sore and beaten arms. Teeth brush against the shell of an ear and the breath that is whispered into her abhorrent and coated in grotesque chaffs.

She can hear him grunting, feel him moving torrid against flesh that trembles and grips. The body such a treacherous ally to her. Eyes so wet with tears but the velvet warmth slick with natural pleasure. How awful, how agonizingly euphoric the way Havik's cock, thick and full, continues to ravage her so wanton.

He's laughing then, a tongue layering over her ear. He can feel just her warmth dripping around him. What a wonderful orchestra she makes. Wet and sticky, there is music each time he thrusts within her. So already painted she is, so bleached in white all thanks to him. Yet there no stopping yet, no of course not. He must give to her all he can contain. His seed must thrive within her, grow and be nurtured.

A spine curls at the thought and Havik is ripping his nails into her flesh and he hears her cry out in pain. So beautiful, so wonderful...how she screams and screams. It will not be long now until he delivers his twisted seed to her womb.

He recalls her words, her petrified terror. "No! Please don't! I don't want to have your child! You can't! You can't!" That's it, give into the loss of control. Free yourself and be consumed by all that is chaos. Learn from him, become him. Havik moves faster now, blinding ferocity his guidance.

A palm comes to lay upon her stomach, oh how flat it is now...soon that will change. Soon it will grow with his twisted gift. Once his seed has taken its root she will belong entirely to him. Him, just him. She is claimed and the bearer of generations of chaos to come!

"Get pregnant, little pet" his words slither into her while his seed lays its seige.

You cannot deny him this, Havik makes sure of it and it is not long until you know he has succeeded

The illness spins, your body aching and stomach coiling. It not a blight to be cured with medicine and you know this. This a curse you have been condemned to enable its festering

Still, you try to keep it a secret...try to keep your pregnancy a secret from your tormentor

You must not let him know that his child grows within you. What a wretched child they will be, you cannot allow this to happen

But power is stripped from you, there is so escape. Mangled jaws are forever at your neck

You're sick, you can't stop bile from rising. It's too much, and it is expelled. You cannot hide

Havik comes to you then with a look so putrid and rotten, never has he gazed to you quite like this

"My pet...Why did you hide that you got pregnant?" Is what he'd say, eyes tarnished with insanity

You're terrified but unable to move as he approaches you. A damaging hand presses over your naval and soon a tongue is shoved into your mouth

He's celebrating, he's thank you but there is no joy in your soul. None at all

Havik does not relinquish his fixation over your body. He will lay into you again and again, making small cuts into your skin

No matter what, there is always a hand grasping your growing stomach. A constant reminder that you belong to him

There are whispers of how wonderful it is for you to be the mother of chaos

You will birth this world into anarchy and turmoil again and again. This is your purpose, this is your gift

A child is born and Havik does not allow for any sort of reduction of pain

There are screams and cries and Havik can only relish in its glory

Whispered venom is poured into your ear as you strain and break

You deliver your child in a room full of gore and death. A child baptized in it as Havik holds them up, mad and wild

The face of your child you do not recognize. Perhaps it the face Havik had lost all that time ago?

You are not sure, you can't be sure. The clouds of dismay far too grey knowing that you are bound to Havik forever

[seiya-starsniper]

For the hurt/comfort prompts

I'd like 14 with Morphenne or 4 with Hobrintheus, please. I'm excited to what you would envision for either of them.

14 - "Thank you for sticking by my side." - from the Hurt/Comfort Prompts

This wip is MONTHS in the making, and I'm so happy to finally be able to share it! Big thanks to @sandman-rarepair-fest for giving me the motivation to finish it 😄 Go check out the other fics people are posting for the event!

Rating: General Status: Complete Chapters: 1/1 Words: 2,958 Warnings: No Warnings Apply Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Hell Invasion, Post-Battle, Feelings Realization, First Kiss Summary: Hell invades the Dreaming, and in the aftermath, Lucienne is always there for Dream. But who will be there for Lucienne when she needs help?

Read more below, or over on AO3: Hopelessly (I'll love you Endlessly)

--------------------------

When Hell makes its move on the Dreaming and attacks, aiming for a complete invasion, there are thousands of casualties in the ensuing battle. Some injuries are fatal, and Dream feels each last breath, every agonizing scream, as their brief lives blink in and then out of existence. Each death is a wound, more painful than any direct cut to Dream himself, and Lucifer’s demons know it. So they aim for the weaker dreams first, those easiest to kill, to maximize the quantity of injuries they can inflict on the Dream Lord before they eventually move to target the more powerful dreams who actually have a fighting chance. 

Fiddler’s Green devours a hundred demons before his pastures are burned to ash, Gault’s wings are torn from her back as she takes on a high ranked demon lord, and Cain for once does not get to kill his brother Abel, for another demon guts him first. Cain, in revenge, takes out three upper level demons before he too falls to the rage and brutality of Hell. 

It does not take them long to breach the outer walls of the castle. More dreams and nightmares fall. Dream cries in agony with each new one, and Lucienne grips him tight in her arms, her and Matthew’s presence the only comfort in the otherwise cold emptiness of the throne room.

Dream wants to fight, wants the demons Hell and Lucifer themselves to pay for what they’ve done. And they will. He is ready for them. They are ready for them.

What the demons of Hell do not know, what Dream has been carefully guarding since his return from a hundred years imprisonment is this: that the Dreaming has been refortified so that it may never fall to ruin in Dream’s absence again. Or in an invasion, such that the current situation is.

In each of the denizens of the Dreaming, Dream has placed a small piece of his power within them, effectively turning each and every one into a dreamstone, forever connected to their lord in such a way so that Dream will never be cut off from his realm again. Through this deepened bond with his subjects, they will always know where he is, and he, in turn, will always be able to call on them.

The deepened connection, however, has its drawbacks. Each new death feels like a cut directly to Dream’s body, to his soul, and he cannot help the torrent of grief that engulfs him every moment another dream perishes. But at the same time, their deaths are simultaneously a balm, an injection of power that revitalizes him. Each and every dream fallen in battle has not actually died, but instead, their essences have been called inside his body, providing Dream with a limitless supply of power and energy. Their wills too, lie intact within him, and Dream is filled with their hopes, their pain, their fury.

Only when the doors break down and Lucifer’s army spills into the throne room, does Lucienne release her hold on him. Dream can feel her smile at his back as he transforms into his Nightmare form, channeling the pain and rage of each and every fallen dream into one unrelenting attack after the other. The demons of Hell don’t stand a chance.

Lucifer flees, abandoning their own people to their deaths, when they see what Dream has done. What he has become. Dream chases them as far as the gates, and then roars in victory when the Lord of Hell disappears over the horizon. The message is clear. Dream of the Endless is more powerful than ever, and any that wishes to prove otherwise shall be met with the full strength of his power. 

Invoking such a power, however, has its own set of consequences.

When the last of the demons fall, and the Dreaming is once again safe, Dream collapses onto the floor of the throne room, crying in agony as he tries to soothe the pain of death for more than a thousand different entities residing within him. The dreams are loud in their sorrow, and it is so much grief, so much heartbreak, it is all too much. 

Fiddler’s Green is the first to be resurrected, and then Gault. It is all he can manage before Dream is reduced to a sobbing, useless mess. 

Lucienne holds him throughout the night, whispering words of comfort to Dream, and all that reside within him. It soothes the ache by the tiniest fraction, and he is grateful for her embrace. 

With each day that passes, Dream brings another dream, another nightmare, back to life. With each life revived, the agony fades, but the memories of their deaths, their feelings in those moments do not. Dream had accepted the risk of this when he had asked for the denizens’ permission to imbue himself even further into their lives. Each and every resident had given their consent, some more freely and easily than others, but all had agreed that not knowing where Dream had gone for the last hundred years was worse than what Dream was asking them to give him. 

Lucienne and Matthew stay by his side, holding vigil as Dream wrestles with the tangle of wills raging inside him. 

Eventually, Dream expels the last of the dreams from his body, and soon the only voice residing inside his head is his. He allows himself a short reprieve to rest and recover, then sets to repairing the damage to his castle. 

“No offense, boss,” Mervyn tells him days later, when Dream is feeling more himself, “but I never want to share a body with you and everyone else in here ever again.”

Dream laughs, despite himself, but when Mervyn is gone, he sobs into Lucienne’s arms, unsure why he is still feeling so emotionally fraught.

“You took on a lot to keep us all safe,” Lucienne tells him, her voice soothing and low. “You have never infused yourself so closely with us before. Of course it would overwhelm you.”

Dream knows this, and yet, still he feels like he is drowning in a sea of unending grief.

--------------------------

After he finishes repairing the castle, Dream takes some time to wander the Dreaming to assess the full extent of the damage done by Hell’s forces, Lucienne follows his lead, taking careful notes of all the things that need to be repaired, while also making sure that Dream does not take on too many restoration efforts in one sitting. Mervyn helps with some of the smaller repairs, however the large majority of fixes to the realm still fall to Dream to complete.

Dream expects Lucienne to eventually return to her librarian duties, once Dream is mostly recovered and well enough to fully dedicate himself to restoring the Dreaming to its former glory. But even after the majority of the realm has been recovered, Lucienne does not leave his side. Instead, she continues to keep vigil over Dream, never straying more than a few paces from him, when she can help it. In the days immediately after the attack, Dream had grown so used to her constantly being within his peripheral vision that it takes him some time to remember that this was not always how things had been between them. Even Matthew, who has never been more than breath away since he had become Dream’s raven, does not keep nearly as close of a watch on Dream these days. Because Lucienne is always there. 

“You do not need to be my shadow any longer, Lucienne,” Dream says one afternoon when they are alone together in the throne room and reviewing Mervyn’s latest reports of needed repairs. Most of the remaining items are small, with the exception of the Sea of Nightmares, which seems to have grown quite restless in the past few days. Though Dream would prefer to get the rest of the small repairs over and done with, so he can focus solely on the Sea of Nightmares, Lucienne has forbidden him from exerting any more of his powers for today. 

Lucienne purses her lips at his words, her eyes kind even as she frowns at him.

“I am where I am needed, sire,” she replies. Dream sighs. He had expected this.

“Lucienne, you have many responsibilities to attend to, and I am well enough to hold my own without your aid,” Dream says. 

Lucienne shakes her head. “You may need me, sire,” is all she says in response, before she returns back to reviewing Mervyn’s reports. 

Dream hates himself for not trying harder to keep Lucienne at bay, to insist that he is fine. But the truth of the matter is that Dream is tired. He is tired of his function, tired of having to defend himself and his realm time and time again, tired of carrying the weight of the entire universe and its unconscious minds on his shoulder with no hope for reprieve. 

The only time Dream feels even a modicum of relief is when Lucienne is there. Lucienne, who places his hand in hers and squeezes it to distract him from his maudlin thoughts. Lucienne, who takes stock of all the restored dreams and nightmares, ensuring that they have fully recovered from their ordeal with Hell’s minions. Lucienne, who still hums a lullaby in a long dead language from a long dead planet, in the quiet of the throne room, knowing that the sound soothes Dream’s ever fraying nerves.

So Dream does not press further when Lucienne insists on keeping watch over him, even as he feels as though she is treating him like a piece of fragile glass that could shatter any moment.

--------------------------

When Dream finally ventures out to the Sea of Nightmares to assess the damage Hell’s forces have done to its waters, the waves rush up to meet him, and Dream braces himself to be pulled within their depths. The Sea has been temperamental ever since the battle with Hell, and Dream knows it is likely questioning his competence. It is just another thing he will have to weather, another challenge to be conquered. He is prepared to remind the old nightmares that dwell beneath that he is still their master, that the battle with Hell has only made him stronger, not weaker.

But the waves of the Sea crash just past him, enveloping Lucienne instead and pulling her down into the cold dark depths.

Dream does not think twice before he follows, desperately diving in after her.

The Sea of Nightmares is vast and infinite, containing the collective fears of every being within its waters. Dream feels his own insecurities rise to meet him, threatening to swallow him whole. The Sea recounts each and every death that Dream allowed to happen, all of the pain his subjects had to suffer at the hands of Lucifer and their demons. It reminds Dream of his century long imprisonment, of how he let his realm fall to decay. It recalls how Dream has scorned and hurt those closest to him, from Nada to Hob Gadling. How he continues to hurt those closest to him. Especially Lucienne. 

Lucienne.

Dream’s eyes snap open, clarity piercing through the darkness of the Sea, as he remembers the reason he’d jumped into the water. His goal recalled, Dream starts to swim in the direction of Lucienne. Though he cannot yet see her, he can feel her, and he will not let his rogue creation take her from him.

He spots her not far south from his current location, and Dream dives downwards to reach her. As he swims closer to Lucienne’s location, Dream realizes the Sea has shifted. It is no longer showing him his deepest fears and insecurities.

No, he realizes with a sense of growing dread. It is showing him Lucienne’s.

Lucienne had always been steadfast in her devotion to him, and Dream had always believed they had an easy understanding of one another, a shared goal to keep the Dreaming alive and well, a sense of honor and duty. As Dream reaches out to grasp Lucienne’s hand, however, he realizes the depths of her devotion. Not only to the Dreaming, but to Dream himself.

The Sea shifts again, this time revealing to Dream Lucienne’s deepest fears. It shows him the countless lonely nights spent waiting at the Gates of the Dreaming, waiting, hoping, praying for Dream’s return. Another wave shifts the image to the sight of Dream, bruised and broken, as Lucifer’s minions invade. Yet another shows Dream, alone and surrounded by nothing but death and chaos, clearly prepared to sacrifice himself to some yet unseen force.

What Lucienne fears most, the Sea seems to whisper to him, is losing the one she loves most. Losing Dream.

Dream feels wretched. Undeserving. How had he not noticed that she carried these feelings for him all these years? He had always been perceptive, able to easily glean even the most carefully guarded secrets, and yet, this one has gone beneath his notice.

Or perhaps, he thinks to himself, he had simply refused to see it. 

Dream’s despair threatens to pull them both deeper into the Sea of Nightmares, to drown both he and Lucienne in the cold, cold, dark, but Dream will not let it. The Sea of Nightmares is still his subject after all, and it will heed the call of its master. Of Dream of the Endless. 

The Sea heeds his call and releases them. Dream takes Lucienne and then swims to the surface.

He breaks through to the surface just moments later, gasping for air and clutching Lucienne to his chest. She is unconscious, likely due to the shock of the Sea’s attack on her. With a single thought from Dream’s mind, they are both transported to his private chambers, and he lays her carefully on a wide bed with dark satin sheets, before replacing both of their wet clothes with dry ones. Then he fashions himself a chair to sit in and waits. 

Lucienne gasps as she wakes an undetermined amount of time later, coughing fitfully as if her body were trying to dislodge the water from the Sea of Nightmares from her lungs. But she is a creature of the Dreaming, and so there was never a true risk of her drowning.

“My lord?” Lucienne says once she’s caught her breath, turning to him. “What—what happened?”

“The Sea of Nightmares is still yet unstable,” Dream answers. “It stole you beneath the waters.”

“I—see,” Lucienne replies, her brow furrowing. “And you— you rescued me?” she asks, widening her eyes as shock then worry crosses her features.  “My lord, that was a dangerous maneuver. You could have been greatly hurt.”

“I could not lose you, Lucienne,” Dream says simply. It was true. Lucienne has always been an instrumental part of the Dreaming, of Dream’s function, but she had truly become invaluable to him when he had returned from his imprisonment at the hands of Roderick Burgess. Lucienne had shone a light on Dream’s weaknesses, had helped him see past his own pride as he struggled to adjust himself to a realm that had rotted away in his absence. She had shown Dream that change need not be a terrifying thing, that it could be beautiful, not just in his creations, but in Dream himself.   

“My lord,” Lucienne argues, “it is still not worth the risk—”

“You are worth every risk, Lucienne,” Dream interrupts her, cutting off the thought before she could finish it. “There is no one more valuable to me than you,” he adds, and realizes he means it. Lucienne had become wholly irreplaceable to him, and that could only mean one thing. 

“I have been negligent in saying so in the past,” Dream continues. “But I would like to thank you. For staying by my side for all this time. For believing in me, even when others had given up. For giving me—” he pauses, then takes one of Lucienne’s hands in his, raising it to his lips. She inhales sharply, caught off guard by the intimate gesture. “Something I still do not think I deserve.”

“My lord?” Lucienne asks, breathless.

“Lucienne,” Dream murmurs, his lips ghosting along the knuckles of her fingers. “I do not yet believe I am worthy of your love.” He looks up at her, hoping that she sees that he is serious about his declaration. “But I would like to be, if you’ll allow it.”

Lucienne’s eyes widen, then crinkle as she lets out a small huff of laughter. “I would respectfully disagree with that assessment sire,” she replies, turning her hand in his to squeeze it in return. “You do not see yourself as I do,” she adds, her voice soft and fond.

“Clearly, else I would have noticed your affections sooner,” Dream replies, feeling his own lips quirk upwards as he returns her smile.

“Perhaps that is only a testament to how well I know you, that I kept them hidden for so long,” Lucienne teases. Dream barks out a laugh, and it echoes loudly in his chambers, but he does not care. Lucienne has heard him laugh many times in the past few thousand years, so he is unashamed to let her hear him now. 

“Perhaps,” he allows. “But now you are no longer permitted to keep those feelings secret. I would have all of them, immediately.”

Lucienne rolls her eyes, but still stares at him, fondness clearly etched across her lovely face. 

“You have always been greedy with your lovers,” Lucienne answers. “But I suppose I do not mind that about you.”

Dream’s only response is to pull Lucienne into a deep, breathtaking kiss.