#<- see she has her own tag and everything

[http-shield]

whatever you say, old man- bucky barnes

~ bucky barnes x fem!reader ~tags/cw: post endgame but no one is dead and life is good, think 2012 Avengers fandom where clint is in the vents yeah that is where I'm at, established friendships, pining, yearning, bucky is not used to new age dating rituals, explicit language, sexual tension ~ wc: 2.6k ~ not proofread

You: Hey, are we still on for tonight? Rita’s at 7?

Him: ye

“So you’re telling me this is normal?” Bucky’s tone is judgemental as he quickly reads over the words on your screen.

You nod, wordlessly confirming that situatuonships are a staple part of the modern dating scene.

Bucky’s brows furrow, eyes flicking from the lack of effort text message to your face as you lean over the bed, phone gripped between expertly manicured fingers. He blinks once, twice, as if taking the time to formulate a response that will rebuke your earlier confirmation without hurting your feelings. This is new for him. A habit he has only recently picked up upon developing his friendship with you. He usually isn't as careful with his words, not caring enough about the recipient's opinion or emotional well-being to warrant enough time and consideration when responding, but with you. It was another ball game entirely. Bucky doesn't want to hurt your feelings, to see you frown because of something he has said; in fact, he wants the opposite. To see you smile and laugh and blush because of him. For you to want to talk to him about anything and everything, share thoughts about your day and how things make you feel. Bucky wants to know everything that happens in that pretty little brain of yours, even if he doesn't necessarily agree with it. Normally he would take the time to sugarcoat his words, sweeten his tone and make it easy for you to swallow but this is a situation where he couldn't, doesn't, want to mince his words.

“There is no world where that is normal.” He stares at you, expression bored and a little annoyed. At you? Never. At the man on the other side of the phone? Incredibly so.

You groan at his very true statement and pull away, slipping the phone into the pocket of your cargos as you turn towards your open closet.

He’s right. You know he is.

There is nothing remotely normal about two grown adults being in a relationship that is defined by the amount of time the other left the first one on read, or how much emotional vulnerability there could be put on the table before the other got too scared and ran. There is nothing normal about being in your late twenties and having a grown man introduce you to his friends as a 'buddy’ despite having an entire draw dedicated to you in his apartment but you can’t admit that, refuse to admit that you know its wrong and desperate and frankly, demeaning. If you can't own up to your own patheticness, how are you supposed to admit it to the man you are secretly interested in. There would be nothing more humiliating than confessing that the only reason you are with and putting up with bullshit efforts from this other guy is to hopefully distract yourself from the desperate need you feel for Bucky. This new guy is mediocre at worst yet attainable at best and that is something you will live with until your crush on the super soldier is dead and gone and you can finally focus on something other than him.

——

You had spoken with Natasha about Bucky last night, her voice a soothing purr over the phone as she encouraged you to disclose your concerns about pushing the boundaries on your friendship with the super soldier.

“The worst thing that can happen is he says no and then you both move on.” She croons, voice laced with comfort and reassurance.

“Wrong.” You shake your head despite being on a voice call.  “The worst thing that can happen is he says no, I lose him as a friend and then I’m stuck pining after someone who wants nothing to do with me” You place another dish in the washer before continuing with your point. “Or I push him before he is ready, again losing him as a friend, and now I’m left with the guilt of possibly taking advantage of a war veteran.”

“You take advantage of Steve all the time, how is this any different?” 

“I take advantage of Steve to get someone to carry in the groceries. I’m not trying to date Steve.”

Natasha huffs a laugh. “What if he is interested in you as well?”

Your hands stop scrubbing at the pan in the sink.

“I can find out.”

Heat fills your body, your stomach twists at the idea of having that information. It would put an end to the constant yearning you feel, but the thought of finding out he doesn’t like you that way, that he sees you as no more than a friend will destroy you, humiliate you beyond all logical reason and you would be forced to cut off the friendship out of pure self-preservation.

You shake your head again. “I’m good.” And return to scrubbing your pan. “I'll just wait out the crush and then move on.”

——

“This isn’t the 1940’s anymore.”  You sigh and completely shift your attention from Bucky to the mess that is staring back at you.

Endless outfit options are strewn about the small closet but so far none of them have come together, just single shirts, skirts, and pants all muddled in a heap of black.

“I know it's not the 40s but I doubt relationships and dating have changed that much." Bucky grumbles from behind you, the bed creaking as he shifts.

Another sigh, this one long and exaggerated as you will the frustration to leave your body. You want to turn to him and explain that you know all this, and are very aware of the fact that nothing about your current predicament is what you want. You want to be wooed with flowers and preplanned dates and soft kisses on hands and longing looks but that’s not the reality of life anymore and having to be reminded of it is getting annoying and your heart is starting to ache at the lack of effort given to you by your current choice of dating partner.

“You know if I was taking..” Bucky starts but you quickly cut him off with a whine of his name.

“James, please.” You don’t turn to face your friend, afraid to even glance at him because you know you will crumble. “I need help picking out an outfit so help me or go back to your room.”

--------

“You know if I was taking…” You don’t let Bucky finish but, God did he want to. His name on your tongue was enough to shut him up, to send a flush rushing to his face in a way that no man his age should blush, but he can’t help it. There is something about the way his name falls from your lips that has his mind racing to thoughts that should not be there, should not appear when the picture of you enters his mind.

“You know if I was taking you on a date, you’d get flowers and chocolates and champagne and those little baby dolls you like” is what he wanted to say before you shut him up with an annoyed grumble.

His intention wasn’t to display how things were different back in his day but to indicate exactly what you’d be getting were you about to go on a date with him, to explain the reason why you should go on a date with him and not some loser who couldn’t even formulate a fully fleshed out text message. How if you were to drop that kid, and say yes to Bucky he would gather the moon on string for you, pick every flower in every field, find every single little Sonny Angel there is and give them to you each and every day for the rest of your life, you would never be sat wondering why he isn’t calling or responding, if you were even going out the next day, if he even liked you. Bucky would make his feelings for you so abundantly clear that even a blind man would be able to see the signs, but you are his best friend and best friends don’t feel that way about each other. It’s all platonic hugs and hair tussles, cheeky jabs at each other over coffee, shared trauma and secrets over whatever dinner you bring to his apartment and he yours. There will be no dates, or long hugs that turn into kisses that turn into you beneath him, whimpering his name as he makes you feel oh so good.

Fuck.

Bucky’s entire body is on fire, and he needs to stop thinking about the way you would feel wrapped around him, his mouth on yours, the taste of you sweet on his tongue.

“Okay, what about this?” you announce as you walk into the bedroom from the ensuite. “Too much?”

You stand in the doorway, dressed in plain jeans and a black shirt.

“Too much?” Bucky is confused. “This is the outfit you wore to breakfast this morning.”

He is right about that one. You had worn a very similar outfit this morning, but tonight isn’t a full-on date, a semi-date, where things shouldn’t be that fancy so why shouldn’t you recycle your outfits. Bucky stands from the bed, readying himself to dig through the mountain of clothes that had formed at the entrance to the bathroom. He crosses the small space and squats before the clothing, fingers expertly rifling through the material, quickly brushing over the lace of bras and panties, before finding purchase on a black dress he thinks he has seen you in before. It might have been the dress you wore to a funeral or press conference, either way, it was not alluring in the slightest, not that you weren’t stunning in everything you wore, hell you could come out wearing a garbage bag and Bucky would be in awe of your beauty. It was just that he didn’t want your date to ogle you, to think of you the same way Bucky does so he is being a little selfish and conniving in his choice of garment.

“Where is he taking you?” His question is disguised as interest in the dress code but his real curiosity is far from an outfit.

There are two reasons why he needs to know where you will be tonight. The first is to judge whether this manchild is even worthy of a date with you, second if he knew the exact location and time, maybe he could show up and show out your date, make you realise what you deserve and how Bucky could be the one who gives it to you.

 “We’re meeting at Rita’s down the road and then might see a movie, maybe something else. I’m not sure yet.”

“He hasn’t planned anything?” Bucky whips his head around to you, finding you standing there looking incredibly embarrassed at the lack of effort. What the fuck happened in the years he was gone?

The defeated shake of your head is enough to have Bucky’s chest aching. He sits back on his haunches; the dress discarded back in the pile and gives the outfit another look as he decides on where to go from here. “Yeah, I think it’s too much.” He nods and stands up, brushing his hands as if he had just completed an excavation on some ancient site.

“Go change back into your sweats ‘cause there is no way I’m letting you go on a date with a guy who can’t even plan something.” He nods his chin towards the bathroom, more of an order than a suggestion.

He watches you tilt your head back as you groan in frustration. “I’m not going through this again, old man. This is how it works now.”

Now it’s Bucky’s turn to get frustrated. He takes a step towards you, hulking 6’0 frame rising to tower above you with a somewhat menacing glare, but you know he will never hurt you no matter how much you push his buttons.

“I’m not talking about what it used to be like, little girl.” The jab at your age/generational difference comes out before he can register it, but he notices how your cheeks flush. “This is about getting what you deserve.”

He pushes in on the space between your bodies, now chest to chest as you square your shoulders, not ready to back down from an argument despite knowing you will not win.

“And what’s that?” you stare up at him, brows raised in anticipation of his answer. You aren’t sure where this is going. If you are going to receive another lecture or maybe even a verbal beatdown as to why your standards for men are so low, a common topic of conversation between you and Natasha, but instead you are met with a soft smile as his Vibranium hand is raised and brushes against your cheek.

“You deserve flowers and preplanned dates and wine and jewellery and everything you could ever want.” Bucky’s voice drops into a whisper, cold fingers trailing soothing lines against your heating skin. “You deserve a man worshipping you, to be on his hands and knees begging to take you on a date. Not some punk who can barely put together a sentence.”

You hold his gaze, blue eyes staring intently as you shudder in a breath. “Who’s going to do that, huh?” your voice is small, no longer filled with the same bravado you had not a minute ago. “You know anyone who wants to do that for me, you send them my way Bucko.”

His metal hand slips to your cheek to your jaw, fingers pressing into your pulse points so he can feel the speed at which your heart is racing.

“I’d do it.” He states matter-of-factly, eyes dipping to your lips. “I’d do anything for you.”

Breathing becomes a little bit too difficult as his human hand traces up your bare arm.

“Anything?”

Bucky nods and dips his head until his face is mere centimetres from yours. “You didn’t let me finish before, but I'd give you anything you’ve ever wanted.” Fingers move to cup your chin and tilt your head up. “You want flowers, I’m a florist. Moon? Stars? I’m getting Stark to build me a rocket. Anything you want, you’re getting it.”

“And if I want you on your hands and knees barking like a dog for me?” You smirk, the mental image of Bucky on his knees panting like a puppy has your stomach twisting.

“Put a collar on me and call me Spot 'cause I’m yours, doll.”

The confession has your eyes widening.

“I’m all yours, from now until whenever you’re done with me.” Bucky whispers, breathless.

“And what if I want you to kiss me?” you ask, knowing he is waiting for your permission to do just that.

Bucky crumbles, his expression falling from that of teasing into one of pleading.

“I want you to kiss me, James.” You whisper.

His resolve breaks and he presses his lips to yours. Softly and timidly, closed mouth and restrained but as your hands reach out to grip his waist, a delicate gasp slipping past your lips, does he deepen the kiss. His mouth opens over yours, lips slotting against your plush ones, tongue darting out to test to waters only to be met with your slackening jaw. Bucky’s grip on you tightens as he continues to kiss you, afraid to let you go in case this was one of the many, many dreams he had where he woke up alone and confused, but as you bite down on his bottom lip, he is brought back to reality. Your hands on his waist, pull him tighter against you, the softness of your body had Bucky’s mind wandering to places it should not be. You pull back, pupils blown wide and lips parted as you pant. Bucky is just as breathless, hands cupping your face with a gentleness he doesn’t think you’ve ever known from the way you stare up at him.

“You’re not going on that date.”

“Whatever you say, old man.”

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

a/n: eee this is my first avengers fanfic since like 2018 pls be nice I just need something happy to think about clint living in the airvents, thor eating poptarts era was my happy place

[cockkette]

baby alonso

charles leclerc x alonso!reader

warnings - swearing, google translate spanish, dad!fernando, tomfoolery + shenanigans (it is alonso!reader so are we suprised), i think that's it xoxo

face claim - girls on pinterest

y/n.alonso

liked by astonmartinf1, fernandoalo_oficial and 409,345 others

y/n.alonso: causing chaos in the aston garage per usual 😘

comments

astonmartinf1: not too much chaos though... right

y/n.alonso: of course

fernandoalo_oficial: my daughter is an angel and can do no wrong 🤨

user1: praise the alonso father daughter duo we all say in unison

user2: and to think this man committed war crimes

y/n.alonso: allegedly* 🙄

liked by fernandoalo_oficial

fernandoalo_oficial: now that you finished with that waste of time you can come to every race just like when you were little cariño!!

y/n.alonso: by 'that waste of time' do you mean the university that you payed for?

fernandoalo_oficial: yes i'm glad we are on the same page mija 🩷

user3: you heard it here first fernando alonso says university isn't important

astonmartinf1: this is not the view if the aston martin f1 team or any of our sponsors

user4: is he trying to kill admin?

astonmartinf1: i fear he might be 🥲

user5: baby alonso is the paddock princess

user6: she is living the dream for real

y/n.alonso: it is pretty sweet being a nepo child 💪

lance_stroll: you know it 😎

user7: i'm praying for aston points

y/n.alonso: hang on i'll pull some strings brb

y/n.alonso: dad! lance! score some points!

liked by astonmartinf1

user8: she's so pretty 😍

charles_leclerc: she really is

carlossainz55: bro do you actually have a death wish

fernandoalo_oficial: i'll see you on the track leclerc 🙂

y/n.alonso: papá!

astonmartinf1

liked by fernandoalo_oficial, y/n.alonso and 245,071 others

tagged: fernandoalo_oficial, lance_stroll and y/n.alonso

astonmartinf1: race weekend with a special guest 😉

comments

user9: we love baby alonso

user10: BABY ALONSO

user11: get her to sort aston martin tf out

y/n.alonso: guys i'm trying my best 😔

fernandoalo_oficial: mija lawrence is going to make me go to another pr training session if you keep doing this

user12: the king can't get locked up in pr jail!!

charles_leclerc: i might have to swing by the aston garage 😉

fernandoalo_oficial: you might fucking not

charles_leclerc: yes fernando, sorry fernando

user13: charles is going to get himself run off the track

user14: charles is a braver man than me fernando might kill him

y/n.alonso: thank you for having me! it's always so so much fun 🩷

liked by astonmartinf1

user15: petition for y/n to be at every race ever please

user16: where do i sign

user17: her paddock fits are literally everything to me

lance_stroll: she has started to give me fashion tips to 'inspire' me please don't encourage her

danielricciardo: you might want to start taking the advice...

lance_stroll: oh 😦

fernandoalo_oficial

liked by y/n.alonso, charles_leclerc and 324,391 others

fernandoalo_oficial: i think i need to fire my new race engineer she's mean

comments

y/n.alonso: boo 👎👎

fernandoalo_oficial: don't boo your own father

y/n.alonso: don't be a boring old man

sebastianvettel: she's got you there mate

fernandoalo_oficial: what the fuck are you doing here!?

jensonbutton: she gagged you fr 💅

aussiegrit: ate and left no crumbs

sebastianvettel: slay 💋

fernandoalo_oficial: what is actually happening

user18: i swear they will never miss an opportunity to try humble nando

liked by sebastianvettel, jensonbutton and aussiegrit

user19: i'm sure charles wouldn't mind having y/n as a race engineer

fernandoalo_oficial: no.

user20: the way i would never speak again

user21: noo i would love them together

liked by charles_leclerc

user22: in my head they ARE together

astonmartinf1: i mean we did get points this weekend soooo...

y/n.alonso: you're welcome xxx

y/n.alonso

liked by charles_leclerc, astonmartinf1 and 283,912 others

y/n.alonso: home sweet home 🏠

comments

user23: how is charles always in the likes before me? i have notifications on?!?

charles_leclerc: you snooze you lose mate

user24: he really is just like us (in love with y/n)

user25: too bad he's too scared of alonso to do anything about it 🤷‍♀️

yourbestfriend: your outfits always eat pretty girl!

y/n.alonso: aww thank you baby

user26: oh to be called baby by y/n

liked by charles_leclerc

fernandoalo_oficial: have fun!

fernandoalo_oficial: not too much fun though be careful and safe

y/n.alonso: yes papa

user27: he forgot who his daughter was for a second there

liked by fernandoalo_oficial

astonmartinf1: see you next race week!

y/n.alonso: wouldn't miss it!

user28: yesss

iamrebeccad: i miss you (and your gossip)

y/n.alonso: miss you too (don't worry i have plenty more)

user29: show it to me rachel!!!!

charles_leclerc: i'm in madrid too we should meet up

fernandoalo_oficial: what are you doing??

y/n.alonso: i might take you up on that offer cha 🤭

fernandoalo_oficial: noooo stop this

user30: this is sending me 😂

user31: the way they are fully ignoring him

user32: i won't ever get over y/n calling him cha

liked by charles_leclerc

charles_leclerc

liked by y/n.alonso, carlossainz55and 592,842 others

charles_leclerc: time to unwind

comments

user33: wait is that y/n???

user34: it totally looks like her

user35: my chay/n heart can't take this

user36: the matching shirt with the dress? please!!!

user37: charles + spain = slaggy pictures

user38: and we thank him for it

liked by y/n.alonso

user39: omg y/n does not give a fuck

carlossainz55: where was my invite bro?

charles_leclerc: i'm so sorry i was too busy...

carlosainz55: i thought it was bros before hoes

chalres_leclerc: nah my hoe is 4 life

user40: so unserious i swear

pierregasly: i love knowing things nobody else knows

user41: tell me please

user42: pierre is my biggest opp rn

pierregasly: don't hate the player hate the game

user43: he is the king of gossip

liked by charles_leclerc

user44: i've been manifesting this for months i hope it's y/n

user45: oh so you're crazy crazy?

y/n.alonso

liked by yourbestfriend, charles_leclerc and 12,812 others

caption- look who i bumped into 😉

replies

charles_leclerc: you say this like we didn't come here together

y/n.alonso: i'm trying to be mysterious and nonchalant

charles_leclerc: dork 🤓

y/n.alonso: you know you love it

user46: OMG

user47: this is so important to me

fernandoalo_oficial: tell him not to try anything

y/n.alonso: whatever papa 🙄

charles_leclerc

liked by y/n.alonso, carlossainz55 and 872,849 others

tagged: y/n.alonso

charles_leclerc: happy 6 months mon amour 🩷

comments

user48: they are already my favorite couple ever

user49: the way i will be yapping about them i am about to get at least 10 times more annoying

user50: as you should tbh

user51: i'm so so happy for them but this might take fernando out

user52: i just know he is being restrained by aston martin rn so he can't comment

astonmartinf1: 🤐

user53: the goat is being silenced

pierregasly: now the secret is out i feel less special

user54: it's a tough life out here for the gossipy hoes

pierregasly: don't i know it

y/n.alonso: i love you

charles_leclerc: i love you more

user55: ew are they going to start being sappy on main now

pierregasly: i fear they might

liked by charles_leclerc and y/n.alonso

oscarpiastri: bwoah

user56: felt that

user57: charles has... game?

maxverstappen1: we are all as surprised as you are mate

user58: flabbergasted fr

maxverstappen1: he bamboozled us all with his loserness

user59: max i know you're not talking rn

y/n.alonso

liked by iamrebeccad, charles_leclerc and 17251 others

caption- this jacket looks supa cute!

replies

fernandoalo_oficial: ewww it's so ugly 🤢

y/n.alonso: papa i'm sorry for not telling you about charles earlier

fernandoalo_oficial: i'm not over it yet i feel betrayed

fernandoalo_oficial: i just need time mija

y/n.alonso: you are so dramatic old man

fernandoalo_oficial: what the sigma?

user60: my favorite wag and nepo baby

charles_leclerc: please tell me you bought it mon coeur

y/n.alonso: yep! and when you get back to the hotel i'll be waiting for you wearing just that

charles_leclerc: fuck i'm on my way right now i'll just get the food delivered you aren't going anywhere

y/n.alonso: yes sir

charles_leclerc: you kill me cherie

user61: I JUST KNOW CHARLES IS LOSING HIS SHIT

charles_leclerc

liked by yourbestfriend, fernandoalo_oficial and 436,592 others

tagged: y/n.alonso

charles_leclerc: my ferrari girl ❤️

comments

fernandoalo_oficial: i'm still mad but no one told me but this is actually kind of cute ig

charles_leclerc: woo he likes me now

y/.alonso: don't push it amor 💋

user62: i'm sobbing he loves her so much

user63: if my bf ain't like this then i don't want it

y/n.alonso: he is pretty great icl

fernandoalo_oficial: i think i preferred when i didn't know about this... now you don't shut up about him

user64: she is so me

y/n.alonso: i'm you're ferrari girl

charles_leclerc: that's right baby

user65: shut up shut up i can't handle this

user66: they are literally everything

user67: i don't know how charles managed to hide this for 6 months

user68: now he posts y/n all the time 🤭

user69: ikr its so cute!!

carlossainz55: he can't keep a secret to save his life so he just yapped to me and pierre all. the. time

pierregasly: and he wasn't exactly subtle in the comments 🤨

scuderiaferrari: y/n is a ferrari girl confirmed 😦

liked by y/n.alonso

user70: everyone is a ferrari fan

user71: even if they are not, they are a ferrari fan

a/n - thank you for reading i hope you enjoyed and as always any feedback is apppreciated <3

[rootedinrevisions]

Cop Car: Part 2

SUMMARY: Jake has to endure the punishment laid out by Maverick for sneaking you into a restricted area on base. Of course the rest of the gang can't help but pick on Hangman for the not so special attention that he's getting from Maverick.

WARNINGS: None

WORD COUNT: 3.5K

TAG LIST: @omgbrianab I @shanimallina87 I @fanficmom94 I @smoothdogsgirl I @djs8891 

The next morning at training, the sun was already high and blazing over the runway. The pilots of the elite squadron were gathered around their planes, running pre-flight checks and prepping for the intense day ahead. Everyone seemed to be in their usual spirits—except for Hangman.

Jake stood a few feet away from his jet, his usual swagger noticeably absent. His jaw was tight, his eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun as he reviewed the day’s training schedule on his tablet. But it wasn’t the heat that had him on edge.

It was Maverick.

“Hangman!” Maverick’s voice boomed across the tarmac, the commanding tone unmistakable. “I don’t want to see one damn mistake from you out there today. You better bring your A-game or I’m grounding you until further notice. Understood?”

Jake nodded sharply, his face stiff as he saluted. “Yes, sir.”

Maverick’s expression didn’t soften in the slightest, his gaze hard as he turned away to address the rest of the team. Jake exhaled slowly, clenching his fists at his sides.

Phoenix, standing nearby, narrowed her eyes as she watched the interaction. “What the hell crawled up Mav’s ass?” she muttered, glancing at Bob, who shrugged with wide eyes.

“No idea, but he’s sure been riding Hangman hard all morning,” Bob replied, adjusting his helmet.

Payback, who was strapping on his gear, raised an eyebrow. “Maybe Hangman finally pushed him too far with all that cocky trash talk?”

Coyote chuckled, overhearing the conversation as he checked his plane’s wing. “Wouldn’t surprise me. That boy’s been pushing everyone’s buttons since day one.”

Phoenix shook her head. “No, this feels different. This is personal.”

Rooster, silent until now, suddenly looked up from his own pre-flight routine. His eyes flickered to Hangman, then to Maverick, a knowing look passing across his face. He pressed his lips together, clearly trying to hold back a smile.

“What do you know, Rooster?” Phoenix asked, her curiosity piqued by his expression. The rest of the team turned their attention to him, waiting for an explanation.

Rooster shrugged casually, though the amused glint in his eyes didn’t go unnoticed. “Just something I heard. Could be nothing… or it could be that Jake got caught last night somewhere he definitely wasn’t supposed to be.”

Payback raised an eyebrow, his interest growing. “Caught where?”

Rooster let the tension build before he dropped the bomb. “In a restricted area. With the Captain’s daughter.”

There was a moment of stunned silence before the entire team erupted.

“No way!” Phoenix exclaimed, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“Are you serious?” Bob asked, looking from Rooster to Hangman and back again.

Coyote whistled low under his breath, shaking his head. “Oh man, Hangman really went for it, huh?”

Payback laughed, clapping Rooster on the back. “That explains everything! No wonder Mav’s been on his ass all morning. He’s not just mad—he’s pissed.”

Phoenix smirked, glancing at Jake, who had his back turned to them, oblivious to the conversation. “Guess Hangman thought he could charm his way out of anything, even with Maverick.”

Rooster grinned. “Looks like that didn’t work out so well for him this time.”

Just as they were all shaking their heads in disbelief, Maverick’s voice cut through the group once again. “Seresin! You better get your head in the game or I’m pulling you from this exercise. Do I make myself clear?”

Jake straightened, his jaw clenched even tighter and gave another sharp salute. “Crystal clear, sir.”

Phoenix leaned closer to Rooster, whispering, “Do you think Hangman’s gonna survive this?”

Rooster chuckled under his breath. “Not if Maverick keeps this up.”

Bob, glancing over at Hangman with a small smirk, chimed in. “I don’t know… He survived all of us ganging up on him. Maybe he’s tougher than we think.”

Coyote laughed. “Or just dumber.”

They all shared a knowing look, quietly amused by Jake’s predicament. But despite the jokes and jabs, they were still a team. And though they would give Jake a hard time, they also knew that when push came to shove, Hangman would pull through like he always did.

For now, though, it was too much fun watching him sweat.

As the team geared up for the day’s flight drills, they couldn't help but exchange glances every time Maverick barked another order at Jake, each one sharper and more unforgiving than the last. The tension was palpable, but it only fueled the teasing that was sure to come after the training session ended.

Phoenix leaned over to Payback with a smirk. “Remind me to stay the hell away from Mav’s daughter if I want to keep flying.”

Payback chuckled. “Yeah, or at least don’t get caught.”

* * * * *

The warm, familiar glow of The Hard Deck beckoned like a safe haven after a brutal day on the tarmac. Hangman pushed open the door, feeling the cool rush of air and the buzz of conversation wash over him as he entered the bar. He was worn out, both physically and mentally, after a full day of Maverick barking orders at him like he was a rookie again. But he’d survived—barely—and now all he wanted was a cold beer and some peace.

Jake slid onto a stool at the bar, giving Penny a nod. She smiled as she handed him a bottle without asking, already familiar with his order.

"Rough day?" Penny asked, raising an eyebrow as she wiped down the bar.

Jake chuckled dryly, taking a long swig of his beer. “You have no idea.”

He barely had time to settle in before the door swung open again, and the rest of the squadron piled into the bar. Rooster, Phoenix, Bob, Payback, and Coyote—all of them were grinning as they made a beeline for Jake.

“Oh, hell no,” Jake muttered under his breath, already sensing what was coming. He took another gulp of his beer, bracing himself as they closed in.

Phoenix smirked as she sidled up next to him. “So, Hangman,” she began, her tone dripping with amusement. “You gonna survive round two tomorrow, or is Mav going to run you into the ground again?”

Jake rolled his eyes, lifting his beer in response. “Please. He can try, but I’m still standing, aren’t I?”

Coyote appeared on his other side, clapping him on the back. “Barely, man. You looked like you were ready to drop after that last drill.”

Bob chuckled softly from across the table, adjusting his glasses. “Can’t imagine what today’s extra ‘training’ must have felt like. That was… a lot.”

Phoenix leaned in closer, raising an eyebrow. “You know, we all thought Mav was going to tear you apart after what happened last night.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief. “But somehow, you’re still in one piece.”

Jake gave her a nonchalant shrug, though the tension in his shoulders hadn’t quite eased. “What can I say? I’m too good to kill.”

Before anyone could respond, the door to the bar swung open, and the atmosphere seemed to shift as Maverick strode in. His presence was impossible to miss, and the squad straightened instinctively, casting curious glances in his direction. Hangman, however, braced himself, wondering what was coming next.

Maverick didn’t waste any time. He crossed the bar in a few strides, heading straight for the group. His eyes flicked to Hangman, and for a brief moment, there was silence. Jake stood a little straighter, setting his beer down as Maverick came to a stop beside him.

With a firm pat on the shoulder, Maverick gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Nice work today, Seresin,” he said, his voice steady but carrying a weight behind it. “You held up better than I expected.”

Jake let out a small breath, trying to suppress his relief. But before he could respond, Maverick’s grip tightened ever so slightly, and he leaned in, his tone sharpening. “I hope you’re ready to do it all over again tomorrow.”

The warning was unmistakable. Maverick wasn’t done with him—not by a long shot.

Jake swallowed hard, his earlier bravado faltering. “Yes, sir. Ready for whatever you’ve got.”

Maverick’s eyes lingered on Jake for a moment longer before he straightened, the smirk returning to his face. “Good. Because tomorrow’s going to be a long day.” Without another word, he released his grip and turned to acknowledge the rest of the squad with a nod. “You all did good work today. Keep it up.”

As Maverick made his way over to the other side of the bar to talk with Penny, the squad’s attention snapped back to Jake, and the teasing immediately began.

Phoenix was the first to speak, her laughter bubbling up as she leaned on the bar. “Oh, man. You should’ve seen your face, Hangman. Looked like you were about to melt right there.”

Coyote grinned, shaking his head. “I thought you were supposed to be the cool, collected one, huh?”

Even Bob, usually the quiet one, had to chime in. “Yeah, you looked like you were in trouble for a second there.”

Jake shot them all a glare, picking his beer back up and taking a long swig. “Shut up, the lot of you. I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Phoenix raised her hands, palms out in mock surrender. “Hey, we’re just saying… Mav’s got something planned for you, and it sounds like it’s gonna be rough.”

Coyote leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Better get a good night’s sleep, man. Tomorrow’s not going to be any easier.”

Jake huffed, a mix of frustration and amusement tugging at his features. “You’re all just jealous Mav’s paying me extra attention.”

Phoenix snorted. “If by ‘extra attention’ you mean kicking your ass twice as hard, sure.”

* * * * *

Penny leaned against the bar, her keen eyes tracking Maverick as he made his way over. He’d just come from delivering what appeared to be a friendly yet loaded comment to Hangman, who was now surrounded by the rest of the team, their laughter and teasing barely masking the tension in Jake’s posture.

Penny knew that look on Maverick’s face—the tight smile, the steely gaze. It wasn’t just about training, at least not entirely. Something more was brewing beneath the surface, and she had a good idea of what it was. After all, she had overheard a few conversations around the bar that night, whispers about the Captain’s daughter and a certain pilot getting caught in a restricted area.

She picked up a couple of glasses, wiping them absentmindedly as Maverick approached, her expression casual but her mind already working. 

When he reached the bar, she didn’t say anything at first, just poured him a drink without asking, setting it down in front of him with a knowing look. He took a sip, leaning on the counter as if the weight of the day—or perhaps, the weight of his own choices—was starting to catch up with him.

“Long day?” Penny asked, her tone light but probing.

Maverick glanced at her, offering a small nod. “You could say that.”

She leaned closer, crossing her arms over the bar as she fixed him with a look that only Penny could pull off—gentle, but firm enough to make him squirm a little. “Heard some interesting stories tonight.”

Mav’s eyebrow twitched, though he kept his eyes on his drink. “Yeah? This place is full of them.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, not letting him off the hook. “This one’s about a certain Lieutenant and someone’s daughter sneaking into a restricted area last night.”

Maverick didn’t respond at first, just took another sip of his drink, but Penny saw the slight clench of his jaw. She could feel the tension radiating off him, the inner conflict between Captain Mitchell and the protective father beneath the surface.

“You don’t have to pretend, Pete,” she said softly. “I know what’s going on. And so does half the bar.”

That finally got a reaction. He looked up at her, meeting her gaze, his expression somewhere between exasperation and reluctance. “It’s complicated.”

“I’m sure it is,” she agreed, her voice calm and soothing. “But don’t you think you’re being a little hard on him?”

Maverick’s brow furrowed, and he shook his head slightly. “He broke the rules, Penny. He crossed a line.”

Penny tilted her head, studying him carefully. “Didn’t we all, back in the day?”

Maverick shot her a look, a mixture of amusement and defensiveness playing on his face. “That was different.”

“Was it?” she asked, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “I seem to remember a certain pilot trying to win over an admiral’s daughter. And pulling all kinds of stunts to impress her.”

Maverick sighed, leaning back slightly as the memories came rushing back. Penny wasn’t wrong. He’d done more than his share of rule-bending in his younger days, and many of those stunts were in pursuit of her. He’d spent years dancing on the edge of regulations, risking everything in the name of love, adrenaline, and a good time.

Penny gave him a playful nudge with her elbow. “Come on, Pete. You weren’t exactly a saint, and you know it. Remember that time you tried to sneak into the backyard just to see me?”

Maverick couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped him. “I thought we agreed never to bring that up again.”

Penny laughed, a soft sound that softened the air between them. “I think you’ve already punished Hangman enough. He’s young, and yeah, he’s cocky, but…” She glanced over at Jake, who was still getting ribbed by his teammates across the bar. “From what I’ve heard, he’s also a damn good pilot. And if he cares about your daughter half as much as you cared about me back then, maybe give him a little slack.”

Maverick’s smile faded as he followed her gaze, his eyes landing on Jake. The young lieutenant was putting on a good front, laughing along with the rest of the squad, but Mav could see the exhaustion in his posture, the way he was trying to hold it all together. Jake had a reputation for being brash, sure, but he’d proven himself time and again in the air. And lately, Maverick had noticed a subtle shift in him—a bit more maturity, a bit more responsibility.

Maybe Penny was right. Maybe he was being too hard on him.

He sighed, setting his drink down and rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… I don’t want her to get hurt.”

Penny softened, reaching out to place her hand on his. “I know, Pete. But you can’t protect her from everything. And Jake’s not a bad guy. He’s cocky, but… so were you.”

Maverick huffed out a laugh. “You’re really not going to let me off the hook here, are you?”

“Nope,” she said, smiling. “You can’t hold onto her forever. And if you trust her, maybe it’s time to trust him, too.”

He let her words sink in, the tension in his chest loosening just a bit. He still wasn’t thrilled about the idea of Jake dating his daughter, but he couldn’t deny that the kid had a good heart. And if Penny believed in giving him a second chance, maybe he should, too.

Maverick stood up straighter, finishing his drink before giving her a grateful nod. “Thanks, Penny.”

She winked at him, her smile warm. “Anytime. Just… don’t make it too easy on him, okay? Gotta keep him on his toes.”

Maverick smirked. “Oh, don’t worry. He’s got a long day ahead of him tomorrow.”

As he turned to leave, Penny called after him, her tone light but filled with affection. “Just remember, Pete… you were young once, too.”

He waved her off, chuckling as he made his way out of the bar. But as he walked out into the cool night air, her words lingered. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to give Hangman a little more leeway.

But not too much.

[ladykailitha]

A Love Connection Part 1

In a very special engagement (as in a don't normally post 5 days a week), I introduce "A Love Connection"!

If the premise looks familiar the original idea is from here, where a couple of people in the notes or tags said they'd love to try it. And after a year, I figured I'd try my own hand at the idea.

This will update on Tuesdays at 10am and 10pm EST. With hopefully eight chapters.

Summary: Steve has tried everything under the sun to find someone to truly connect with, so he gives up after a particularly horrible date. Then Chrissy introduces him to her favorite game show "Love Connection". When Chrissy and Robin apply for him, they don't think they'll except him, but he does. His suitors are Billy Hargrove, Tommy Hagan, and Eddie Munson. Will Steve crash and burn again or will his connection be there waiting for him?

~

Look, to say Steve’s love life was a disaster would be unfair. That would be underselling it. It was a fucking catastrophe. He had gone to bars, joined hobby groups, used all the apps, even Grindr; though that was mostly for hookups, which sucked. But that was the nature of the beast if he was honest.

And the beast had completely devoured him. All his dates were either only interested the casual, cheated on him, or wanted one-night stands. Which Steve absolutely did not want. He wanted connection. Intimacy.

“I absolutely give up,” he whined to Robin, after the last date tried to slip out in the middle of the night, knocked over their lamp into their goldfish bowl, killing the goldfish, then he tried to hide the evidence by dumping it down the garbage disposal and turning it on! Lied about it, then stole their last beer as “compensation for his trauma’ and told Steve to never call him again.

“Look, Ryan wasn’t the best guy,” Robin replied with a grimace. “He liked Oasis and Tool unironically. Always a red flag.”

Steve snorted. Robin was a music snob most days, but she wasn’t wrong about that. Ryan and he had been dancing around and with each other for weeks before they finally got so hot and heavy that they went back to Steve’s for sex.

“It’s not fair,” he huffed. “You went to that bar and you a hottie girlfriend and I went to that bar and fucked a fish killer! I loved Garfield! He lived for five years before that bastard mercilessly murdered him. That’s long than my last ten relationships combined!”

Robin winced. “Ooh... I’m going to have to call Chrissy and let her know we can’t go back to that gay bar again.”

“Oh he’s so dead now!” Steve ranted. “Not only is he fish killer, he has driven us from our favorite bar!”

“Let me order us some take out,” Robin said standing up, “then I’ll call Chrissy over and we’ll all cry over Ciarán Hinds and Amanda Root falling in love.”

Steve sniffed away a couple of tears and nodded. “Then can we have a funeral for Garfield?”

Robin tilted her head and smiled sadly. “Of course we can. It’s a Sunday so none of us have work. We can watch as many weepy romance movies as you want, okay?”

“Okay,” Steve croaked. She gave him a big hug and kissed his cheek. He watched her wander into the kitchen to see what leftovers they had in the fridge so they could order from somewhere else. He loved her so much.

~

Sometime in the afternoon when they were more than a little tipsy, Chrissy commandeered the remote and turned on her favorite game show.

“Love Connection”

“Noooo...” Steve whined, burying his head into a throw pillow. It was Garfield shaped. It was what inspired the naming of the valiant fish. “This is the last thing I want to see. It’s so fake. No one gets together on these things. It’s so cheesy.”

“Exactly!” Chrissy crowed. “That’s why it’s perfect, we get to make fun of them!”

Steve thought that the only good part of the show was the second half. The first half was split into three different rounds. The first round was each suitor answer the one question, for a total of fifteen and then the catch would rank them, best got three points, second two, and third only one.

Then in the second round there were a set of rapid fire either or questions that the catch would yell out and the suitors would write down their answers. If their answer matched the catch’s they would get a tally. Whoever had the most tallies would win five points. Then three points to second place and one to the last place.

Then in the final round, each suitor would be asked separate questions and the catch would rate their answer one through three and that’s how many points they would get. Then at the end of the round all the points would be tallied up and the two highest would move on to the next round.

To the part that Steve actually liked. The first question always asked was “what would you do for a first date?” And the suitors got to take the catch out for the date and then afterward for drinks, the two dates would ask the catch some of the questions he asked them. Then the catch would pick the one they connected to the best.

It was all the stupid questions that bothered Steve. That was the fun part of dating, having these conversations and learning about them as you go. But then maybe that’s what Steve’s problem was, is that the people he dated didn’t care about these types of conversations.

“Why would you say you hate sports,” Steve huffed, waving his hand at the screen, “when the guy is a major soccer fan? Like did she think that she was going to put a stop to him enjoying it after starting dating?”

“Ooh yeah,” Chrissy agreed. “Just pick a different catch.”

Robin turned to her and tilted her head. “Do they get to chose their catch? I thought it was all random.”

Chrissy paused the show and pulled out her phone and the Wikipedia article. “Okay, it says here that people can apply to be suitors,” she waved at the row of women in the three booths. “Or catches.” She indicated the guy with her hand. “If they’re chosen to be a suitor then they are given a list of catches, headshot included. Then they rank vote them, so if four people pick Henry, then one will be on their second rank vote. And that part is randomized. According to them, anyway.”

Steve snorted. He highly doubted anything was randomized or voted on. They went for the biggest drama and everyone knew it.

“How long has this show been going on?” he huffed. “Like please tell it’s new and shiny and that’s why people like it.”

Robin snorted and shook her head. “Sorry, babe. But this is season twelve.”

“Oohh...” Chrissy said. “We need to show him the season six finale. That was hella juicy!”

So despite Steve’s protests, Chrissy pulled it up on her streaming services even though they hadn’t even finished the episode they were on.

When the credits rolled, Steve stared at the screen in utter shock. “What the honest fuck was that?”

Two of the three guys got into an all out brawl when the one guy had scored the lowest and felt that the second place suitor cheated. Not first place, second. Both guys were arrested and hauled off the set.

“It came out later Sven was right,” Robin said. “Elliot cheated. His cousin was an ex of the catch so he went in knowing a lot about Stella. The things he got wrong were things that had changed since she was dating his cousin.”

Chrissy nodded. “That’s why the have partitions up between the suitors now and why they have vigorous screening now. The show was almost canceled.”

“So why wasn’t it?” Steve asked honestly. “That was a shit show, if I was Stella I would have sued them into oblivion.”

Robin squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. “She did, but they settled out of court.”

“Basically,” Chrissy said, pouring them more wine and handing the first glass to Steve, “she wanted them to completely overhaul the system. She didn’t want it off the air, she wanted it safer for future participants.”

“The more the fool them,” Steve huffed. He took a long sip of his wine. “All right, fine. Let’s start at the beginning.”

Robin and Chrissy cheered and they all huddled up together on the sofa to watch this absolute train wreck of a show.

They were about half way through the third season and twice as drunk when Steve slurred, “Why are there no gay peemles in this? It’s a trav–trad–tramajesty.”

“Travesty!” Robin slurred back, her language skills always being the last to go when she’s three sheets to the wind. “And you are absolutely right! This is homophobic!”

Chrissy nodded solemnly and pulled out her phone. “I’mma show them...” she muttered with her tongue sticking out. “At loveconnectionUSA Need more gays, hashtag loveconnection hashtag need more gays.”

It wasn’t long after that that the three of them passed out on the sofa, empty bottles all around them and a message on the screen asking if they’re still watching.

~

There was a loud beeping noise and it absolutely was hurting his head. He reached over to where his phone was usually plugged in on his nightstand, but his hand went straight through it. He waved his arm all over the place but still his nightstand eluded him.

He peaked open one eye but his vision was obscured by a mass of blonde hair. He tried to push it out of the way but it kept falling back into his face. Finally he pushed Robin off him and onto the floor with a thud.

“Hey!” she yelped.

Steve peered over the edge of the sofa with a look of confusion. “Why are you on the floor?” he muttered over the still beeping of his alarm.

“Stop!” he mumbled and somehow, blissfully it did.

“I’m on the floor because you pushed me there,” Robin huffed, getting to her feet. She did a sniff test and grimaced when she completely failed. “God... how much did we drink yesterday?”

Chrissy struggled to sit up and blinked at her girlfriend groggily. “Not enough if I feel like this.”

Steve rolled over and looked at them both in confusion, then the events of Saturday and all day Sunday came flooding back in.

“Oh fuck...” he muttered, sitting up himself and rubbing his face. One eye was blurry from where his contact had shifted in the night. He wasn’t even sure why he had them on. Probably from sheer force of habit.

He got up and stumbled toward the bathroom where he emptied his stomach of all its boozy contents. He really didn’t remember them eating after breakfast, only a steady stream of harder and harder liquor.

While his was puking his guts out, Chrissy and Robin stole the shower. Thankfully only taking the time they needed to get the gross feeling of being hungover off their skin.

Then Steve closed his eyes as they exited the shower and snuck into Robin’s room to get ready for work. They all worked at Hawkins Middle School, where Steve was a history teacher who coached swimming and basketball. Chrissy was a health teacher and advisor for cheerleading. And Robin was the language teacher. The principal snatched her up because she could teach French, Spanish, and Italian, with her only needing to hire a German teacher.

Steve got his shower and then opted for glasses instead of his contacts, not trusting his shaky hands not poke out his eye or some shit.

They all were mostly human once they got coffee, painkillers, and cereal in them, the three of them, no doubt looking like escaped extras from a zombie flick. They moved as one, gathering up their stuff and shuffling out to Steve’s car. Chrissy sat in the back, Robin riding shotgun.

Chrissy opened her phone to check to see if she had any messages. “Holy shit!”

~

Part 2

Look I'd be sorry about the cliffhanger, but you're only waiting 12 hours for it, soooo...

Have fun!

Tag List: TEN SLOTS OPEN

1-@mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @cryptid-system

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @justforthedead89 @irregular-child @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji

5- @anne-bennett-cosplayer @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten @genderless-spoon

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

[sehaedazokla]

he that dares

part three

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems. 

tags: slowburn, tension, angst, comfort, eventual smut, court politics

chapter warnings: canon-typical violence, blood, assault, death, grief (death of parent, partner & friend mentioned)

word count: 8.5k

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The morning light offers no solace to Lady Tyrell’s troubled mind. She wakes with an ache in her head that she knows will only serve to make her quite irritable as the day goes on if it is allowed to continue. Her plush silk comforter is drawn off of her figure as she calls with a hoarse throat for one of her maids to fetch something from the maesters that might offer relief from the dull throbbing pain in the back of her skull. 

One hand reaches up to gingerly press to her temple as she rubs it tiredly, rising from her bed as some creature from a ghostly afterlife clad in a long white nightgown. Her hair has been mussed from her tossing and turning, and the sad longing in her chest lets her know she dreamed of that which she no longer has in this life.

But every dream she has is meaningless and a waste. There is no future to be found in the mind of someone whose blood comes from dirt and weeds and wildflowers. Only bitter shards of a fragmented mirror of a past that cut her hands when she tries to piece it back together.

She does not allow the thought to deepen, well aware that if she does, she will not have the mental fortitude or energy to carry out the tasks that need seeing to that day. Instead, she slides her feet into her satin slippers and sighs wearily as Adelin enters the room, carrying ribbons for her hair. Lady Tyrell sinks down with slumped shoulders into the chair in front of her vanity mirror, taking note of how lifeless and dull her own eyes are staring back at her.

Adelin takes note of her lady’s visage but does not comment upon it, knowing well the weight upon her mind and heart. The handmaiden stands behind the chair, taking Lady Tyrell’s hair into her hands and working through it softly. 

Fingers brush against the girl’s scalp and she closes her eyes for a moment, allowing nothing but the soft touch and faint sound of birds outside to fall upon her in a gentle wash. When her lashes flutter open again, she stares half-lidded at the ornate wood of her vanity for too long, and then up at Adelin’s hands that weave ribbons gently into her hair. The satins are rather girlish, but she finds that they portray sweet innocence rather well if added subtly. 

There is a comfort in the familiar silence that comes with Adelin’s presence in the morning hours. Adelin has served the Lady Tyrell since she had come to live at King’s Landing all those years ago and had quickly become one of the only people who knew her true character. A thing the Lady Tyrell does not usually like, but there is no hiding anything from Adelin. Not when the handmaiden has been present to witness everything in the lady’s life at court. Every success, every loss, every heartbreak, every true feeling. All of them: beautiful and hideous and everything in between.

Perhaps Adelin is the only living person who knows her to that complete extent. Who sees a person, in a full sense.

 The comfort is brought to an end by the creaking of a panel by her bed. Lady Tyrell does not need to look up to see who it is. Her eyes are still cast dully to the wood of her vanity table. Adelin pauses and turns, before looking down at the lady. When the young woman gives no indication of any hurry or rush, opting rather to leave her glassy stare and tired posture firmly in her chair, Adelin quickly twists a final ribbon through her hair and then turns to leave the room. Her hand hovers on her lady’s shoulder for a moment longer than needed.

With a heavy sigh, Lady Tyrell rises from her chair and makes her way across the room, stepping across the wooden floor still in her slippers and nightgown. Drying roses sit on her bedside table, many of them downturned and hardening. Adelin had asked to bring her fresh ones recently, but the lady is not quite ready to part with them yet.

 The panel by the bed has been opened like a door, and the cloaked figure that stands obscured in the shadow of the passageway is wearing black, a dark hood pulled low over most of their face. Lady Tyrell needs not ask whom the figure is, and she does not believe she will ever get a name. Not a true one, anyhow. She draws to a stop in front of the figure, eyes dark as she waits expectantly with a serious expression on her delicate features.

A hand is produced from beneath folds of the inky fabric, like a comet emerging from dark heavens. A single scroll with a seal rests in the extended appendage, and Lady Tyrell takes it wordlessly. Her face gazes down at the sigil upon the wax seal with an unreadable expression, her eyes beholding the rose.

The ink is a dark blue, reminiscent of the sky before the darkness encases it fully. The favorite color of only one person she knows.

The girl’s hands tear through the seal, the nails of her fingers breaking the wax. A fragment of it lodges itself under the nail of her pointer finger. She pulls it out with a calm click of her tongue, before unrolling the scroll in her hands. The parchment crinkles as she demands it show her its contents.

It is not a long message. Direct and commanding, as her mother so often is. The woman has to be, to lead her House alone. As the girl’s eyes scan the dark ink that her mother’s words have been inscribed in, her eyebrows draw lower and her grip on the edge of the cream-colored paper becomes tighter, crinkling the sides she holds between her fingers.

A soft inhale of breath is let out through her nose when she finishes, and she turns to the candle by her bedside. The paper is dangled lazily above the open flame, and she watches with unimpressed eyes as it catches. The burning paper remains in her hands as it dwindles in size, and the lady’s attention returns to the figure in the shadowed passage.

“She has made her choice, then? She never did like the sea.” The Lady Tyrell’s tone is cool and clipped. There is no need for formalities with her mother’s network of anonymous messengers. The figure remains still and covered in darkness, but a voice carries out low and clear. A voice she has heard before, she notes. Her mother sent different messengers depending on the importance of secrecy. 

This is one of her mother’s favorites. How worried the lords and ladies outside of the Red Keep must be.

“No, but she likes the snow less so as of late.” The messenger speaks with a formal directness that implies nothing of emotion or opinion. Lady Tyrell’s eyebrows raise in a brash acknowledgment, her eyes looking to the side as she tilts her head. The feeling of flame licking about her fingertips tells her that the paper has finished burning.

“The South does not like what it is not used to,” Her lips drip with words that hide little of the sharp edge in her tone. “And so fair is our climate, as I have been told.” 

Eyes slide back towards the figure, intent flickering in their depths. The figure’s face cannot be seen, but the girl imagines them looking back at her.

“And you have spoke of the weather often?” Is the offered reply, just as intentional as her own. The girl looks down, a small smirk dancing across her pinkish lips as a cool amusement fills her pupils. Asking if she is making any progress on her mother’s task, on gaining the favor of this Northern lord that has everyone’s feathers ruffled and hackles raised.

“As often as I can. There is only so much one can say about the weather.” That icy amusement gives her words a frosty sheen. She chews the inside of her cheek before she catches herself, releasing the bitten skin.

“Do endeavor to make it interesting, then. She has expressed to you that she wishes it so. There is a growing discontent over this…visiting storm.” The messenger’s voice drifts over to her as she continues to stare down at the ground, deep in thought. As if she is not poignantly aware of how unhappy the majority of the nobles are with the Northen presence in the capital. 

But what can she do? Out of everyone, she should be amongst the most unhappy. She is trapped in the Red Keep, a prisoner in a place she had once been free to go and come from as she pleased. Left to offer herself up as bait to some stranger in hopes of bending him to her will. No different than cheese in a rat trap. It is a situation that leaves much to be desired.

“I am well aware of her wishes. It shall be done, as she commands.” Lady Tyrell is not in the business of ignoring her mother’s requests, nor in disappointing the woman. It is not that she fears her mother, but the thought of letting her down when so much of her family’s safety and status depends on her own actions in the capital leaves her with a heavy weight in her heart and between her ribs.

The messenger stands as still as a statue. She wonders briefly if they get hot, covered in such dark and heavy fabrics, skulking about the hidden passages of the castle at this early hour of the day. Lady Tyrell has not even dressed for the day yet. “She wishes to know your opinion on the nature of the storm.” 

She brushes a lock of loose hair over her shoulder, her eyebrows drawing closer while thoughts of the Lord of Winterfell are strung together to spin a likeness of what she has glimpsed of his character. As the lady recalls their distinct encounters, she feels her head begin to throb again. Delightfully fitting.

“It is difficult to say for certain,” Her shoulders lower as her head tilts again, an expression of near annoyance upon her face. Her eyes drift to the stones within the passage, cracked and worn from time and age. Small vines snake between a few of them, and cobwebs hang in silvery droplets in the corners. 

She knows well what her mother and many of the Southern lords think of the Northmen. That they are savages, brutal men raised among the snows with no manners and no civility. And Cregan Stark’s descent upon the capital with his pack of soldiers has only seemed to add fuel to those rumors. Many believe him to be a bloodthirsty beast of a man who wants heads rolling and war to rage through the Seven Kingdoms like a wildfire.

Lady Tyrell cannot truthfully say that this is the impression she has gained of Cregan thus far.

“It is not as brutal as was foretold.” She finds herself murmuring, much against her better judgment. It is not in her nature to give strangers the benefit of the doubt. But her mother will not wish to hear this, so she amends her words. “Not mindlessly bloodthirsty. Intense, certainly, but there is calculation and thoughtfulness. It is a storm that can be reasoned with, I do believe this.”

The messenger dips their head slowly, their tall hood drawing lower over their face.

“She will be most pleased to hear this. Rumors have grown dark as of late. The storm takes many prisoners. Several are destined for spikes, it would seem.” Eerie yet direct, the words reach her ears and give her pause. She has heard of the arrests that are being made. Yet there have been no direct proclamations of punishments from anyone who holds power at present. She is not familiar enough with the Lord of Winterfell to bring it up to him yet.

“Rumors grow and grow as they please. Useful, yes, but I will only tell what I have seen with my own eyes.” There is a certainty to her voice that does not quite reflect the worry gnawing at her heart. No, she shall keep that to herself. Let her mother believe that the girl is confident in her task and the future of their House until she has ample cause to truly fret.

The messenger turns and disappears into the darkness of the passageway. She looks into the inky depths, her mind racing with all sorts of questions and wonderings. The war had been terrible, and the neutrality decided upon by her mother had made Lady Tyrell’s place in the capital dangerous. She had only had the protection of being Helaena’s dearest companion, that was all that had stopped many powerful men from kidnapping her and threating her mother with the girl’’s safety. She knew they had wanted to. She had seen the way they had looked at her.

It was Helaena that had kept her safe and alive. Now, it is only herself that she can rely upon. That her mother can rely upon. Sharp nails dig into the palms of her hands.

The thought of Cregan Stark ordering heads upon spikes fills her mind as she walks the halls of the Red Keep that morning. He has made it quite clear to all in the capital that he intends to carry out justice to the fullest extent, but she does not know what justice looks like in his eyes. She is the last who should cast judgment, perhaps, but she wonders why his seemingly intense desire to keep the war going is as such.

Her heels click against the tile floor as she passes two ladies who greet her softly. She returns in kind, offering them a gentle smile. The morning has proved to be nothing but irritation, and she wishes to spend the remainder of it in the castle’s library. Ideally unbothered and left to research and scheme as she sees fit. 

The sunlight drips in through openings, gathering in pools beneath her feet as she walks by eastern-facing windows. It is rather quiet this morning, much to her relief, as the thought of being ambushed by mothers with hungry eyes and bachelor sons makes her nauseous and discontent. 

Despite the effort she is putting into weaseling her way into the Lord of Winterfell’s life, the girl fears it is not enough to save her from her own mother’s desire to see her daughter married. She has long since passed the expected age to marry, due to the extended betrothal to Daeron, and her younger sister grows close to the age as well.

Daughters are such excellent pieces on the chess board. She banishes the thoughts from her mind, wishing to enjoy what little time she has to herself.

Her momentary peace is ruptured quite violently for the second time that day by the slamming open of a door in front of her. She draws back quickly, shock flickering across her face as the thick wood bounces against the stone wall with a crash. The scene that is unfolding in front of her is nothing short of madness, and she wonders for a brief moment if the universe wishes her to see.

Her eyes land on the two Northmen first, dressed in their full armor, yanking a man out of his chambers as he shouts and thrashes his body in their arms. The man is red-faced and flailing but she recognizes him instantly as a first cousin of Lord Redwyne, who had sided with Aegon II during the war. There’s a muffled shout from inside, likely one of Redwyne’s own guards.

She jumps back, half on her toes, her eyes wide even at her safe distance down the hall from the altercation. Redwyne is screaming. One of the Northmen jerks him forward by the arm, trying to stop the man’s kicking and striking. She can barely make out what he’s saying, his high-pitched voice screeching something along the lines of not knowing who he is and his family’s wealth.

There is blood on his face, dripping down the man’s nose in crimson droplets that pool at his chin and fling in every direction as he whips himself about against the Northerners’ hold. If something is being said, she cannot make it out clearly. The lord grips the door with white and bloody knuckles, as if he intends to hold on for dear life and not let these men drag him wherever they please. 

One of the Northern men strikes Redwyne across the face in an attempt to put an end to the man’s screaming, but it only serves to increase the lord’s panic. Blood from the strike splatters onto the open door, staining the oak with thin red streaks.

Redwyne’s frantic eyes snap up to her figure down the hall. 

Her breath catches in her chest. The lord, with renewed vigor now that he has spotted her, drives his elbow into one Northman’s face. The other man draws back with a howl of pain, and Redwyne takes the opportunity to slip out of their grasp as everyone’s hands seem to be covered in blood. The lord runs at her like she will save him.

She has no strength with which to move or even draw breath. There is no enemy in front of her – House Redwyne has served House Tyrell loyally for centuries. But with all that has occurred in the war and even in recent days, Lady Tyrell has found herself growing wary even of those who are sworn to her family. The Reach was divided during the war, some of the houses turning on each other in the brutal succession dispute.

As a prudent person, it is only wise to consider everyone a potential enemy in a time of war. Redwyne could ask for her assistance. He could just as easily hold a knife to her throat and threaten to kill her if the Northmen did not leave him alone. But she does not have the time to spy or scheme or draw conclusions as the man barrels down the hall to her. 

There is only the fear that she feels each and every time she is violently reminded of her own helplessness.

Redwyne, despite what little luck Lady Tyrell might consider herself to have, trips and falls to his knees in front of her. Determined still, he crawls to her as the Northmen come running down the hall after him, their steps heavy and echoing. Redwyne’s hands clutch at her skirts as she tries to step back, balling up the pastel fabric of the gown in his hands and looking up at her with sheer panic, eyes wide and pupils beady.

“Please my lady, put a stop to this madness! These savages will kill me!” His voice is a shrill scream, breaking through the air hysterically. Her lips part in shocked silence, her eyes nearly as wide as his own as she looks down at this man, one of the lords sworn to her House, begging for her help. Beaten and bloody, on his knees. 

As the Northmen reach them, one man bending down to yank Redwyne away from her skirts as he clings on and shrieks, heart and head tug her in two very different directions. Redwyne’s arms, however, seem to have the strongest pull. She knows she is falling.

Lady Tyrell does not have the time to put her arms behind her in a fruitless attempt to break her fall. Redwyne has too strong of a hold on her dress and she lacks the stature to pull back with equal weight to balance, even as the Northmen rip him off of the fabric. 

What little faith she holds in divine intervention might be strengthened when she discovers she does not hit the unforgiving stone floor. It is arms she collapses into rather, her back hitting someone’s chest and her weight behind held up by arms that have hooked underneath her underarms. Her head whips to the side with the rush of adrenaline that has at last has kicked in, as if her body has only remembered moments too late that she retains some semblance of a wish to live.

She nearly bashes the back of her skull into Cregan Stark’s face. 

Breaths burst out of her mouth in ragged gasps as she lurches her right shoulder forward so she can turn her head around to see him. His thick brows are knitted together in serious worry, searching her face for some sign that she is unharmed. She has no ladylike comfort to offer him in that moment, her chest heaving with the panic that is utterly useless due to its lack of timeliness.

Her own brows are drawn low, a cross between fear and shock. Rapid blinks flutter her lashes as her panic twists to confusion. One of Cregan’s arms draws her closer, his wide hand pressing tenderly into her stomach to bring her nearer. Her left shoulder bumps against his chest and she jolts at the touch. 

“Are you harmed, my lady?” His low voice is deepened by urgency, his eyes scanning her face with an intensity that, coupled with the way his hand is splayed over her stomach, sets her already fraught nerves alight with a richer, warmer hum. Her slightly frantic eyes flicker up and down his face as Cregan holds her, his broad arms and shoulders gathering her to him.

“No,” She breathes, and his frown deepens at the airiness of the word.

In the panic that had set in, she had not noticed that Cregan had fallen to one knee to catch her, as her lower half is on the floor. And there he remains, her figure pulled upward into his much larger frame, his knee pressed to the cold stone. His other hand comes to rest overtop of the first on her stomach, his elbows drawing back towards himself as he holds her torso up easily, arms still hooked under her shoulders.

She can hear Redwyne’s screams echo against the walls as he is dragged down the hall and out of sight by the Northmen. Out of sight, yet not out of earshot. His bloodcurdling shrieks can still be heard after he disappears from view. There are red stains on the soft skirts of her dress, crimson handprints and trails left from the lord being ripped off of her.

Dull eyes stare down at the blood, still wet and sticky. There is no need to wonder when she last had drying scarlet soaked into the fabric of her clothes. It had seemed so much starker last time, perhaps because it had stained the white of her nightgown. How long had she waited for the body to be pulled from the iron spikes and brought to her?

Men had tried to usher her back inside the Holdfast, but the screaming girl could not have been dragged there short of a blow to her head to render her unconscious. Redwyne’s thrashing was so eerily reminiscent of her own. She recalled her limbs hitting armor, open palms pushing at a blurry face who was attempting to keep her from climbing into the moat herself.

 It was slow work, guards twisting the Queen’s body off of the shining iron. The moonlight had caught the sides of the metal in an almost celestial glow. Is there anything so sickeningly ironic, to see a glimpse of heaven in one’s worst hell?

Lady Tyrell’s throat had gone hoarse from the howls that had torn their way from her chest, deep and primal horror and shock. It had been too soon to call it grief. She must have woken the whole castle by the time she had the lifeless frame in her arms. Flames had begun to dance in the windows, voices and footsteps approaching in faint, slow echoes. No sooner had she been yanked away, her outstretched fingers clawing for her dearest friend. Her only friend.

Give her back to me.

As with tearing fabric, she rips her mind from the onslaught of memories with such force that her torso jerks back, her shoulder driving itself into Cregan’s wide chest. He gives no indication of it bothering him, his grip on her stomach only tightening in case he needs to keep her from fully collapsing to the floor.

Her mother’s handwriting from that morning flashes through her mind, as the woman’s words so often do. They swirl across the back of her eyelids in looping scroll, long and elegant, commanding and absolute.

There is work to be done.

Mustering every ounce of strength she has, all feelings plaguing her mind are crushed down in the cavity of her chest like ripening fruit to be juiced. Wrenching for a semblance of the efficiency which she normally finds herself operating with, she paints a soft smile on her face when she turns her head to meet Cregan’s eyes again.

“No, I am perfectly alright my lord,” Airy yet sweet, the words are presented as one would bring out a tray of pastries and candies. It comes back to her rather quickly, even in the wake of her panic. Muscle memory, even if the indication of this is slightly more alarming. Shoulders droop elegantly as she lowers her gaze. “Although I imagine I would not have been, if you had not come to catch me. You have my gratitude, Lord Stark.”

If Cregan were not so worried about her wellbeing, the Lord of Winterfell might be appalled by the speed at which the lady’s persona has returned to her. As if someone has drawn up a porcelain puppet by its strings, the girl flickers to life with fluttering lashes and a downturned chin. 

“Are you sure of this?” It is quieter a tone than he has ever spoken to her in. Not warm, not soft, but low and wary. A hesitant peace one might offer to a wounded animal. But she does not wish to be perceived as prey. 

“I promise, I am unharmed. You needn’t worry.” There is no feeling in her words, merely polite gratitude. She pulls herself from Cregan’s hold gently, and he rises from his knee, one large hand beneath hers so that she might steady herself enough to stand when she puts her legs beneath her. To her relief, her limbs do not tremble. 

Cregan’s heavy gaze remains locked on her eyes as they stand in front of each other, her hand still pressed down into his open, offered palm. Her skin is warm to the touch, he notices. As soft as it looks. 

She withdraws her hand first, fingers curling in on each other when she pulls her elbow in towards her side, arm dropping slowly. Cregan’s hand remains between their bodies a moment longer before he lets it fall. The skirts of her dress brush against the stone floor when she turns slowly, to gaze down the hall at where Redwyne had been dragged off and out of sight.

It had been Cregan’s men that arrested him. As shocked as she had been by the man’s grabbing at her, Redwyne is still one of the men under House Tyrell’s protection. And she had stood there, mute and wide-eyed, while Northern men had dragged the lord off to the dungeons in such a brutal scene. Useless.

Cregan cannot guess exactly what Lady Tyrell is thinking, but he can begin to. A heavy sigh escapes his lips and he runs his hand down his face, letting it rub over his mouth. He had told his men not to be so rough.  Yet given how much hatred the Southerners had for them, the Lord of Winterfell can only imagine the vile things said to the Northerners when they came to arrest a lord of the Reach, especially one who had sided with Aegon in the war.

Full blame cannot be given to them, but Cregan finds himself irked that such a scene was caused, especially in front of a lady. A lady who had very nearly been harmed in the process. Despite his mistrust of the Lady Tyrell and her intentions, Cregan does not fancy himself a leader who drags women into fights. Dropping his hand heavily, his strong gaze fixes itself on the back of her head.

“I apologize, my lady. It was because of actions I ordered that you were nearly harmed.” Cregan can acknowledge when his actions cause damage, even if it was not his intention. Yet he has to stop himself from explaining further. This line of thinking comes as a surprise to him. 

Why should he feel the need to explain himself to this girl? Is it because he has stormed into her home and taken power with an army at his back, demanding everyone do as he commands? When he phrases it like that in his head, he sees quite clearly what he must look like to her.

A northern savage come to spoil for war and bloody the floors of the Red Keep as he tramples peace beneath his heavy boot.

“I bear no grudge against you for it.” Sweet and soft, her voice floats over to him like notes from a string instrument. Cregan cannot see the expression on her face as she keeps her back to him.

There is that nagging pull in the back of his skull again, to reason with her and justify the need to round up the final turncoats. The need to plant himself firmly in the viper’s den until he has torched them all out into the open. He clenches his fists tightly instead.

“Such is how things are, in times like these.”  It is a gentle acquiescence, served to him in a tone of agreeable pleasantness. The raise of her chin makes her hair fall even lower down her back.

Cregan has begun asking questions. About her, and her role in the war, and where her allegiances lie. He is gathering what information he can in an attempt to find her motivations or intentions with him. In his quest for information, he learned she remained here in the castle for the entirety of the war. The Red Keep had not been free of bloodshed. “Certain actions must be taken to prevent further tragedy from befalling the Realm.”

Her eyes flick down to the floor, and she is glad her back is turned to him as a cold curl of her lip twists onto her face. If Cregan Stark fancies himself a great protector of the Realm, whatever is he doing pursuing further fighting? Whatever is he doing ignoring Corlys Velaryon’s attempts to plead for peace?

“I am sure you are only doing what is necessary, my lord.” Lady Tyrell manages a small, imperceptible breath to calm herself and returns a smile to her face before she turns to look him in the eyes again. And there he stands, face as stern and serious as ever, shoulders low and heavy, jaw tense. She finds irritation at the realization that she has seen him enough times to have an expectation for his appearance. 

Her mother would be so pleased. The woman would happily send one of her lesser bannermen off to the dungeons if it gave her darling daughter a moment alone with the now resigned yet apologetic Lord of Winterfell, the strongest power in the capital at present.

She dips her head, voice lowering and a faintly timid wobble ghosting her lips. “Forgive me if I do not seem certain in my words. I cannot say violence agrees much with me. I know not what to do in the face of it.”

Cregan does not think the role of timid maiden suits her, yet he had seen firsthand how she had frozen when Redwyne had charged. She is wickedly smart and worryingly bright, but fearless does not seem to be among her many shining qualities. He nods slowly, his eyes maintaining their hold on hers. “That is perfectly understandable.”

As the blood on the edges of her dress continuously makes itself known to her, a quiet draw that has grown into a more persistent yanking of her attention, she feels the sudden and unshakable urge to rip the clothing from her body. As sure as it would be to draw Lord Stark’s attention, with dry humor she thinks to herself that it is not the sort of attention she is seeking.

Her palm presses into the back of her hand as she squeezes them together too tightly.

“If it would not trouble you, Lord Stark,” She begins with renewed determination, eyes bright as they gaze up into his. “I have been hoping for a chance to know you further. Perhaps dinner tonight might be a more suitable location for such a discussion?” 

If Cregan had not come to expect this sort of request from her, he might have deemed her truly mad. Instead, his eyes narrow a flicker, and his head tilts slightly. With cool neutrality, he appraises her before another dense sigh falls from his lips. He gives her a nearly scrutinous look.

“I imagine if I say no I shall still find myself encountering you sooner rather than later, my lady.” Her persistence is nothing short of intense, despite the delicate manner in which it is packaged. Cregan will acknowledge this of her.

Lady Tyrell finds his response nearly entertaining but does her best to hide this. Still, bitter amusement glitters in the depths of her eyes like stars obscured by hazy cloud cover. 

“You would honor me with your presence.” Is all that she offers him instead.

It is only when she turns to leave that she realizes she had felt no fear when Cregan Stark held her in his arms.

The gardens are quiet at the late hour in the evening. Few stroll within its pathways, and even fewer venture far enough in to stumble upon the Lord of Winterfell and the Lady Tyrell. The stone gazebo offers an open yet secluded spot for meals that require propriety yet privacy. There is nothing scandalous about meeting in the open air, many viewpoints offering full sight past the white archway with hanging flowers and the stone columns snaked with vines. Her handmaiden Adelin remains a respectable distance down the pathway that approaches, busying herself by pulling her fingers through delicate needlework. From the far side of the patio, a view of the bay is offered. Ships twinkle across the dark waves like golden stars.

Cool wind drifts in lazily from over the open ocean, flickering the abundant candles that decorate the round stone table. It picks up loose strands of Lady Tyrell’s hair as she sits opposite Cregan. Opting for a softer appearance, much of her hair has been left free of any sort of arrangement and her gold gown is much simpler in design than the other extravagant dresses he has seen in her. The edges glow in the candles that dot the table in front of them, placed in between trays of meats and cheeses. Her beauty has far from escaped his noticed. If she is shaken by the events that occurred earlier that day, it does not show anywhere upon her.

She cuts at a thick portion of meat, the juices flowing out onto the plate below as she draws her knife through the slice gracefully. Her eyes remain drawn to her task, giving Cregan the opportunity to stare as he pleases. He watches as she takes her fork, pressing it tenderly into the meat before she pulls it to her lips. They part around it as she places it onto her tongue, chewing slowly before she swallows. His eyes flick to the movement at her throat. 

Lady Tyrell has had the entire afternoon to calm and compose herself. It was not an easy task, not at first, but it was managed with a silent day spent reading in the library and a glass of red wine. This she normally denies herself, especially when she is meeting with a stranger she wants something from, but it was the only way to bring ease to her troubled mind.

She wishes to be relaxed this night, to portray a semblance of peace to Cregan. Here in the darkness of the evening, the soft smell of vanilla and pumpkin and candle smoke drifting to her nose, the waves languidly drawing upon the rocks far below, it is quite easy for her to pretend. A full moon can be seen hanging lazily in the cloudless sky, nestled amongst twinkling stars.

As she finishes with the first bite of meat, her eyes flicker up to look across the circular table at Cregan. He has not touched his own food but is instead staring at her quite intensely.  It would seem he possesses the decency to return his attention to his plate when she catches him. Her smile is faintly amused at the sight, her gaze returning down to her own silverware.

“Your family, Lord Stark,” She begins in a clear tone, hoping to attain some further understanding of the man besides what her information network has told her. “I hear you have a sister. Is she well?” 

It is not the most delicate question she could begin with; she knows that most of his immediate family is dead. But it is an expected question when one gets to know someone. She shall face it head on. A breeze flutters in from the sea, setting the candleflames flickering.

“Aye, she is,” Cregan tells the lady truthfully, the words low yet somewhat less gruff than the tone she has grown used to him using. He seems genuinely fond of this sister, and not offended at her asking after his family. Lady Tyrell considers this a good start. “Although she was not pleased that I left her behind to go south.”

Amusement crinkles at the corner of Cregan’s eyes as he remembers his sister’s insistence that he not lead the men himself, or at the very least that he allow her to accompany him. Sara certainly has all their father’s Northern stubbornness.

Lady Tyrell finds herself nodding as she reaches for a bunch of grapes, plucking the ripe fruit up by its stem. “My own sister has often expressed similar sentiments to me in her letters.”

Cassia is the most darling thing in Lady Tyrell’s heart. Her dear younger sister, kind and gentlehearted and smart as any maester. The girl has often written long letters of parchment, begging her elder sister to return home to Highgarden and visit, or to convince their mother to allow her to visit the capital. Lady Tyrell can think of nothing more horrifying than her sister here, among the snakes and scorpions.

Cregan’s eyes glance up from his food to look at her, the lady across from him delicately popping a grape into her mouth.

The fruit bursts sweetly onto her tongue. 

“It is hard to be parted from them, is it not?” The Lord of Winterfell’s face retains that polite yet reserved expression, his hands returning to wielding his fork and knife to carve into the meat atop his plate. There is a regalness to which he does the simple action that draws pause from her. The tides encroach idly onto the rocks far below.

She reaches up to brush a strand of hair that has fallen into her face, her other hand using her fork to pick up a cube of thick cheese. “It is.”

“You have a brother as well, is that correct my lady?” Calm grey eyes rest upon her face as the man awaits a response to a question he very well knows the answer to. One can only expect him to have done his research, even if only at surface level. Her head tilts slightly, causing some of her hair to spill off of her shoulders and cascade down her back. Wind rustles the hanging flowers that dangle from the stone roof of the gazebo.

“Indeed.” Soft is the reply, pleasant and straightforward. Lady Tyrell once again takes note of the effect that the abundance of candles has on his hair. She understands the old sayings, of those with red hair being kissed by fire, quite plainly when she sees Cregan Stark in the candlelight. Her eyes drift to her plate as she takes a small bite of the cheese. When she finishes eating it, she gives Cregan a wry smile. “The Lord of Highgarden, yet he is only three. Much growing shall be done until he takes his place as the head of our House.” 

Her little brother is almost entirely unknown to her. She has met him but once, when he was only a moon old. Still, he had been such a sweet and happy baby. His little hand wrapped so tightly around her finger as he laughed up at his big sisters. Lady Tyrell’s father had not often bothered himself with his daughters. He wanted a son, an heir. It was not for her mother’s lack of trying; many babes had been lost in between the births of the three children, who were rather far apart in age. Yet the man had died before his son was born. The son that he had desired above all else. 

It has been three years now since her father’s death, and she does miss him. The former Lord Tyrell had been older than most married men when Lady Tyrell had been born and exceptionally old at the time of her mother’s latest pregnancy. His death had been sad, yet somewhat expected. She’d had much time to prepare, and as had her family.

“Three, is he?” Cregan breaks through her thoughts. When she looks up there is an emotion on his face that she hesitantly deems as fondness, or a gentle pride. “Mine own son is as well.” 

The fire atop the cream-colored candles dance and jump about, the tips of their flames reaching up towards the roof of the patio. Crisp night air flows in from over the balcony, cooling the temperature yet not making it unbearable. She imagines Cregan still finds it rather warm for his taste.

“Does he take after you, my lord?” Lady Tyrell presents the inquisition delicately, before she raises the white cloth of her napkin to dab at the corners of her mouth softly. She takes careful notice of how Cregan’s eyes fall to the table for a moment, their stormy depths gazing into one of the tiny candle flames. His expression grows distant, yet not cold.

The stars above the open ocean shine brightly. It is a long moment before he speaks once more.

His lips part slower, his eyes remaining drawn to the flickering glow of fire. “Nay, he favors his mother.”

Lady Tyrell knows of Cregan’s first wife, the former Lady of Winterfell. She had been married to Cregan when they were both eighteen, and she had died in childbirth. This is as much information as she has been able to compile; not much is known of Arra Norrey nor her family. House Norrey is a minor Northern house, and Lady Tyrell cannot pinpoint why Lord Stark had married her. The question had rattled about in her mind when she had first learned this history.

“My apologies, Lord Stark, I do not wish to…” She begins with faux hesitantly as she tries to determine if the conversation topic is a safe one to venture into or better left untouched. Cregan shakes his head, slowly still, and his eyes lift from the candle to meet hers. They are neutral and somewhat weary, but the same fondness present when he spoke of his son remains. 

“It is alright,” Cregan has learned how to speak of Arra by now. “I am glad of it, in truth. To see her in him still.”

Lady Tyrell looks down at her plate, dropping her eyes from his. Beneath the round stone table, her fingers press together tightly, and she digsa one into the skin of her palm. She never can drop the habit. It is in her own interest to ask further, now that the topic has been proven somewhat safe, but a rare twinge of guilt catches like embers in the pit of her chest. Burning orange in the black depths of the coal in her tired heart.

“And your wife, she was of House…?” The girl poses the question softly, unwilling to lift her gaze quite yet. She has not taken another bite of her food.

“House Norrey, my lady.” An answer provided with reserved politeness, in that low Northern cadence. Her chin tilts down further a moment before she raises her head, a neutral. The candlelight creates golden orbs in the dark of her pupils.

“Norrey,” Soft repetition, quiet and delicate. “I cannot say I know much of them”

“That does not surprise me,” His thick brows raise as he casts his attention down to the food remaining on his plate, cutting into the meat once more. The tone of his voice picks up to a more conversational pace despite the heaviness of the topic. 

Lady Tyrell taps her foot beneath the skirts of her evening gown before she stills her leg, resting her hand in her lap. The soft rumble of a ship horn echoes out over the dark water, low and distant. Cregan takes a juicy square of meat onto his fork and chews it thoughtfully before continuing. “House Norrey is a smaller house, hailing high in the northern mountains.” 

There is a delicate nod given at this information, and she offers him her full attention — eyes resting on his face and her hands still. The remaining grapes and cheese upon her plate reminiscent of those in a still life painting. Cregan continues to eat despite her unwavering gaze, fork and knife held rather tight in his calloused hands. 

She has not had her fill of the conversation yet. A hand reaches out to take hold of her golden goblet, which she has been cruelly neglecting, the stem between her middle fingers and weight of bowl resting on her palm. With Cregan’s attention on the meat, she can fix him with the distantly scrutinizing look that accurately reflects her true thoughts. 

“If you will forgive my asking, how did your union come about then?” Innocence flutters at the edge of the question, a simple, girlish curiosity about her words. Her head tilts as Cregan’s eyes flick up to her, mid-bite, and there is that signature saccharine smile. 

He notes the glass in her hand and wonders briefly if she has any intention to drink the wine or if she will merely tease it about the edges of her lips as she did the other night.

“It was what we both wished. There was nothing more to it.” He tells her after swallowing, his head moving a bit with the words. A straightforward answer but not the one she seeks. Cregan Stark can see it despite her commendable efforts to appear nonplussed; like a shark on the scent of blood, trying to find what he got out of his marriage to Arra. 

Wispy lashes are set aflutter when she looks down a moment before continuing her line of questioning.

“You loved her then?” Lady Tyrell’s eyes return to hold Cregan’s steadily. The warm smell of the gourmand candles wafts without hurry up to her nose. There is a long pause before the Lord of Winterfell continues and she finds she does not much like the way he is looking at her. Reserved and proper as any gentleman, yet there is a searching in his eyes that makes her feel as if he is the one pseudo-interrogating her rather than the other way around.

Nails press into the palm in her lap once more. She cares little to be picked apart under a man’s gaze. No, she much prefers to do the analyzing herself.

“Aye, I did.” Cregan affirms, his words holding a matching intensity to his eyes. “I do.”

There is no true way to discern if he is lying, but Lady Tyrell finds herself with the rare certainty that there is no deception in his words. Perhaps a flicker of understanding alights in her chest when he amends his statement to the present tense despite Lady Arra’s death. The persistence of love in the absence of a place to put it is such a difficult thing to replicate.

She takes a breath through her nose, her shoulders raising slightly as she sets her glass down and reaches for a single grape from her bunch. “Such a match is quite rare. I cannot say I know of many.”

This, Cregan believes. Especially if since she has spent so much time in this castle where ambition and falsehood seem engrained into the stones that compose the foundation. He gives her a slow nod. “I was fortunate.”

“So you were.” Charming and wide, she smiles graciously at him before plucking another grape. The fruit does not taste as sweet any longer. 

The concept of marrying for love does not fit well into the portrait of Cregan Stark she is painting in her head. Or rather, the criminal record is she compiling for her own reference to better increase her chances of winning his favor. All he has droned on about since arriving is the importance of duty and honor: love seems to have little place among those two things. 

In her opinion, no one marries for love but commoners. It is true that occasionally love can be found in matches made among the noble houses, but it is rare. And rarer still that a union is created because love already exists. Unless ‘love’ is instead an improper coupling. 

And the information calls slight irritation to her mind; it is much easier to convince a man he is attracted to one’s wealth and body than to convince him that he loves someone.

She casts her eyes to the moon and the horizon, where the water meets the inky sky. So often has she sat here in the gazebo, bathed in soft candlelight and dining on fine foods. Surrounded by smell of salt and sea and gourmand delights, by the flowers and vines clinging to the stone giving off fragrant scents of their own.

“Do you intend to marry again, Lord Stark?” Lady Tyrell asks suddenly, her eyes still lingering on the sky. Cregan’s gaze remains drawn to her visage, taking in her lips and the turn of her nose and the height of her cheeks. Here in the garden, away from the crowded halls of the castle, she continues to shine. But in a quieter, muted sense. Even as she lies to him and puts on her lovely act.

Cregan shall tell her what she wishes to hear. “I imagine I shall. It is my duty, as Lord of Winterfell.” 

“An honorable thing to do.” She breathes sweetly. 

The candles upon the table flicker and jump in the wind once more.

[winchesterwild78]

A Twist of Fate

Characters: Dean x Reader, Billy x Reader

Warnings: Nothing too extreme, just some angst, language, and fluff

A/N: Got this idea from a picture I was tagged in by @jackles010378. Sorry it took me so long to write this. Dean and the reader were dating and broke up. Dean sees the reader with her new boyfriend and things unravel. 

This is a work of fiction, all work is my own, do not take it or copy it. 

Minors DNI 18+

The crisp autumn air nipped at my nose as Billy and I strolled down Main Street. The leaves were a kaleidoscope of reds, oranges, and yellows, a beautiful contrast to the gray sky. I couldn't help but think about how much my life had changed since I'd last seen Dean.

Three years. That's how long we'd been together. Three years of laughter, love, and a shared passion for the supernatural. And then, just like that, he was gone. A letter, a simple explanation that he couldn't be with me anymore. The pain had been unbearable, a wound that had slowly healed, leaving a scar that I would always carry.

That morning I woke up and found the letter on his pillow. It was the day my world broke. Tears fell on the letter as I read his simple words. 

Dear Y/N,

These past three years have been great. We’ve shared so much and done even more together. I know you love me. You’ve said it so many times, and showed me every day. I just can’t lie to you anymore. I don’t feel the same. That’s not fair to you, to make you think we have a future together. One where we get married and have kids. I can’t do the apple pie life. I’m sorry, Y/N. I do hope you find the love you deserve.

Goodbye,

D

It didn’t make sense to me. We had just shared a night of love and passion, tangled in each other’s embrace. Whispering words of love and affection. We talked of the future and he said he’d love to be a dad one day. He was the love of my life, then he was gone. 

Now, here I was, two years later with Billy. He was kind, considerate, and everything a good man should be. But a part of me couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing.

We met through a mutual friend and had an instant connection. I wouldn’t call it love, but I was grateful for the companionship. I hadn’t even spoken the words to him. Billy was quick to say “I love you”, but I couldn’t say it because I didn’t mean it, nor did I feel it. 

Billy spent all of his free time with me. At times it felt suffocating. Dean and I spent a lot of time together too, but we also had our time apart. I’d bake and he’d work in the garage, it was a perfect balance.

Walking hand in hand through Main Street my mind kept comparing him to Dean. When Dean and I would walk, his arm was around me in a protective way. Billy just held my hand. Dean would lace his fingers in mine, Billy just cupped my hand. 

When Billy kissed me, it was hard and fast. When Dean kissed me it was soft and full of passion. Every step I took my mind kept comparing Billy to Dean. I couldn’t figure out why Dean was in the forefront of my thoughts.

And then I saw him. Leaning against the Impala, looking as effortlessly cool as ever. Dean. My heart pounded in my chest as our eyes met. A flash of something crossed his face - regret? Jealousy? I couldn't be sure.

As we continued walking, I glanced back. He was still watching, his gaze fixed on me. A wave of emotions washed over me. I stumbled as I looked back. I saw him gasp and jump off the car. Billy grabbed my arm trying to steady me. “You okay?” I nodded. I couldn’t pull my eyes away from Dean. Billy followed my gaze. Clearing his throat I turned and met his eyes. “Who’s that?” He asked, his voice laced with hurt and something else, anger maybe. I looked at Dean then back at Billy, “he’s my ex.” 

Billy wasn’t happy. I could feel the tension between us. As we walked into the quiet cafe he shot me a look that sent a chill through me. The cashier offered a soft smile. “How can I help you two today?” She said with a sweet voice. Billy looked at her and said “We will both have a coffee with 2 creams and 1 sugar.” She nodded as she started to put in the order. I spoke up, “Um, excuse me. I’ll have a vanilla latte please.” Billy shot me a look and grabbed my hand, “No, you’ll have what I ordered you. You’re my girlfriend and you’ll have what I order.” 

The cashier stood shocked. My mouth was on the floor. He’d never acted like this before. I touched his bicep softly, “Billy, I am your girlfriend, but I can order what I want.” Billy huffed and mumbled something. The cashier told Billy the total and she went about making the order. 

When we had our order Billy directed me to a booth at the back of the restaurant. I sat across from him and looked at him, shocked by his behavior. “You want to tell me what the hell that was about, Billy? Since when do you order for me and grab me?” Billy just stared at me, anger flashing in his eyes. It honestly scared me. 

“I didn’t like how you kept staring at pretty boy out there. It’s like you’re in love with him or something.” I bit my lip, not knowing what to say to him. I was in love with him. I never stopped loving him, but how could I tell him that? 

I swallowed hard. Touching Billy’s hand I started to speak, “Billy, I was in love with him when I was with him. He broke my heart and I’m with you now. That’s all that matters.” 

Billy pulled his hand away from me. “So you can love him but not me? You know what, screw this. Why don’t you go back to him and be his little whore again.” I gasped, “Billy! What the hell. Please calm down. I don’t want to be with him, I’m with you.”

Before I could say anything else, Billy stood up and told me to have a nice life and left. I sat at the table in shock. What the hell just happened? How did one little thing set him off like that? 

I sat at the table thinking about the past few years, how my love for Dean slipped away, and how Billy reacted to me seeing Dean. I was lost in thought and didn’t hear the bell above the door. 

The sound of a deep husky voice pulled me from my thoughts, “Hello, sweetheart.” My eyes flicked up and they met the piercing green eyes of my favorite hunter. My breath caught in my throat, “D…Dean, what are you doing here?” “Sammy and I were in town on a hunt, I heard you moved here. I’m so glad I ran into you. Can I sit?” 

“Sure.” I said without hesitation. Dean sat across from me. His hands instinctively grabbed mine. My head is screaming at me to pull away, but the rest of my body is holding on for dear life. 

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I was foolish and a complete jackass for leaving and for leaving you the way I did. I was scared. I had finally found the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, have children with, and I got scared. Scared you would be taken away from me. Scared because I don’t deserve the love you had for me. I’ve never deserved love or to be loved. I’m broken, Y/N. 

As I sat across from him, hearing him say how he didn’t deserve love my heart broke for him. “Dean, you deserve so much.You, Dean Winchester, deserve all the love in the world. You were four years old when you saved your brother from the fire, you raised him. Dean, you had to be mom and dad to Sam. Dean Winchester, the man who willingly went to hell to save his baby brother, the man who was willing to die for so many people. Dean Winchester, the man who took on the Mark of Cain to help save the world. You deserve all the love this world has to offer. You deserve so much more than I can give you. I NEVER stopped loving you, Dean, and I know I never will.”

Dean stood and walked over to me. He reached out his hand and took my hand in his, pulling me up and flush to his body. He tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, and his hand cupped my face, “You are even more beautiful now than you were two years ago. I was a fool to let you go, and I intend to spend the rest of my life making that up to you. That is if you’ll have me again.” 

I leaned into his hand that cupped my face. My heart hammered in my chest. His touch ignited that fire, that love I had buried deep inside me. Without another word I leaned in and placed a soft kiss on his lips. It was soft and Dean hesitated for a moment. Then something changed. His hands went into my hair and pulled me in. The kiss became more passionate and full of need. 

The hurt from the past two years was fading with each kiss. When we finally parted, I looked at Dean and smiled. His eyes are full of love and desire. “Dean, take me home.” I said as I leaned into his embrace.

Dean took my hand and led me out of the coffee shop and to the Impala. He opened the car door and I climbed in. When he got in the driver’s seat, he looked over, smiled and took my hand. “Let’s go home, sweetheart.” He stepped on the gas and we headed back home. Home, where we both belonged, together and in each other’s arms. 

Tags are open, if you want to be added, let me know.  

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[butterfwiesndinorawrs]

🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰

Hi everybunny! Guess who's hopping back into town. My name is Bo and I have a passion to help others grow! My friend Ms. Spark has the same passion to help but with her own spark and flare of art. Our human Misky has studied holistic healing and art/play therapy techniques for years and we've picked up a thing or two here and there. This is our opportunity to share what we've learned along our trails.

🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰

Happy Drawings:

This one is super simple. Just draw something that makes you happy. It can be anything, your favorite food or toy, your happy place or a person that makes you happy. Let your imagination run wild and don't overthink it. What makes you light up when you think about it, now draw it. You don't have to be skilled at drawing it can even be a scribble to represent it. As long as it makes you happy! That's the whole point of this activity, just have fun.

🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰

Examples:

Bo Bunny drew a carrot, of course! He's a bit obsessed hehe. He also drew a sun cause sunshine makes him happy! 🥕

Ms. Spark drew a paint palette because she loves art and she also drew sparkles because she loves everything sparkling and glittery! ✨️

Misky painted a mermaid cause well I think we all know Misky loves mermaids! 🥰🧜‍♀️

🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰💙🐰

Final Thoughts:

What makes you happy will be different to everybunny, whatever you choose to draw is absolutely okay! Don't stress out over how it may look, you don't ever have to show it to anyone if you don't want to. The whole point is to have fun and relax while focusing on something that brings you happiness. If you've done that you've done this activity perfectly! If you are open to sharing and showing your drawing we would love to see and hear about it! You can reblog and add your drawing, make your own post and tag this blog or you can submit to this blog if you'd like. Until next time be kind to yourself, be patient with yourself and show yourself lots and lots of love, you deserve it!

-Bo Bunny & Ms. Spark 💙🐰🧡

[peachyfnaf]

I'm sorry but "MY BEAUTIFUL PRINCESS WITH A DISORDER<3" really made my day and I needed you to know

🤣🤣🤣

I can't believe Nexus is bullying peepaw war criminal.

Do you think Nexus is going to be stopped by big bro Sun or do you think the lil guy is going beyond the point of no return?

(Please talk about baby cringe Lord Nexus, I want to hear about your blorbo 🙏)

That's because Nexus IS my beautiful princess with a disorder, I'll have you know <3 they're diseased but it's okay I can give them their tetanus and flu shots and it'll all be better I GOT THIS

But. ahem, okay, blorbo yapping time. I'm not even gonna say "I'll try to keep this short" because I know it wont end up that way HAHAHAHAHA

"Do you think Nexus is going to be stopped by big bro Sun or do you think the lil guy is going beyond the point of no return?"

I... have absolutely no idea!!!1! (and also it took me an embarrassingly long amount of time to realize peepaw war criminal was Ruin KJDFHSDF)

The most frustrating thing about canon Nexus is how his morals, motivations, and goals seem to see-saw back and forth all the time. at first, he became how he is now due to Solar's death. he spiraled in his grief, identity-issues, and abandonment. but... now his motivation is to become an all powerful god??? while it's most likely that NSP is at play and affecting his thought process, it's... well, it's really hard to take him seriously as a villain because of it, lol. for an audience to enjoy, and even sympathize in some cases, with a villain, their goals and motivations have to be concrete. they have to be relatable, or at least understandable, but Nexus' whole thing is... not, Imho. and I know I'm not the only person who feels this way!!!

I see a lot of people calling Nexus "cringe", and the thing is, when it comes to canon Nexus, they're not really... wrong??? The worst thing Nexus has done so far is make Old Moon see his past victims, which is fucked up of him to do, but.. so far, that's kind of it??? other than that, his "villainy" consists of saying empty threats and cheesy evil one-liners. hell, he was supposed to kidnap Sun yesterday but instead spent the whole episode yapping and venting to him, chasing Sun around in the worlds darkest game of tag before getting some lead right in the face dkfjhsdfsd

Also, notice how he's only targeted Old Moon when it comes to actual physical violence? not Lunar, Earth, Solar, or Sun, but Old Moon? yeah, I did too. we already know that Nexus does everything because he's lashing out, but as of rn the only target he's gotten his hands on physically being O.M...? well. I think it says a lot. cause' yeah, he sure as shit scared the life out of the other Celestials, but he's never put his hands on them!! the only other one of them he harmed physically was Earth- and not only was he not aiming for her, she was just in the way- he felt immediate regret for his actions once in space, and has yet to even see Earth ever since that day.

So, I really have no idea if he's going to be "redeemed" or not. one second he's showing signs he might be, and the next he's falling further down the "pretty badly written villain" rabbit-hole. if he does get something akin to a redemption arc, he'll prolly mostly be accepted in the eyes of the viewers, considering a lot of peeps sympathize or at least understand where he's coming from, but I seriously doubt the other Celestials would take him back. the only one's who might see him as family/a close friend again are Sun and Solar, but even then, nothing would ever be the same.

I hope he gets redeemed, or at least freed from the hold Dark Sun has on him and he's able to live his own life, I really do. at his core, Nexus is a good person. a good person who was crushed under the weight of the shadow of the man he was born under. and we know this because he used to be New Moon. sweet, dorky New Moon.

New Moon, who made inventions like sentient knives and whoopee cushions. New Moon, who had matching My Little Pony stickers with his best friend. New Moon, who bought a whole ass island-luxury-house for Sun because he wanted to make him feel better and give him the proper space to heal. and New Moon- the poor freshly-baked A.I who gave his all to make sure he could do everything that Old Moon could, but it just wasn't enough. he tried and tried and tried, but it wasn't enough.

So yeah, idk if he's getting one in canon, but to me, he more than deserves a good ending, for the life he was given. let him be at peace.

[goodolddumbbanana]

Can I hear more of your thoughts on toxic yaoi sun and dark sun please?

Hehe... Saying Sun x Dark Sun in toxic yaoi mode but actually, it is not that bad and horrible.

Okay... So... You know how often the people who are closest to you will bring out the best and worst sides of you?

In my toxic yaoi timeline, Sun kinda joined Dark Sun because he has hurt Moon badly (again, accidentally, because Moon's Killcode activated again), and even Earth (accidentally) because she has said something hurtful to Sun (not her fault, she just got triggered by Nexus and thinks Sun will end up exactly the same like him)

Anyway, Sun will feel so ashamed of himself and run away, like he couldn't believe he can control himself without hurting people.

He feels like he is the poison, that whatever he touches just splashes everywhere.

Dark Sun just innocently comes to check on Sun, you know, just to see how he is doing.

Then he asks Sun to come with him. I mean, technically, he said He will give Sun two options,

1. Get out of this dimension and Sun would never be found by anyone he doesn't want. (But Dark Sun)

Or 2. Come with him, and he will help Sun to not get hurt like that anymore. Because Sun helps Sun.

Sun chose option 2. (a momentary decision but he can't take it back anymore)

So because it is his own choice and his own fault (nobody blames him, they only want him to go home but Sun didn't know it. ), Sun will be very needy but conflicted to Dark Sun.

(awkwardly doing everything like a lost dog to get Dark Sun attention for most of the moments, but then feel nervous and hostile of Dark Sun for what he does, what he is planning.)

Because how he lost control of his temper leading him to hurt people he cares about or just simply he is tired of people's crap but Sun will have a hard time to distinguish whether he likes Dark Sun or he just needs Dark Sun because he is lonely.

He doesn't know if he is this loyal to Dark Sun (he will follow Dark Sun blindly) because there is no way left for him, or Dark Sun is right and is his friend. (They share a lot of similarities, their interests, their everything...)

There will be a heavy imbalance of power between the two.

And they will have a lot of moments when Sun will get irritated and argue back to Dark Sun (stand up to Dark Sun) but then Sun will immediately shut down and apologize desperately afterwards because Sun only has Dark Sun left...

And Dark Sun... Oh boy...

On the positive side, He secretly likes having a little tail tagging along, hearing his voice get rambling out, and having someone pushing his ego.

He is Sun also, so even though he likes being alone, he can't stand being lonely. Furthermore, Dark Sun won't mind Sun's stuttering or anxious behaviour. He will Sun stronger, more relying on himself.

But on the down path...

He will become very possessive.

He will decide for Sun where he sleeps, where he charges, where he cleans. Because Sun is his belongings, he will want to know everything Sun did or does, and control Sun literally at that.

There will be a lot of Moon's traits slipping up from Dark Sun that even he didn't realise. (Controlling, possessive, manipulated... He even made Sun into his experience, his bodyguard, all due to the reason he is curious and he likes to see how it goes. He will lie even at himself that all the things he did was to help Sun protect himself , though)

He likes Sun, he misses being Sun, but he also hates Sun for being the person he used to be.

So although Dark Sun will treat Sun well for most of the time, but then, there will be these times when he literally likes switching up his attitude. Being indifferent, cold, cruel at Sun without any reason to let Sun beg for his attention.

(He will still pull some stunt to test Sun's loyalty.

He will let Sun see Sun's celestial family on camera, reminds Sun sometimes that they still want Sun, still finds Sun and asks Sun lightly if he wants to see them again or not.

But he will also remind Sun of what happens, of how Sun snapped.

It is not manipulation if it is true, right?

Dark Sun will throw Sun back to his doorstep, his dimension to watch Sun begging him to take Sun back to their home.)

(And sometimes, when he is both in his nice and angry mood, he will let or forcedsSun kill some Moon and let he grieve for these people Sun killed.)

And you might think Sun might get hacked , brainwashed or something... Nope. Nothing... Dark Sun does not even lock the door, or have a plan B in the case if Sun betrayed him.

No. They have some seriously sick twisted trust between them that even if Sun holds a knife at Dark Sun's throat at the night when Dark Sun lowers his guard, Dark Sun will still continue to sleep.

He believes Sun would never betray him, and never can.

And some sad path, he is true, as long as Sun still holds the idea that no one wants him but Dark Sun.

Haha, funny right?

Also, I would like to think whenever Sun has any doubts, Dark Sun will just show him Nexus or every Moon being the asshole at the moment, or how Earth still needs to be repaired....

[iboatedhere]

Thank you @cha-melodius for the tag ♥️

I’ve been focusing on my @anywhere-with-you-event fic which I cannot share but I do have a little something for @thebrownstone firstprince week fic that I’ll be posting next Thursday.

—

“Don’t you miss those days?” Raf asks as he pours himself a glass then ignores Alex when he holds his own glass out. “I think you’ve had enough, kid.”

Alex rolls his eyes. To Rafael he’ll always be an idealistic twenty year old intern the same way that to him, Raf will always be a thirty eight year old senatorial candidate with charm and good looks to spare, despite his two-term presidency and thinning hair.

“The girls were out of diapers by the time they came to us.”

“Does it make you look forward to grandkids, then?”

Alex scoffs. “Right now I don’t think either of the girls would let me see them.”

“Uh oh,” Raf says. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. Everything. I don’t know, does it matter?”

“Kind of.”

Alex heaves a sigh, feeling like a petulant teen. “They want to talk at the funeral. I’m not ready for the world to see them.”

“The world has seen them.”

“Yeah, through fucking paparazzi shots while we’re on vacation. We’ve never put them out there like this.”

“Evelyn is a grown adult.”

“I know. She loudly reminded me.”

“And Joanna is well on her way.”

“Yeah,” Alex snaps. “I got it.”

“Okay, I’m just saying, you were out on the campaign trail at their age. Making speeches, going to the Olympics…”

“Maybe mom didn’t protect me as well as she should have. Maybe dad didn’t either.”

Rafael hums.

“Fucking what?”

“Nothing. Just maybe you have a bigger problem with him than you do with them. Maybe if they were getting up on stage for some up-and-coming candidate you wouldn’t be feeling like this.”

Alex can’t look at him. “I’m not saying anything at the funeral.”

—

Tagging: @sunshineacd @sophie1973 @suseagull04 @cricketnationrise @bitbybitwrites @porcelainmortal

[novaursa]

hi!! i know you mentioned your requests are closed but i wanted to share this idea with you!! you don’t have to do anything with it, i just love all of your work and how fluid your writing is!!

but i was imaging a reader being the daughter of maegor 😭 HEAR ME OUT, what if there was a possibility he did have a child from his first marriage and automatically named reader as his heir, in turn of wanting to overthrow his nephew. however the resder wants aegon to be spared. maybe because long ago when she was younger, even though she inherited maegor and visenya’s cruelness, she had a soft spot for aegon and his gentleness. she revels in violence and is against the faith (despite her mother’s persistence) but wants to marry aegon for the sake old valyria and absence of her fathers destruction.

reader could also wield a sword!! like her grandmother i believe when aenys was still alive, they had a great celebration in her name and visenya gifts her a valyrian steel blade :D

i feel like aegon wouldn’t accept her marriage proposal, because he’s already betrothed to Alyssa Velaryon but yet she still persist, possibly even bring war despite her disapprovement of it earlier 😅 again you don’t have to reply i totally understand how busy you are with requests and such. but I just couldn’t get this idea out of my head and I absolutely respect and appreciate your work so much!!

A Flame Torn

- Summary: You confess your love to Aegon, but his answer is not like you hoped it would be. 

- Paring: cousin!reader/Aegon (The Uncrowned) Targaryen (one-sided)

- Note: The reader is the only daughter of Maegor I Targaryen and Ceryse Hightower.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

- A/N: I had to cut some information out so the short story in not overwhelmed by it. But, I consider all your information canon for this AU if I decide to return to it later.

The hall is filled with the light of a thousand candles, the flickering flames reflecting off the gleaming armor and bright silks worn by the lords and ladies gathered for your nameday. Laughter and music fill the air as you make your way through the throngs, your gaze drifting toward a single figure.

Aegon Targaryen stands near the center of the hall, speaking with his father, King Aenys, and your own mother, Ceryse. His silver hair glints in the candlelight, and his eyes are lilac soft, kind. You feel your heart tighten as you watch him, longing and hope mingling painfully in your chest. You know this dance, this game of longing glances and polite conversation, but tonight you have resolved to be bold.

As you approach, he looks up, and your breath catches at the way his face brightens when he sees you. He steps forward, bowing slightly. "Y/N, the guest of honor," he says with a smile that sends warmth flooding through you. "Might I have the next dance?"

You nod, unable to speak as he takes your hand and leads you to the floor. The music swells around you, and you move together, gracefully, like two dragons in flight. His hand is warm on your waist, his gaze steady on yours. For a moment, it feels like the world has shrunk to just the two of you.

"Aegon," you begin, your voice trembling with the weight of everything you want to say, "there is something I must tell you."

He tilts his head slightly, curiosity in his eyes. "What is it, cousin?"

You hesitate, the words tangled in your throat. You can feel the eyes of the court upon you, the weight of expectation and propriety pressing down. But you push it all aside, focusing only on him, on the way his hand feels in yours.

"I love you," you whisper, the words so quiet they almost drown beneath the music. But he hears them. You see the way his expression falters, the smile fading as his eyes widen in surprise.

"Y/N..." His voice is soft, almost pained. He glances around, as if seeking an escape from your confession, before looking back at you. "You know I am promised to Rhaena. My father—"

"I know," you cut him off, your voice sharper than you intended. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "I know, but I cannot pretend any longer. I have loved you for as long as I can remember, Aegon. And I would be a truer match for you than Rhaena."

He looks stricken, his grip on your hand tightening for a moment before he releases it, stepping back. The space between you feels like a chasm. "Y/N, I cannot betray my father's wishes. Nor Rhaena. She is my sister, my—"

Your heart feels as if it is being crushed. You force yourself to nod, though it feels as if you are breaking apart inside. "I understand." The words taste like ashes. "Forgive me."

He reaches out as if to touch you, then stops, his hand falling back to his side. "There is nothing to forgive," he murmurs, but his voice is distant, as if he is already retreating from you, building walls that you will never be able to breach.

You turn away before he can see the tears gathering in your eyes, moving through the crowd with your head held high, though each step feels like it is made of lead. You find your seat beside your mother, Ceryse, who looks at you with quiet concern, her hand reaching out to squeeze yours.

Your father, Maegor, is watching you, his dark violet eyes narrowing as he takes in the slump of your shoulders, the way your gaze remains fixed on the floor. He leans closer, his voice a low rumble. "What troubles you, daughter? Is it Aenys' pitiful son?"

You flinch at his words but do not look up. "It is nothing, Father."

"Do not lie to me," he says, his voice sharp but not unkind. "I can see the sorrow in your eyes. Is this about Aegon?"

You nod, feeling a tear slip down your cheek despite your best efforts. "I... I told him how I felt. And he rejected me. He is bound to Rhaena."

Maegor's face darkens, his mouth a thin line. "Aenys and his weakling spawn," he mutters, his hands clenching into fists. "They are all unworthy of you."

"Father, please," you say, reaching out to grasp his arm. "I do not want you to hurt him. He did nothing wrong."

He looks at you then, his gaze softening, though there is still a storm raging behind his eyes. "I will not see you suffer, Y/N. Not for him. Not for anyone."

You shake your head, swallowing the lump in your throat. "I do not want vengeance, Father. I just... I just want to forget."

He does not respond immediately, his eyes drifting to where Aegon now stands with Rhaena, their hands clasped, their faces turned toward each other with smiles that feel like daggers in your heart. "One day," Maegor murmurs, so softly that only you can hear, "I will see him brought to his knees for this. He will regret ever causing you pain."

You shudder at the cold promise in his voice, squeezing his arm tighter. "Please, Father. For me."

He looks at you, his gaze searching, and finally, he nods, though the fire in his eyes does not diminish. "For you, daughter. Only for you."

But you know, as you sit there beside him, your heart aching, that this wound will not easily heal. And in the depths of your father's gaze, you see a shadow of the war that will one day come, a war that will spill blood and shatter bonds, all in the name of a love that was never meant to be.

The air inside the hall feels thick, suffocating, as you sit beside your mother, lost in the swirl of your thoughts. Laughter and music continue to fill the room, but they seem distant, muffled, as if you’re hearing them from underwater. You can feel Aegon’s gaze on you from across the room, a persistent weight that you refuse to acknowledge. You keep your eyes fixed on the cup in your hands, tracing the intricate patterns etched into the silver as if they hold the answers to questions you do not dare ask.

Movement at your side draws your attention. Visenya Targaryen, your grandmother and the Dowager Queen, stands before you. Her presence commands the attention of everyone nearby, but her focus is solely on you. She extends a hand, and you take it, rising to your feet with a small, grateful smile.

“Come, child,” she says, her voice a cool, calming balm against the storm of emotions within you. “There is something I wish to give you.”

She leads you through the throng of lords and ladies, past the musicians and dancers, until you are standing near the dais where your father’s seat commands the room. A hush falls over the crowd as Visenya reaches behind her and draws forth a sword, its blade gleaming like liquid night under the glow of the torches.

“This,” she says, holding it out to you, “is Dark Sister, a blade of Valyrian steel, forged in Old Valyria and carried by many warriors of our line. I pass it to you now, as a symbol of our blood, our strength, and your place in this family.”

Your breath catches as you take the sword, its weight familiar and comforting in your hands. Dark Sister hums with an almost imperceptible vibration, a whisper of power that resonates through your very bones. You look up at Visenya, unable to find the words to express what this means to you.

“Thank you, Grandmother,” you finally manage, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I will wield it with honor.”

She nods, her eyes softening for a moment. “I know you will, child.” Then, leaning closer, she adds in a lower voice, “Your father has told me what transpired with Aegon. Come, walk with me. We should speak away from all these eyes.”

You nod, grateful for the chance to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the celebration. The two of you slip out of the hall, the cool night air a welcome relief against your heated skin. The sounds of the feast fade behind you as you walk along the winding paths of the castle gardens.

For a while, neither of you speaks. You simply walk, the silence between you heavy but not uncomfortable. Visenya’s presence, as always, is a steadying force, a reminder of your heritage and strength.

“Do not let this break you, Y/N,” she says finally, her voice firm but gentle. “You are stronger than that.”

You swallow, your grip tightening on the hilt of Dark Sister. “It just… it hurts. I thought—hoped—he might feel the same. But he is bound to Rhaena. And I—” You stop, the words catching in your throat. “I cannot change what I feel.”

Visenya nods, her gaze thoughtful as she looks out over the moonlit gardens. “Love is a dangerous thing for those of our blood. It can be a source of strength, or it can be a weakness that others will exploit.” She glances at you, her eyes piercing. “You must learn to use your feelings, not let them use you.”

You nod slowly, trying to absorb her words. “I know, Grandmother. But it is difficult.”

“Difficult, yes. But not impossible.” She pauses, reaching out to touch your shoulder, her grip surprisingly strong. ��You have your father’s fire, but you also have my mind. Temper your emotions with reason, and you will be a force to be reckoned with.”

You look down at the sword in your hand, the blade shimmering in the moonlight. “And what of Aegon?” you ask quietly. “He is still my cousin. I do not wish him harm.”

Visenya’s expression hardens slightly. “Your father will do what he thinks best. He sees insult where you see rejection, and he will not forget it easily. But you…” She tilts her head, considering. “You must decide what you want, and how far you are willing to go to get it.”

“I do not want to be the cause of more bloodshed,” you murmur, though even as you say it, you know how hollow the words sound. You are Maegor’s daughter, Visenya’s granddaughter. Bloodshed is your legacy, whether you wish it or not.

“Sometimes, blood is the price we pay for power, for respect, for love,” Visenya says softly. “But that is a lesson you will learn in time. For now, remember this: you are not defined by what others think of you. Not by Aegon, not by Aenys, not even by Maegor. You are your own, and that is what makes you strong.”

You look up at her, the steel in her eyes reflected in your own. “I will not forget, Grandmother.”

She smiles then, a rare, genuine smile that softens her stern features. “Good. Now, let us return before your father sets the hall alight searching for us.”

You laugh, a soft, shaky sound, but real nonetheless. Together, you make your way back toward the castle, the weight of Dark Sister at your side a constant reminder of who you are, and who you will become. And though the night is still heavy with pain and unspoken promises, you feel the first stirrings of something else within you—a resolve, hard and bright as Valyrian steel.

[altruistic-meme]

3, 13, 68 <3

oscar my dearest <3 I'm sorry this turned into a disaster jcjsjz

03: Do you regret anything?

oh for sure. there are things I regret saying and not saying, things I regret agreeing to, things I regret missing. regret is part of life. i am trying to learn to love with regret and to try to limit how much more of it I have.

getting philosophical it's the lack of sleep

13: Do you hate anyone at the moment?

so I wanted to be the Bigger Person and say no bc hate is a heavy word etc. but also like. My sister. I hate her so much. I have to interact with her and pretend I don't but a lot of my regrets are related to her, and a lot of my anxiety, and a lot of strain on my relationships with others, and a lot of my insecurities. and nothing she has ever done has made any of that worth it. so yeah. I've wasted a lot of my time hurting myself over her and she never cared. so I hate her.

and now I'm being angsty jsjfjaj I also blame this on lack of sleep. it is true tho.

68: Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with?

my friend, who is also my sister's gf! she enjoys deep conversations and their are few people I feel comfortable enough with to have them, so its often that we'll end up talking about things.

[ ask game ]

[blue-eli]

Skuld in quantum design :)

[whitegownsandflowercrowns]

So I’ve already seen some criticism of Helaena appearing in Daemon’s visions, all “why is she helping the guy that murdered her son?” And while I can understand that criticism, that’s not how I read the scene, and I think it actually reveals a lot more to us about Helaena as a character and how her dreams have affected her life.

Because, while Alys and Helaena did show Daemon a vision of Daenerys, they neglected to mention one teeny tiny barely important little detail. When the dead arrive, their ruler is slain by a Stark while a Lannister sits the Iron Throne. Then, the final male Targaryen kills the final female Targaryen, her dragon burns the Iron Throne, and he goes Beyond the Wall, probably never to have children. In short, Aegon’s Dream is all for nothing.

Presuming that Helaena can see everything the way that this episode implies, she is fully aware of this. And yet, Daemon still needs to play his part. All of their parts are inevitable, everything has always occurred exactly the way that it will. She tells Aemond point-blank that even if he kills her, he will still die in God’s Eye and Aegon will still outlive him. So Blood & Cheese or no, Daemon’s line will still inherit the Iron Throne, and he will still kill Aemond. But in order to do those things, his part involves accepting Aegon’s Dream to be (somewhat) true and standing behind Rhaenyra for good. Helaena is here to help shuffle that along.

I also think that this lends a new weight to her words in 2x03: “I’m sad about Jaehaerys. But I don’t think I should be.”

I’m sad about my son’s death, but I don’t think I should be because I saw this happen over and over in my dreams. Because I know that in the grand scheme of the Song of Ice and Fire, in the story of Westeros and all the lands beyond, he had a minuscule role to play. Because it’s all a story and he was only ever meant to be a minor tragedy in that story. Because I’ve known all of this since I was born, but I’m still human, I’m not just a prophetess or a visionary or a dreamer, I’m still human and I’m still a mother and I’m still sad about my son’s death.

[imogenkol]

KINCADE PACK 🐺 (original works) — “The name goes back centuries, and all Miranda cares about is making sure it lasts for many more”

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[transmascutena]

thinking about how akio sees his younger self in utena and wondering if there's any fondness there. doesn't change the horror of what he does to her obviously but i do wonder