#.................its so.................................tempting.............................

[hoonstqr]

ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ   ㅤ · THINK I NEED SOMEONE OLDER ᮫ ⬭ ۫

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝗂 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗂'𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂'𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗇

警告: smut, step-cest, dubcon, manipulation, dry humping, p in v, unprotected sex, cheating, dirty talk, degradation, daddy kink, age gap. 1068 wrote this when i was drunk but this has been rotting in my drafts for way too long now. daddy jay can fix me :(

ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ( ៸៸ ´ `) 𝑜 ──── REBLOG FOR A KiSS !

it was all your fault, wasn’t it? you had left your door unlocked again. you had always been so careless about that, but it had never been an issue before your mom started travelling for work. jay had always been civil, the perfect stepdad, or atleast tried to be.

but, fuck it, he was done playing the saint. his eyes had been glued to your legs, your chest, the way your clothes hugged your curves, and it was driving him wild. the way you unknowingly flaunted your legs around the house in your tiny skirts and the way your tits bounced when you walked up the stairs. he couldn’t take it anymore, he needed to fuck you.

so here he was, his hard on pressed up against your ass, his hand reaching around to cup your left tit as he nibbled at your ear.

you stir awake when you feel something strange and warm between your thighs. your eyes flutter open and your breath hitches in shock. his erection is pressing against your smooth skin. your mind races, trying to understand what’s happening as his hips begin to rock back and forth, his cock sliding along the crease of your thighs.

“d-daddy..?” you gasped, still half-asleep.

“yeah, baby,” he cooed. “like how i use you as a fuck toy?” the friction of his cock against your skin sending shivers down your spine. he squeezes your tits as he stroked himself faster, his breath hot and heavy on your neck and you could feel the precum leaking onto your skin.

his hand leaves your chest and grabs your hip, pulling you closer to him. “spread your legs, baby. let me in,” he whispers gruffly. your body reacts despite your mind’s protests as your legs part slightly, allowing him better access. jay’s hand slides down your stomach, and before you can fully comprehend his intentions, he’s pushed your panties to the side. the head of his cock is now directly rubbing against your wet pussy.

it’s so wrong, but so right at the same time.

“what would your mother think of you now?” jay whispers, his breath hot against your neck. “what would she say when she finds out how much of a slut you are for your daddy?”

you shake your head in response, tears forming at the corners of your eyes. “no, please,” you whimper, trying to push him away. but his grip on your hip is too strong, and the feeling of his cock against your pussy is too tempting. 

“shhh, you want this,” jay murmurs as he gently bites your earlobe. “look at your little cunt, dripping for me.”

and before you know it, his finger slips into your tight cunt. you bite your bottom lip to keep from crying out. he pushes deeper, curling his digit to hit that spot inside of you that makes you arch your back in silent pleasure.

“so tight, baby,” jay groans. he starts to move his finger in and out, slowly, then faster and deeper, pushing in to the knuckle. “you’re so tight it’s like your cunt is trying to suck me in.”

your body betraying your protests with every little moan that escapes your lips. your heart is racing, your pussy pulsing around his digit. jay's other hand finds its way to your clit, rubbing it in a way that sends jolts of pleasure through your body. your hands are clutching the sheets so tightly that your knuckles turn white.

you try to keep your voice down, but the sensations are too intense. “oh, fuck,” you breathe shakilly. jay chuckles darkly at your response, his grip on your hip tightening. “that’s right, baby.”

his finger works inside of you faster, pressing down on your g-spot with each thrust. your thighs quiver, and your pussy clenches around his digit. the orgasm builds up inside you, and before you know it, you're riding the wave. your eyes squeeze shut, and your mouth forms a silent scream as your body shudders with pleasure. jay’s hand moves to your mouth, pressing down to muffle the sounds you can’t hold back.

his cock, still hard and desperate for release, slides along your wet folds, finding its way to your entrance. without warning, he pushes in. the pain is intense, but quickly overwhelmed by the feeling of fullness.

your body stiffens as jay’s thick shaft stretches you open. you bite down hard on the pillow to muffle the moan that escapes your lips. he doesn’t stop, pushing in further and further until he’s buried to the hilt inside of you. you can feel every inch of him, every vein and ridge as he starts to fuck you.

his hand leaves your mouth and moves back to your clit. the combination of his cock filling you and his relentless teasing sends you spiraling towards another orgasm. your body’s begging for release. jay’s breathing grows ragged as he fucks you harder, his hips slamming into you with an animalistic hunger. 

his thumb circles your clit with a merciless precision that sends waves of pleasure crashing over you. your toes curl, and your legs quiver as you feel your orgasm building again. “daddy, i-i’m going to... nghh”

the words are barely out of your mouth when you cum again. your pussy clenches around his cock, and he groans deeply, his own climax approaching. your body convulses with the intensity of it, and jay’s hand grips your hip tightly to keep you in place. your moans are muffled by the pillow as you try to keep quiet.

“fuck, yes,” jay grunts, fucking you through your second orgasm, “such a good girl, taking your daddy’s cock like that.”

his strokes grow deeper, his grip on your hip bruising as he chases his own release. your eyes are screwed shut, and your teeth are embedded into the pillow as your body rocks back and forth with the force of his thrusts.

with a guttural growl, jay cums inside you, filling you up with his hot seed. you feel it spurt inside of you, coating your walls as he holds himself deep within your pussy. 

his cock twitches inside of you, sending little sparks of pleasure through your body. you’re overwhelmed with the feeling of being so completely filled. the reality of what’s happening crashes down on you, but it’s too late to do anything but lay there and accept it.

regulars── : @rikkesttz @nics-fxy @woniesbae @jk1601 @starrias @rikiiimeow @drmsrina @rosepetals09 @tinycatharsis @doucious | @k-films @sweetvenomnet

[edensrose]

. ۫ᯓᡣ𐭩 r. sukuna ✧ f reader ˚₊‧꒰ა taking what's not his ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

“ 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘢 king decides a fallen god's wife 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴. ” in which the king of curses takes the honoured one's wife as a war prize ˖ ꯴ ⌇ violence, angst, toru's rolling in his grave.

The Gojo estate never knew such horrors, but with the Strongest long gone, who could possibly stand in disaster's way?

The halls you and your husband upheld for your short reign have been engulfed by flames. The burn of failure scorches every hallway. Ashes of a great clan now engraved in the dirt. A mercy for those who have not been slaughtered by the blade instead. Blood ran rivers over your peaceful abode. Your sanctuary, your home, your everything has been reduced to soot and shame. The King of Curses stood proud at the sight. The Strongest had lost, and so his domain was flooded by hellfire.

But still, you stood tall.

Tooth and nail, you fought. For your clan, for your husband who you haven't even seen the body of. Perhaps it's a blessing. You would rather fall first than see those dull eyes staring back at you.

Screams and gurgles echoed the once peaceful citadel. Malice made its home in the graves of your fallen people. Your head held high, even while you're knelt in your shared bedroom. Four walls that knew so much love, laughter and solace — the last place to be touched by the tyrant king.

You won't let him have the satisfaction. Your blade readied firm between clenching fists. Tears dripped to the steel and you drew the sharpness to your throat. You won't be captured. You won't be a war prize for a mad conqueror. The Jujutsu world has already fallen with your husband, so it was your time too.

Braced. Breathed. With one last look at the picture nestled on your husband's desk, you smiled shakily. Satoru's wide grin and bright eyes will be your last sight. So be it.

The blade bit your flesh. You tighten on the handle and sliced swift —

Clank! Half its length fell to the ground.

Your eyes widen and you scrambled to reposition it over your heart. Thrust forward. Ragged.

It never came.

You screamed and used all your might to shove the broken blade into your chest. So that your heart may bleed and you may rest with your husband. "Release me, you monster!"

Rune-littered hands cupped the blade and forced it down. Your jaw was taken into the unforgiving, hot hold, and you cried out at the sear through your flesh.

In-spite of yourself, your eyes shot open. Teary, veiny, yet your glare daggered all the same. On instinct you spat a pointed wad. It hits a lower eye. But the madman smiled — grinned and wretched your head closer.

"So." He mused, voice grave like the cruel night you're basked in. Eyes firelit like the flames that have engulfed the last shred of your soul. You and your husband's bedroom. He was elated. What more should you expect from the King of Curses?

"This is the Madam Gojo?"

Your head is tossed side-to-side. Unceremoniously. Why should he handle you with the grace you deserved? Charred nails dug into your flesh already flushed red from his burns. "Ending your miserable life already? Why, no fight left in your weak heart?"

"Kill me if you must."

"Kill you? Tempting." His thumb shoved into your cheek and you wailed at the surge of heat. Tears doubled in your vision. You're defenceless. Your home ruined. Your husband slaughtered. But what Sukuna said next struck all of your fears into existence.

"However, it would be quite the waste. . . don't you think?"

You gulped down a sob and squeezed your eyes shut as you're yanked closer. Your hands raised to shove his off, but all you're met with is more scalds that weaken every fibre of your being.

"Open your eyes."

You refused.

"Open. Your. Eyes."

Excruciating blisters littered your body and you keened. You had no saviours. All of your attendants long since met their demise. Your screams echoed a desiccated, aflamed citadel. Like the cries of a lonely, frightened lamb. Your husband was gone. He could not save you. So you peeled your gaze onto him, and immediately felt the soothing caress of ease over your aching body.

You gasped for breath through your sea of tears. His grip only tightened, but no longer did his nails ruin your face.

"I saw you."

What was this mad tyrant on about? Was killing your husband not enough for him? Satoru's heart already stopped, but yours went on; and yours beats for him even beyond the grave. Even in this fiery carnage.

Sukuna drew you closer. Leaned over your knelt form so that your neck arched painfully and his weight suffocated you. His thumb ran over your lower lip and you quiver. Still, your eyes could not leave him. Petrified. Agonised.

"I saw you in his eyes when he realised he had lost."

His face twisted into a grin. Yours wet with tears, shook with sobs.

"I saw you together with fear." He grasped your throat. Cut off your air supply. You choked and tried to envision your husband. Satoru. Just one last time. Happy, alive —

Anything but this. Anything but that grin.

"So much fear." He cackled and pressed a cruel tongue to your tears.

"For his pretty little wife, in the hands of a king."

© 𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒆 . no copying, translation or plagiarism authorised

[architectdoespolitics]

@planetsnakes you make good points! Let me address a few of them, if I may:

The need for green things in urban spaces and buildings: yes, I 100% agree that urban spaces and buildings need green growing things! I think are essential for cities, for public health and enjoyment and also to counter the urban heat island effect (keep all the asphalt and concrete roads and sidewalks cool). I also firmly believe that good buildings should have views to nature, and include nature inside where possible (plant walls, water features, even trees!) I agree that the first generation of brutalist architects often neglected this, and it was to the detriment of their buildings. I think eco-Brutalism, as you mentioned, takes steps to remedy this.

The need for natural ventilation in buildings: i agree, natural outdoor air is essential! A lot of first generation brutalist buildings are surprisingly good at this! Many feature large atria in the middle with skylights that can be opened for ventilation, forcing air to circulate vertically through the floors. Also, operable windows on the long sides of the buildings paired with very open floor plates provide excellent cross ventilation. For example, here’s a study I did in architecture school of the air flow through a brutalist school in the Netherlands. Just opening the doors on the ground floor got air all the way up to the top level, which I find pretty remarkable.

Concrete and heat absorption: you’re totally right, concrete is a high thermal mass material that absorbs lots of heat from the sun during the day. However, in a lot of climate zones in America at least, this can be good thing! In any climate that has large temperature swings between day and night (to the point where you’d need AC during the day and heating at night) brutalist high thermal mass buildings are great! The concrete absorbing the heat before it can reach the interior of the building makes it so the AC doesn’t have to switch on as early in the day. Then, in the evening and at night, the concrete releases its heat back to the interior space, meaning you need less time with the heating on. So yeah, high thermal mass structures (this includes brick and stone, not just concrete) cool the interior during the day and heat it at night, meaning less energy spent on mechanical heating and cooling.

Pigeons (aka the bane of a civic architect’s existence): I’ll be honest, pigeons are kind of the worst. I’ve never found a good way to make an interesting building that doesn’t tempt pigeons to sit and poop. I’ve used bird spikes, but they’re ugly.

Longevity of concrete: true, modern concrete does not have as long a lifespan as other materials such as brick, stone, or Roman concrete. It is generally more durable/longer lasting than wood, steel, or iron though! Your point about Roman concrete is a good one—I think we need to put serious thought into how to make concrete last longer than a century if we’re going to continue to build with it.

Carbon impact of concrete: concrete is pretty much the highest carbon footprint material we can build with, which sucks. Because of this, I think an all-brutalist future of nothing but current concrete is a pretty bad idea. There are some types of structures (particularly infrastructure) that are just really hard to construct without concrete, so I think it will always need to be used. We should be looking for ways to make concrete more environmentally sustainable—for example, by reducing reliance on Portland cement by using fly ash, using hempcrete, etc.

My personal thoughts—please note I’m an American architect who has been through the American architecture curriculum, so my opinions and knowledge are by no means global. Brutalism to me is beautiful in its simplicity, but also in its texture and variation. I like that it’s not just a plain glass box on the outside and a plain white box on the inside like a lot of International Style modernist buildings. But at the same time, there’s not a ton of extra effort going into fake or garish ornamentation, like was often seen in American Post-Modernism. I actually see a lot of color and variation in Brutalism that is done well. By changing the concrete mixtures and adding local minerals/stone as aggregate, you can get colors from almost white to brown to deep dark gray. Check out the Paulista School style in Brazil for example. Also, here are some the same photos from my first post in color!

In conclusion: I’m not suggesting buildings in every city should be brutalist—that would NOT work. I do think a new and improved eco-Brutalism could have both a positive impact and a prominent place in urban spaces in the future!

Nordic Pavilion by Sverre Fehn | Venice, Italy

Robert C. Weaver Federal Building by Marcel Breuer | Washington, D.C., USA

Gould Hall by Gene Zema and Daniel Streissguth | University of Washington College of Built Environments | Seattle, WA, USA

I have opinions about urbanism and all of you will be subjected to them, whether you want to be or not.

Brutalism is good and should have never been abandoned. It's cheap, makes cities into canvases for graffiti, provides easy opportunities for services to be within walking distance or transit distance of literally anyone's home, and in general looks good.

Commie blocks are some of the best designed city blocks ever built, and more places should have copied them.

Trams should be everywhere, with trains acting as intercity transport and trams acting as intracity transport, with other auxiliary methods being available.

Cars should not be banned from every part of a city, but should be heavily regulated to ensure that they do not overtake the city's main purpose, which is to provide a comfortable and welcoming space for all of its citizens and visitors.

[mourning-sapphire]

bruised fruit | aemond targaryen | chapter two

Summary: he wasn’t the warmest man on earth, he walked ashed fields and scattered fruitless seeds, that was until the sun delivered him the ripest fruit from the arbor, his to harvest. The story of a man learning to love his saccharine ladywife and all her softness.

Pairing: aemond targaryen x redwyne!reader

Chapter warnings: there is some bullying in this chapter, manipulation, ablesim, mocking of aemond's physical apperance (not by reader), some brief descriptions of anxiety, some mention of uncomfortable predicaments.

Word count: 16k (oops)

authors note: all i can say is enjoy, while i look at my plans and wonder how tf this turned out to be this long.

previous part | masterlist | next part

Aemond was officially losing his will to live.

Each step he took back to his chambers echoed that frustration, the hopelessness that he was feeling just from a few short seconds with his new endeavour. Everyone in the keep was used to his boots striking stone in some sort of attitude but it was never like this, he had never felt like this before. Thoughts of mounting Vhagar and soaring away from it all to some far-off city in Essos— away from duty, from court, from expectations, from this fucking betrothal—grew increasingly more seductive to him with every passing moment.

Gods, how the image seemed so lush in that moment

He could almost feel the sharp winds of open sky, the endless stretch of somewhere like Volantis beneath him, the screams of his name lost to the roar of wings. The idea didn’t just tempt him anymore—it whispered to him, breath hot against his ear like a lover, coaxing, urging him to flee.

It was erotic in its promise of freedom, it was what he wanted.

The introductions at the docks had gone exactly as he expected— completely and utterly abysmally. His mother’s reaction had been instant to his tone, though quiet. That look in her eyes, like a brewing storm, one she rarely gave him when he acted out of par. She hadn’t raised her voice at his disregard for the Redwyne girl, hadn’t even spoken, but he knew what that particular silence meant. It was the same brittle stillness before she snapped at him, her normally softer eyes widened with rage that she rarely felt for her second youngest. No, his mother had simply taken the Redwyne girl’s arm—gently, diplomatically—and guided her away from him, not sparing Aemond so much as a reprimand in the moment.

But he knew. Oh, how he knew that the verbal thrashing was coming, sharp and cutting,. He could practically hear it now.

But he just didn’t care.

The girl was beautiful, he’d give her that. Striking, even with delicate features, with eyes too wide and too hopeful for her own good. But beauty meant little to him these days, it stirred nothing in him—not warmth, not kindness, not even the faintest urge to impress her. When she’d curtsied to him, dripped with politeness and soft expectation, he could barely bring himself to acknowledge her with little more than a nod and a cold, flat greeting.

In the eyes of his mother, and most likely the gods, he might as well have have spit on the ground in front of her. He’d watched the light falter in her face, fade like a candle by an open window, and for a brief, twisted moment, he’d felt something close to satisfaction.

He knew he was cruel. He could feel it in his marrow, like his own rot beneath polished leather armour.

Usually, he had the sense of mind to feign courtesy towards people he didn’t like, to mask his contempt behind silence. But something about her, maybe her innocence, provoked something vicious inside him. A reflex, like a wounded animal snapping at the kindness of an outstretched hand.

His pain and his anger towards marriage couldn’t be soothed with a pretty wife, no matter how gorgeous she was. If all he wanted was someone beautiful to look at, he had enough coin for that. Aemond could pay for softness, for sweet lies whispered in the dark if that’s what he truly desired. He didn’t need a wife for that. Certainly, not one who would be thrust upon him like a political offering, all smiles and subtle desperation.

The doors to his chamber practically shuddered as Aemond shoved them open, the sound biting through the corridor like a threat. He didn’t pause to acknowledge the servants within who were changing his bedding. He wasn’t usually in his chambers at this time of day, he just stormed inside in his anger, letting the doors swing shut behind him with a thunderous slam. The startled servants quickly bowed and vanished, knowing better than to linger when the prince was in such a state.

He stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by morning light and silence, chest rising and falling with an emotion he couldn’t name. It wasn’t panic or fear, nor was it anger; it was something nasty that had taken all of that and burrowed in his chest. His hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles cracking with the force at which he curled his fist. The quiet of his chamber itched at his skin, he hated it. Hated the way his thoughts almost echoed around the room, bouncing off the stone walls and reminding him of the hollowness of it all.

“It was all a farce, a ridiculous farce” he thought as he tore off his sword belt and tossed it on his writing desk with a thunk, his ink bottles rattling and paper crunching with the lack of care he had.

Aemond was used to being able to keep a level head about most things, about things that shouldn’t matter, but all he could think was this was another thing taken from him as his boots struck hard against the floor. He couldn’t help it but he paced —once, twice, again in front of the balcony doors—a tight line carving into the rug like a trench of his own anger.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t even notice the door open behind him until he heard her voice.

"Aemond." His mother’s voice was calm and controlled, too controlled, for how angry she probably was.

He stopped mid-step at her tone, his body stopping to look out the balcony doors. He didn’t turn to face her, he couldn’t, he didn’t want her to see the turmoil on his face and he didn’t want to see the disappointment on hers.

“Aemond,” She repeated, firmer this time, the sound of her slippers thudding on the floors told him she was walking closer to him, too close.

He exhaled through his nose, the sound more of a huff than a breath, and finally faced her. Alicent stood just by his couches, the light that bled in through the windows catching in the green and gold silk of her sleeves. Lighting her in almost a saintly light. However, what she wore best though was the light of vehemence, banked but, unmistakable in her eyes.

They stood and faced each other off like they weren't mother and son. Like something closer to enemies in that moment, enemies that shared memories, blood, and shared pain. It was heavy, so heavy that the silence in the room was only broken by a guard outside shutting the door behind her with a soft click.

“Would you like to explain to me what that was?” His mother asked calmly, with no raised voice, no theatrics. Just that tone, the one that said she was holding herself together by inches. The one she had used on him and all his siblings since they were children.

Aemond didn’t respond right away, no he looked at her like one might look at a ghost. A relic of something that used to make sense, his mother once made sense to him. “Do you want the truth?” he asked, voice low.

“I always want the truth, Aemond.” She snapped softly, something rare, but there was hurt in it, dripping with it. “Though with you lately, I never know which version I’ll get.”

“Then here it is, I didn’t want to meet her, I never asked for this." He laughed—sharp and humourless, cruel. "I won’t play husband to some dainty girl with stars strung in her eyes who thinks she can smile her way into my good graces.”

“She is your betrothed,” Alicent said, stepping further into his space. “You didn’t even try to be civil, nor attempted to be welcoming.”

“She curtsied like I was a prince in some song,” he bit out like it was a mockery to him, that she couldn’t see how he was. “I spared her by not lying to her face.”

“And what exactly do you think you gain by acting like a beast?” Alicent said, anger beginning to simmer in her voice now, rumbling in her chest. “You not only humiliated her, but you humiliated me.”

Aemond turned away again. “Good,” he muttered. “Let her realise early what she's getting into.”

“That girl is meant to be your wife,” Alicent said, each word clipped, controlled, eyes widening with that familiar anger she often carried for her children. “She could have been your ally. Someone to—”

“Someone to warm my bed? To bear my children?” He whipped around to face her, teeth gnashing like the dragon he claimed to be. “To pretend she doesn’t flinch when she sees what’s under this?” He gestured to his eyepatch, the ache of his sapphire in his socket reminded him of all his agony, his voice cold with venom. “She’ll never love me. And I’ll never love her, so why should I pretend?”

Silence fell at that, thick and heavy. But Alicent’s gaze didn’t waver, though something in her expression softened—a flicker of his mother beneath the queen.

“I don’t ask you to love her,” she said quietly. “I ask you to act like a man, not a wounded boy lashing out at the world.”

That landed deeper than he expected. He looked away, jaw tightening.

She stepped closer, her voice lower now. “You think I wasn’t afraid? That I wasn’t bound to someone I didn’t choose? That I haven’t felt caged by duty since the moment I first bled?”

He didn’t answer, he couldn’t really.

His mothers had an affinity to twisting the situation, something he’d seen grow over the years in the resentment for his father and his half-sister. Despite looking like a pious doe most days, she still had the Hightower ability to twist something entirely so that it may forge something else. Even if that something was reminding her children of all she had sacrificed in life to bring them to this moment.

“I learned to live with it,” she said. “You don’t have to love her, but you must at least respect her, Aemond… You cannot keep spitting in the face of every chance you're given simply because you still bleed over wounds long since scarred.”

He wanted to scoff at that, she too mourned wounds that had barely scarred, longing in her eyes for cuts that would unfurl at the slightest tug.

“I only want you to survive this world,” She added, lingering around him like she usually did; his mother was one of his few allies in his world. “And in this world, you do not survive alone.”

“I make no promises.” He swallowed slightly, his face away from her, he had never been able to deal with her version of scolding. “I cannot pretend that this is what I want.”

It was the closest he would ever come to a confession.

His mother didn’t sigh, didn’t bristle. She merely stepped a little closer, placing a hand lightly on his arm—not to comfort, but to remind.

She was still his mother, and she would always be watching. Her touch was featherlight, but it burned hotter than the forge, like it would melt the leather of his tunic.

“You think I did?” she asked quietly.

And then she was gone, leaving the space colder for her absence.

Aemond stood there for a long time after, unmoving, his eye drifting to the nearest window as the afternoon light stretched slowly across the city. The sky was clear—blue and vast in a way that made the walls of the Red Keep feel all the more stifling.

The thought of mounting Vhagar lingered still, tempting and sharp. He wouldn’t leave, not entirely—he never could—but a ride, just far enough to taste the air and dull the weight in his chest, would be enough.

Something just enough to push the thought of her from his mind.

Despite only being in King’s Landing for a mere few hours, it had already felt as though you’d aged lifetimes already. The capital moved on a different rhythm than home—everyone louder, faster, more watchful. The moment you stepped off the ship onto the stone docks, your every breath felt observed, weighed, and recorded. From the lingering heat of the sun on your shoulders to the heavy scent of smoke and sea air that clung to your skin, the day had been endless, thick with expectation.

It wasn’t like Aemond and his excuse of a greeting helped that case either, the sting of his disinterest still lingering in your chest like a paper cut that just kept throbbing.

It was only under Meredyth’s gentle care that you found the resolve to slow down after you got to your rooms, to come back to yourself after the storm that was this morning. Her touch was practised and grounding, her fingers moving with quiet precision as she brushed the tension from your scalp. It was sad but her movements were familiar in a way that you know you’d also mourn soon. She didn’t speak much after her words of encouragement—she didn’t need to.

The silence between you had always been one of comfort, and right now, it was the only thing keeping you from unravelling entirely in your new rooms.

Though it was much too early to begin preparing for the evening’s feast, Meredyth had started regardless. She knew better than anyone that it wasn’t just about being ready, it was about feeling steady and looking the part you needed to. The simple, deliberate motions of care: hair detangled, oils smoothed into the skin, the rustle of linens being laid out, each act gave shape to something solid inside you. Something you could cling to when the walls felt like they were closing in again.

And that’s exactly what she did.

It was just after a modest lunch had been delivered—a tray of warm bread, honeyed fruits, and spiced wine left mostly untouched—when Meredyth got to work. You feared for your stay here if she remained as sharp-tongued with the palace staff as she had been that mid-day, but it seemed to serve its purpose.

The palace servants did as they were told, tight-lipped and efficient, scurrying about under her brisk orders, despite her having no standing here besides being your chosen maid. It was at her request that a bath was drawn not long after the lunch was cleared away, a breath of relief passing your lips as soon as you saw the steam beginning to rise from the copper tub that they placed near the hearth.

Like always, Meredyth tested the temperature herself, rolling up her sleeves and adjusting the heat with a metal kettle of boiling water until it met her standards, the ones she knew you liked from the back of her hand. Only then did she turn to you, wordlessly beginning to undo the fastenings at the back of your gown with deft fingers.

There was no true ceremony to it—only quiet familiarity of a task she'd done a hundred times over. The layers came away one by one: the soft outer bodice, the shift, the stays, the undergarments, all peeled away like the shell of someone you couldn’t afford to be tonight. It felt final to watch your comfort turn into a soft pile of clothing on the rugs, but it was needed.

When you finally stepped into the tub, the heat was near scalding—but you welcomed it, it was like a kiss to your aching soul. The water lapped at your skin, loosening the tightness in your shoulders, washing away the grime of the docks and days on a ship, slipping away the weight of watchful eyes. You sank in slowly, eyes fluttering closed for a breath or two. For a moment, the world outside the bath ceased to exist.

Meredyth didn’t leave your side, she pulled a stool close and began to wet your hair with a cup instantly, her fingers moving through the wet strands with a tenderness that contrasted the steel in her voice earlier. She said nothing, but her silence was not cold. It was protective. A shield she held up for you when you could no longer hold your own.

The scent of floral, spices, and sage filled the air as she poured oils into the water, turning it that milky colour you loved so much, her sleeves dampening at the edges with each pour of the cup. You weren’t sure whether it was meant to soothe your skin or your nerves—perhaps both. Either way, it helped.

“You’re wearing the pink silk tonight,” she said after a while, her voice low, more thought than command. “The one with the embroidered flowers and veins on the bodice. It’s gentle, but not meek. And it’ll set you apart from every other girl draped in garnet and gold.”

You nodded, eyes still shut, the warmth making it easier to breathe, you knew the dress well.

It was an exquisite gown, the colour of blooming peach blossoms at the height of spring. It was a treasured gift from a group of traders who passed through the Arbor regularly during the height of trading season. Woven from the finest silks, the dress itself almost looked alive with the way it shimmered with any soft light. It was light enough that the fabric just moved like it was constantly catching the breeze, like petals on the wind.

You knew it wasn’t exactly the fashion of the capital but you wanted some sense of self. Even if a part of you worried that the ladies of court would side eye its deeper, sweeping neckline and flowing skirts, it was romantic. All while it was topped off with a gorgeous masterful embroider; a cascade of hand-stitched florals and delicate foliage in gold, green, and rose crawling down the bodice, onto the skirts and up the shoulders too.

The dress was hanging on the dressing partitions on the other side of the room, but you could see the tiny blossoms trailing down the bodice and gather at the waist like vines in bloom. It was a gown meant to be worn under the soft lantern light in the gazebos at home, surrounded by wine and song. Not politics—it was something that was supposed to be a whispering reminder of the sweet, heady promise of spring.

It was all idyllic thought, but it was enough to detach from reality for a while, just staring at the dress and all its intricacies while Meredyth scrubbed at your body and scalp. She let you stay in the water longer than usual, sensing your reluctance to emerge. But when she did eventually help you out, wrapping you in soft linens and patting your skin dry with care, it wasn’t with impatience. It was with the understanding of someone who knew you needed a gentler hand.

Preparations continued like this into the late afternoon.

Eventually, your hair dried with the freshly lit fire, and was brushed, and styled away from your face for the evening. While you often preferred to have your hair loose and down, tonight called for it to be gathered in an updo at the base of your skull. All while Meredyth took delight in sliding floral pins and little pearls into your hair like it had been kissed by morning dew.

Personally, the best part was your skin being scented and powdered lightly; giving you the chance to try the violet and woody oils that you had been gifted on your last name day, their pepperiness and subtle sweetness causing an aura around you like a comfort blanket. Getting ready truly was a ritual for you, as your underlayers too were eventually fitted and smoothed.

And through it all, Meredyth remained your quiet constant, guiding you through each step with the same calm certainty she always had. Tonight, would not be easy, but with her hands steadying you, with her voice anchoring you, the night didn’t feel impossible. Not yet.

She moved with quiet purpose, smoothing out your gown, selecting jewellery, smoothing silks with practised efficiency. She worked like someone who knew who you were even when you didn’t, who remembered what you looked like before the Aemond Targaryen had stolen the colour from your cheeks.

You had declined the offer of assistance from the palace staff—just for today. The Keep’s servants were probably skilled, yes, but they were also strangers with too many eyes and too few loyalties. In this place, every small gesture could be noted, every weakness catalogued. You couldn’t afford to be a novelty or a cautionary tale whispered about in corridors.

Not today.

Today, you needed Meredyth, you needed her presence like breath—quiet but essential. She moved through the room with that same silent command she always had, the air bending subtly to accommodate her certainty while you stood in the centre of it all, truly a stranger in a strange place.

Her motions were purposeful, almost reverent, as she laid out the final items for your attire. Jewellery gleamed softly from your box, the dress checked for any loose threads, slippers positioned just so by the edge of the hearth to put on later.

She adjusted your posture with a nudge to your shoulders, smoothed the fabric gathered at your shoulders without a word, and checked your reflection like it held the truth of your readiness. And perhaps, in a way, it did.

Because somewhere between the soft pull of pins, the scent of violet oil clinging to your wrists, and the quiet murmur of her voice reminding you to keep your chin lifted while she added a small pearl necklace, you began to believe you could do this.

She didn’t ask if you were alright, Meredyth never had, she never needed to. She knew better than to prod at wounds not yet closed. Instead, she gave you tasks to accommodate your busy mind, small ones; lift your arms, hold still, turn, breathe.

It had always been this way, even when you were a child. You were clever, always curious and hungry for knowledge but your nerves were another thing entirely. They were sharp, unpredictable, and often paralysing. Saying no was something you’d never mastered.

Standing your ground felt like walking into the sea without being able to swim. That was part of why home had always felt like a sanctuary: there was no one to challenge, no arguments to endure. Your father, though distracted by matters beyond you, had let you move through life as you pleased. Your sisters had grown and left, leaving you the home mostly to yourself to adventure and imagine as you wanted to.

Sadly, it was only when he took you along on his journeys—through the Reach, for trade, for introductions, for marriage prospects—that the ground began to shift beneath your feet and you felt the weight of those feelings. Even the most familiar towns felt foreign when you arrived as someone to be presented, discussed, considered. You never quite found your footing right away, and more often than not, it took days before you felt like yourself again, if you ever did at all.

Each of Meredyth’s subtle commands returned you to your body, to this moment, to the rhythm of preparation that felt more sacred than ceremonial. And still, she said nothing of the morning. Nothing of the Queen, or the eyes that had followed you through the court like you were prey. Nothing of the prince who’d looked at you with ice in his gaze and no sign of what he was thinking.

Instead, she focused on now, on what she could control.

At one point, she stepped behind you and gently rested her hands on your shoulders, just for a beat. Her thumbs pressed into the knots beneath your collarbones, grounding you, pulling you back from slouching in on yourself.

“You’re holding your breath again,” She murmured, her voice low, calm as she looked you over.

You hadn’t even realised that your breath was trapped.

“Breathe.” She soothed you softly, much like you would a child.

So, you did, slow and unsteady. But you did.

“Sorry.” You murmured softly, voice barely a breath as you smoothed your sweaty palms down your pretty dress.

“Don’t be, just breathe.” She hummed back, circling you and adjusting the smallest of details, “Your father will be here soon to walk you down.”

Meredyth gave you a quiet nod of approval in the mirror, then turned her attention back to the final details. You had refused the help of the palace servants earlier without apology, and you didn’t regret it. Meredyth was the only person in this place you trusted to see you vulnerable. The only one who knew how to hold the fragile pieces of you without pressing too hard.

The Keep’s attendants would have been polite, and efficient—perfect in the way court demanded. But there would have been glances. Questions unspoken but heavy in the air. Whispers waiting to bloom into rumours. You could not afford that, not tonight. Not while everything was still so newly set in motion.

So, Meredyth stayed, and in her staying, you stayed whole for a few moments longer.

A silence settled between you again, but it wasn’t empty. It was filled with the hush of firelight, the distant sound of bells chiming the hour, and the soft rustle of your skirts as you stood, hands clenched lightly at your sides.

She stepped back, eyes scanning you one last time. There was no flourish, no grand declaration—just the quiet finality of readiness as she nodded at you.

A knock sounded at the door, sharp and composed, your father was here to escort you down the stairs.

The hour had come.

Your father wasn’t the most talkative man, but when he arrived at your chamber door, dressed in deep blue velvet and smelling faintly of wine and cedarwood, he took one long look at you and offered a quiet, honest, “You look lovely.”

No elaborate praise, no flowery embellishments for his youngest daughter. Just those three words, steady and warm, the way only a father could say them. And strangely, at that moment, they meant more than all the silken compliments you’d endured from lords and courtiers over the years combined.

Regardless of the turmoil inside you, you still offered him a soft smile, not forced for once and slipped your arm through his so that the two of you could be on your way. While you weren’t the closest as you got older, your father was still a presence that grounded you.

Though he had spent much of the day apart from you, locked behind council doors with the Queen and the Hand of the King, presumably going over dowries, titles, and the tedious logistics of your future, he seemed noticeably lighter than he had that morning. There was a glimmer in his eye that wasn’t there when you got off the boat, it was the kind you hadn’t seen in some time.

He was pleased with everything you guessed, in his head already convinced that this arrangement would secure something better for you.

It was strange, then, how the sight of his joy only made your chest feel heavier.

Nothing felt as heavy as the corridors of the Red Keep though.

They were vast and echoing, their walls tall; lined with tapestries of the Seven and heavy with history that you were sure you’d come to understand in time. Every inch of carved stone and stained glass that lined the halls reminded that this was the dragon’s domain now. It was all topped off with torchlight casting flickers of gold across ancient murals of dragons and kings long dead.

There was no need for words as the two of you walked in silence, both of your footsteps softened by the rich carpets laid down for the evening most likely to protect the floor from the guests. The scent of roasted meats drifting faintly toward you from the direction of the throne room. Music, too—soft strings and lilting pipes—floated like smoke through the air, growing louder with every step.

You were glad that hadn’t spoken to Aemond since the introductions at the dock, and that by some hope he hadn’t been convinced to walk you down to the feast. He had looked at you, no through you, once today—with that cold, pale eye of his, and you didn’t feel the need to immediately dampen the evening again by seeing him so soon.

It was cruel, but the idea of his presence had felt like needles in your skin, you had never encountered such indifference before. And not just this indifference—this quiet cruelty that didn’t manifest in direct words or gestures, but in the complete lack of them.

As if you were not worth even the effort of his disdain.

You’d spent most of the afternoon trying to tell yourself it didn’t matter, that many noble marriages were made of worse things than silence. That, Aemond Targaryen, for all his coldness, was still a prince—one who could ensure security for your house, if not happiness for yourself. But it hadn’t helped. Not when the memory of his blank stare returned to you again and again in your thoughts, uninvited.

Your father’s voice broke the quiet between you as the throne room doors came into view.

“There is no need to be nervous,” he said, though his tone was more a suggestion than a reassurance, like he couldn’t feel you gripping his arm. “You’ve spent your whole life preparing for nights like this.”

You didn’t correct him. Because while yes, you had been prepared to deal with people, those people didn’t include everyone in the Red Keep. That the people you’d prepared for were closer to a smaller house, or even domain. You couldn’t tell him that nights like this, where all the eyes in the realm would fall upon you, where you’d be dressed up like a doll and offered like a prize, were the nights that were your worst nightmare.

No, you simply nodded, your fingers tightening again on his arm.

He glanced down at you as you walked. “You’ve always known how to carry yourself with grace, it’ll serve you well.”

You gave a faint hum of agreement, your eyes glued on the towering doors now just a few feet ahead. They were carved from heavy oak, gilded with the image of a three-headed dragon coiled around itself. Two guards stood to attention before them, silent and still, save for the gleam of their polished breastplates and the same symbol as the door, ready to defend their king and crown.

Behind the doors, you could hear that the feast was already well underway. The door did little to muffle the laughter now, raised voices, goblets clinking, the low pulse of a drum weaving itself beneath the higher notes of the music.

The sound of celebration, of duty, disguised as joy.

The moment the great oak doors opened, a wave of heat and candlelight surged toward you. The throne room had been utterly transformed, tapestries in rich hues of green and gold billowed faintly in the warm air, while a thousand candles flickered in their sconces, reflecting in the glasses on tables like scattered stars. Tables ran the length of the hall, heavy with silver platters of roasted fowl, smoked meats wafting in the air, fruits glistening with honey glaze, and decanters of Arbor wine shimmered beneath the chandeliers.

A gift from your family to theirs.

The music swelled as you stepped inside, a quartet of musicians strummed lively but elegant notes from the raised platform by the far wall, and all around them nobles and highborn ladies laughed, whispered, clinked goblets, and feasted as though they weren’t aware you were ready to perish inside.

And yet, as you entered, they quieted down—not complete silence, but a noticeable softening of the room as heads turned and eyes fixed on the court's newest meals. You felt them settle on you like the sky when it begins to rain: quiet, cold, and inescapable.

It was as if you could feel their thoughts the further you walked into the feast. Sensing their speculation, judgement, curiosity, and beneath it all, the smugness that reeked from those who’d long since accepted how the game was played. A young lady from the Reach, dressed like a springtime bride, walking to the table of dragons. Another lamb sent into the dragon’s maw, only this.

While your eyes kept forward, towards the queen who sat at an emptier head table than you’d imagined, you could feel the urge clawing at you to look around. A part of you wanted to search for him. For some pathetic sign that he might be there waiting with a happier face at his new betrothed. That he might have changed his mind about you, that the man who had offered you such coldness that morning might reappear tonight with the polished mask of courtly manners.

Even if it was a lie, even if it was only for show.

Your father gave your hand the smallest squeeze, “Smile, if you can.”

And with your chin lifted, your steps even, and your heart steadily sinking into your stomach, you walked forward closer to the royal table.

Dozens of eyes followed you across the floor, some curious, some appraising, and a few too familiar for comfort. You recognised them instantly from the corners of your eyes—the faces of the Reach. Lords and ladies you’d grown up seeing at harvest feasts, who had eaten at your family’s tables, whispered in corners with their heads together. You could sense their attention as clearly as if they had spoken aloud.

You wondered what they saw in you now. A future princess? A girl sold off? A lamb walking herself to the butcher’s table? You gave them nothing of yourself in return.

Just a steady gaze and carefully measured steps.

As you and your father neared the raised dais at the far end of the hall, Queen Alicent stood. Her expression, though warm and perfectly composed, held a gravity beneath the surface—not unkind, but certainly guarded. She descended the steps as you approached, robes of deep green velvet trailing behind her, her seven-pointed star catching the firelight at her throat.

“Lady Redwyne,” she said, with a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, not like this morning. “Thank you for honouring us with your presence this evening.”

You curtsied low again, more eyes were watching than at the docks. “The honour is mine, Your Grace. I’m grateful to be welcomed so graciously.”

She extended her hands toward yours. The gesture was gentle, even maternal, though her touch was cool. It reminded you that her grace was not kindness while she squeezed your own clammy hands—it was composure, finely sharpened over decades in the keep.

“This dress is stunning, the colour matches you well,” she said, voice smooth and practised as her eyes looked over you. “I trust your rooms are comfortable? Did you settle in okay?”

You nodded with polite assurance. “Very much so. King’s Landing is… magnificent.” You lied.

Alicent studied you for a moment, her eyes dark and steady. Then, with a softer tone, she added, “We are pleased to have you, I can only apologise that King Viserys could not be here this evening, I believe he wasn’t feeling the best.”

“It is okay, Your Grace, I understand that the King needs his rest.” That seemed to please her.

A subtle smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She offered a final, approving nod before turning towards a table just next to the dais, where you were to be seated for the evening. The music swelled again around you, chatter resumed, and you felt the full weight of the room return.

And still, the chairs beside the Queen’s remained conspicuously empty.

No silver-blond hair. No cold gaze. No dragon’s son to greet his bride.

Even among the candlelight and laughter, something cold nestled at the centre of your chest.

He wasn’t here.

Eventually, you were led to your table just below the royal dais, your father’s arm resting lightly atop your own as you descended the final steps. It took a conscious effort not to falter beneath the weight of so many eyes, you could feel them, quiet and observant, sweeping across you like fresh meat. Nobles from all corners of the realm lined the vast room, arranged in neat rows of long tables dressed in golden runners, goblets of wine already in their hands.

Your place had been set beside your father, toward the front, close enough to feel the subtle heat that emanated from the dais above, where the Queen and her children would sit. Aemond was absent, and unsurprisingly so was his brother.

Still, your eyes were drawn to the table.

From beside the Queen, you caught sight of another pale head bowed low, her fingers laced delicately in her lap, like she was fidgeting with something. The light caught in the strands of her hair, white-gold and softly curled, unmistakably Targaryen.

"Helaena." The name passed through your thoughts like a whisper.

You hadn’t met her yet, you had only heard vaguely of her from your maids back home, but there was no mistaking her from this angle. She sat quiet, withdrawn, her chin tucked so low it nearly touched her collarbone, and you doubted she’d looked up once since your arrival.

It couldn’t be Rhaenyra. You knew that. She was leagues away at Dragonstone, surrounded by her own children and her own dragons. No, the silver-blonde head near the Queen could only belong to her.

A sliver of unease wound its way through your spine as you studied her. There was something delicate about the way she sat, as if she wasnt really there to. But it was fleeting as you looked away quickly, not wanting to be caught staring.

Instead you drew in a slow breath where you sat, the cool wood of the bench grounding you more than anything else had all day. Your father was already reaching for the silver pitcher of wine, pouring himself a modest amount before glancing your way. His expression was still reserved but there was a lightness in the corners of his mouth, a crinkle beside one eye that spoke of quiet satisfaction.

He was happy with you.

“You carried yourself well,” he murmured, voice pitched low for your ears only. “You’ll fit in just fine here.”

You wanted to tell him then and there, that no, you would not fit in just fine. You were sure that you would probably throw yourself from Maegor’s holdfast within a month.

But instead, you offered him a faint smile in return and a soft. “Thank you, Father.”

He nodded, then turned his attention toward his cup and the people around him, apparently content to leave you to your own devices for now. If you had to guess, the number of people from the Reach that was here was your father's doing, the familiar colours around the room and the odd familiar face more likely something he was conjuring up with the hand.

So, you sat with hands folded politely in your lap as you allowed your gaze to roam across the grand, candlelit space around you.

It was beautiful, not just in the way that royal courts were always beautiful, but it was beautiful in a way that was so distinctly Targaryen. Overhead, great iron chandeliers faced with dragons dripped with wax and light, casting a golden warmth over everything they touched. Musicians played from an alcove beside the sword throne; drums, soft harps and strings weaving a melody that danced just beneath the murmur of voices. Servants glided between tables with silver trays like mice. All bearing foods they've never get to touch; dishes of roasted quail, carved venison, and piles of sugared figs. The air smelled of food, spice and smoke, of baked honey and wine.

Nobles from every house you could name sat together in varying degrees of comfort and formality. You saw girls with glass beads woven through their hair, and Lannister men in embroidered tunics worth more than some smallfolk would earn in a lifetime. Some spoke quietly, heads tilted together in earnest gossip as they flickered around the room; others laughed, bold and booming, unconcerned with the impression they made.

You recognised a few faces. Not names, not titles, but glimpses of familiarity. Ladies you’d once seen at feasts in the Reach, knights who had competed in tournaments where you’d been kept from watching the brutality, too young to truly understand the stakes. For a moment, it almost felt like home. Almost.

But the warmth didn’t quite reach your chest.

You took up your goblet, sipping carefully, if only to give your hands something to do. The wine was sweet and sharp on your tongue, tinged with peaches and citruses. It was definitely your familes making, you noted as you looked again at the dance floor. A few couples had risen already, taking hesitant steps to the music. A trio of children in courtly dress darted between the adults with giggles, narrowly avoiding the skirts of a well-fed lord who barked laughter after them.

You allowed yourself a moment to simply watch.

Then, just beyond the nearest column, your eyes caught a glimpse of movement—and you felt paused.

There was something oddly familiar in the shape of the man who stepped into view, his head turned slightly as he spoke to a companion. He was average height, lean rather than broad, with tousled flaxen hair. A green tunic, the fabric rich but well-worn, but clasped at the front was the silver pin of House Fossoway.

An apple, rendered in red enamel.

Your eyebrows raised as your chest gave a small, surprised jolt of recognition.

Ashton Fossoway.

You hadn’t seen him in years, it felt like. But you remembered him from a visit to the Reach sum years ago when your father was still looking for potential matches closer to home. You hadn't spoken in some time, not since the last time you had accompanied your father to Cider Hall.

You didn’t like to think about that particular trip.

You could still feel the burn of something foul in your chest as the memories of the last time you met came back. There had been an edge to your last conversation, a moment where civility thinned into something uncomfortable and something less kind had bled through in him. He wasnt the quiet little lordling you met at first, and even to this day you weren’t even sure if he’d meant to offend you. Perhaps that was the most irritating part.

You watched now as he took a sip from his goblet, glancing sideways at something his companion said with a smirk. He looked older, of course, hardened slightly over the years. The boyishness had faded from his features, replaced with the leaner edges of adulthood, but there was no doubt that it was him.

He had definitely seen you walk in, there was no way he couldn’t, but still, you didn’t wave or try to draw his attention. Didn’t nod either, you turned your face away just slightly and refocused on your empty plate, heart thudding with a quiet heat you hadn’t invited.

So many faces in this room—and of all of them, it was his that made your pulse spike to something uncomfortable. You were frozen in time as your father leaned toward you once more.

“I’ll take the opportunity to speak with Lord Beesbury,” he said in a low tone. “Perhaps Lord Merryweather, too, if he’s drunk enough to say something useful.” That small, rare flicker of humour passed across his face again, and then he gave your hand a brief, approving squeeze before rising and disappearing into the crowd.

You watched him go, a quiet sigh leaving your lips as you blindly reached for some food to put on your plate. You wouldnt eat it, but you could exactly sit and look like you were refusing the Targaryen's hospitality. The seat beside you felt impossibly empty—a hollow gap in the warm hum of the room.

All around, people were laughing, eating, passing platters between them, slipping into old conversations. All while you sat quietly at your place, hand tightening on the silver fork like a weapon you could brandish to stab away these feelings.

You could feel the room pressing in. Not overtly, no one was looking at you directly now, but the weight of your place here, of what your presence meant, lingered on your shoulders like two hands pressing down. Aemond hadn’t even made an appearance yet, if he ever would, and still, you were on edge like you were being hunted for sport.

Laughably you were, while no one was overtly looking at you, there were people at the table near sneaking glances, or looking from the corners of their eyes.

It was already exhausting.

You let your eyes drift again, though you already knew what they would find. Ashton was still across the hall, holding court in his own quiet way, not the centre of attention, not exactly, but comfortably near it. He had a knack for positioning himself just so. Just close enough to matter, just far enough not to be noticed when he wanted. You wondered if he was still that boy who could charm a septa into breaking fast rules and talk his way out of a minor scandal with nothing more than a crooked smile and a convenient memory.

You had hoped he wouldn’t care to talk to you.

Which, of course, meant he did because at this point there might as well have been a fool screaming “LOOK AT SHE” beside you.

You caught the moment it happened. He’d been turning slightly, saying something to a seated knight beside him when his eyes flicked past the crowd and landed directly on yours. Not by accident. Not a passing sweep. His expression didn’t change, not right away, but the pause in his movement. It was that subtle stillness, told you everything. He had recognised you and he wasn’t going to pretend otherwise.

You looked away, instinctively, but it was too late.

You saw him move from the corner of your eye—a step back from his group, a quick word of parting, and then he was crossing the floor. Not with urgency, not boldly, but casually. Almost lazily, like this was nothing at all.

You braced yourself, fingers curling lightly around the stem of your fork again as he approached your table, it was instinctive. He didn’t make you feel comfortable anymore.

“Lady Redwyne,” Ashton greeted, stopping a careful respectable distance away, one hand resting loosely against his belt. “My, it’s been some time.” His voice hadn’t changed either, smooth and neutral.

He was always too polite to be unfriendly, but also too light to be sincere.

You tilted your head slightly, meeting his eyes as you carefully put down your fork. They were a shade or two darker than you remembered, but still bright with that unreadable glint—a flicker of amusement? Curiosity? Calculation?

“Ser Fossoway,” You replied with a small nod, standing with a slight head nod; as much as he unnerved you it was still rude to have a conversation with someone sitting. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

He smiled faintly, almost imperceptibly and shrugged. “You and me both, my father was keen to curry favour.” He glanced toward the dais, then back at you. “I drew the short straw and had to attend this time.”

You let a breath escape through your nose, not quite a laugh.

The air between you remained taut like a string tied too tight, stretched thin with unspoken words between the two of you. There was a circumstance never acknowledged, and memories best left buried, but it clung to you more than him, anxiety gripping at your throat just at the mere sight of him.

It clung to you like humidity before a storm rolled in, tension thick and hard to breathe through. He seemed aware of it, though whether it bothered him was harder to tell. Ashton wore discomfort well, wrapped it in arrogance and smiled through it, as if any unease was something to be thrown back at the other person like a challenge. He was the type to lean into silence, just to see if you’d flinch.

“And you?” he asked, after a brief pause. “From what I hear, this isn’t a social visit.”

No, it was far from that, but still, you kept your tone steady hands holding your wine goblet. “No. It’s not.”

He gave a thoughtful hum as if that answered more than you’d said. “Didn’t think so. Though I’ll admit… I hadn’t expected to see you walk in beside your father tonight.” A brief pause. “I wasn’t sure if you still travelled with him.”

There was something in his voice, it was not quite an accusation but it wasn’t of concern either. Just the faint suggestion that he remembered more than he let on, or at least he was leaning into something you didn’t want to get into, not with him at least, not now.

You looked at him properly then, letting the silence hang just long enough to feel deliberate.

“A lot can change in a few years,” you said simply, lips pulling in what could be a smile from afar, your hand briefly lifting the wine to take a nervous sip.

There was a flicker again in his eyes, and in the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t disagree.

 “And now here you are, sitting at the front like a prized swan.” He gestured loosely to the hall around you, where dancers were beginning to gather again. “So, which one of them won the honour, then? Who’s your lucky groom-to-be? Daeron?”

You hesitated for only a moment, just long enough to weigh whether telling him was worth the trouble. But then, what was the point in dancing around it? Word would spread by morning if it hadn’t already.

You met his gaze with a subtle nod, jaw flexing ever so softly like it was a drag to even let out his name, like it would summon him, “Prince Aemond.”

For a heartbeat, Ashton didn’t react. Then, a half-laugh escaped him with a tipped-back head like it was so much funnier than it was. Your skin crawling with the low, incredulous sound that was entirely unsuited to polite company, especially so close to his family.

“Aemond Targaryen?” he said, leaning back slightly as if the very idea tasted bitter on his tongue. “Seven save us, I thought you were marrying into royalty, not into a sermon.”

The sneer in his tone was unmistakable, it wasn’t just mocking, but biting. Something laced with the kind of disdain that sought to wound more than amuse. His mouth curled like he’d bitten into something rotten, as though even saying the prince’s name aloud offended his sensibilities.

“Tell me,” He went on, lifting his brows in mock curiosity, “Will your wedding vows come with a lecture? Or does he just glare at you in High Valyrian until you submit to bed him?”

Your expression didn’t change, though your stomach curled tightly beneath your ribs, the invisible fist of shame or anger tightening with each word.

He was being cruel.

He stared at you for a moment, then shook his head like he was willing something away, grin spreading cruelly over his face like oil on water. “Gods, you’re joking either.”

His voice dropped lower, certainly not veiled, not subtle. “They’re marrying you off to the one-eyed freak? That stiff phantom who skulks around the court like a bad omen? Seven hells, I thought maybe they’d give you to someone real, something warm.”

You swallowed, keeping your hands tightening around the goblet as you politely smiled, eyes flickering around in case anyone heard, like he wasn’t talking about a crown prince so close to the dais.

He leaned in closer, making it look as if he confiding something with me. “You do know what they say about him, don’t you?”

“Ashton—” you began, but he cut over you.

“No, truly, I’m curious.” His eyes sparkled with the cruelty that someone would have while butchering a small animal. “Did you draw the short straw, or did your father throw you to him like a bone to a dog just to win a favour with the Targaryen’s?" He laughed.

“Is it duty? Penance? Some sort of punishment you weren’t told about?” He continued, still leaning into your space while you tried to keep your face as neutral as possible

Your jaw tightened before you could stop it, not in defiance, but in the quiet, instinctive way your body reacted when your words failed you, the way that made you feel like the smallest person alive. He saw it, of course he did, the flicker of satisfaction that lit his face told you that was all he needed. He fed on it like the smallest crack in your composure might sustain him for weeks.

You wanted to say something, anything, to push back to defend yourself but you stood there with your throat constricted. Your voice caught behind the wall of politeness and fear you’d never be able to climb over. Your silence wasn’t strength, it was a cage you locked yourself in and hadn’t yet figured out how to open.

“By the Mother,” he muttered, more to himself now. “I almost feel sorry for you.”

Almost.

He took a slow step closer, voice lowering. “Tell me, are you excited? Or are you hoping he somehow loses that other eye too, so you’ll never have to look at him properly?”

"Maybe you'll take it, finish what his nephew started." He grinned.

You forced your expression to stay calm, your voice low, hands relying on you goblet to stop them from shaking. “You’ve said enough, you’re being cruel for what reason? You do not know him.”

“I haven’t said half of it,” He shot back, too quick, too pleased with himself. “But don’t worry, I’ll save the rest for now, wouldn’t want to spoil the festivities.”

You didn’t bother replying to that, content with looking at the crowd until he left.

Suddenly, Ashton turned making a small, theatrical bow and extending his hand out to you with a glint in his eyes. “Come,” he said, loud enough that the people at the nearest tables glanced over. “It’s a feast, isn’t it? Dance with me, at least someone will be able to look at you with two eyes.”

“I’d rather not,” you said softly, eyes flitting across the room, looking for an out, a distraction, anything, your voice barely carrying over the crowd. “Really.”

But still, Ashton kept his hand out, the gesture unwavering with a smile too wide and too pleasant, like it had been nailed into place. “Ah, but you must,” he said, faux-gently, as if coaxing a child. “What kind of noblewoman sits sulking in the corner while the rest of us enjoy the night?”

You stared at him, your lips pressed into a fine unmoving line, the pulse at your throat fluttering faster, but your expression didn’t shift.

Then he leaned in again, just enough for his voice to slither into your ear like a whisper wrapped in thorns. “Unless you want to seem cold in front of everyone before your prince even arrives,” he murmured, breath warm against your cheek. “Or… are you already practising what marriage to him will be like?”

The insult landed harder than the last, not just because it was cruel, everything he said was. But because it was manipulative, and it came at just the right volume, not loud enough to draw true attention and nor quiet enough for you to ignore.

You didn’t answer his ask, frankly, you didn’t need to, the damage had already been done.

People on the frays around you were still watching the two of you, not many, but enough. Enough to murmur if you refused, and enough for it to mean something, like a match dropping into a pile of paper.

And Ashton, of course, knew it, hence why he asked in the first place.

So, placing your goblet down, you took his hand.

Your fingers curling into his palm, light and reluctant, like you were touching a snake you didn’t trust not to bite you. While he grinned, ever triumphant, and pulled you gently but firmly towards the centre of the floor, where the music was rising into a new tempo and more couples were stepping forward.

“You always were good at pretending,” he murmured as the music swelled. “Let’s see how long you can keep it up.”

You didn’t reply.

The longer Aemond lingered up here on the balcony that overlooked the throne room, the more inevitable it became that his mother would eventually send Ser Criston looking for him. She always did when he vanished too long, especially during events like this where his presence was mandatory. After their talk earlier, he knew he was walking a thin line, and was expected to perform the part of the prince, but he found himself caring little.

The notion of going down there and sitting with the rest of them stirred no urgency in him, only a faint, familiar ache of defiance that he was clinging to.

His fingers flexed around the cold stone railing out of habit, tightening as he leaned forward. His one eye cast down to the feast below. It was a sightly affair, that much was true, some wholesome golden thing that looked almost unreal from his perch above it, watching the affair like the Stranger.

His mother truly had spared no expense for the Redwyne’s arrival. The long tables were heavy with silver platters of food and treats, gilded goblets on every surface, the centrepieces lush with grapes brought in most likely with the Redwyne’s. Topped off with rich pomegranates and early spring flowers. Musicians played from near the corner tucked by the throne, and laughter drifted upward him in intermittent bursts, carried by the fragrant waft of roast meats and wine.

It looked like a truly joyus affair, but Aemond just stared, unmoving, reminded that feasts were never his thing.

It was all so perfectly constructed and so carefully staged by his mother and grandsire. A performance, like every other thing in his life and it didn’t matter that he wasn’t down there, seated at her side or standing tall for the court to see. As long as the spectacle unfolded as planned, Aemond himself was just another figure to be slotted into place.

His grip on the stone tightened again, knuckles paling as his worn hands gritted against the stone. From up here, it was easy to forget he was part of the farce, that somewhere in the crowd below, his bride-to-be sat beneath the glow of candelabras and courtly stares. It was easier to imagine himself a ghost haunting the rafters, unseen and untouched, than a man meant to walk down those steps and claim a life he did not ask for.

Aemond had little interest in partaking in the festivities, he wished for some peace to himself before they only got more extravagant as the wedding neared, and his contribution would be forced. But for now, he could only stand in wait.

Waiting for what, he was not sure, but Aemond’s eye scanned every inch of the floor in assessment. Anyway to kill the time he so dearly longed for.

He wasnt looking, but he did spot you like a beacon of soft pink and nervousness. The demise of his peace was stood off to the side, deep in conversation with someone he completely didn’t recognise. From his place on the balcony, it was hard to completely make out this man’s features without being face-on. But from what he could see, the man you were with was of average height, slimmer but still built enough to swing a smaller sword, perhaps a knight? Or one of the many minor lords littering the court in hopes of favour?

Aemond truthfully had little interest in what you were doing down there with the crowd of feast-goers or with that man, you could puff into smoke for all he cared. His mind truly was at ease where he was, that was until his eye narrowed on the way you stood with the man. It was not indecently close, no, still within the bounds of propriety and your standing. But it was near enough for Aemond to notice something between you, the subtle lean of the man's posture, the faint curve of his comfort in your stance as he stayed close.

There was a familiarity there from the man, unspoken, but there.

You smiled at whatever was said—light, polite—as you lifted your cup to your lips, a gesture that, to Aemond could tell was tinged with nervousness and something else. It was hard to tell from so high up but there was a look on your face that spoke volumes. And it only deepened as the man leaned in to whisper something, something clearly meant for your ears alone—something Aemond couldn’t make out from where he stood on the balcony.

It was only a brief few seconds of chatter but the look you gave was enough to have his fingers tightening on the railing instinctively.

You were uncomfortable.

It was clear on your face, and even clearer when the man held out his hand to dance, all flourish and grin, and you hesitated. Aemond saw it, the fraction of a second where your body held still like your instincts had gripped your ankles to the floor, and your eyes scanned around you like you were looking to flee. But after a second, something passed over your face and your hand rose, slowly, and you let him lead you toward the dance floor.

Whatever was going on between the two of you, clearly wasnt in your favour and he watched you endure it with the same kind of grace he’d recognised over the years in the keep. The kind bred into girls at court, taught to smile through discomfort, to bow their heads instead of raise their voices. You didn’t pull away, but neither did you lean in to it. You didn’t retreat, but you didn’t respond in kind.

The scene below unfolded in vivid detail, the man took your hand and placed his other lightly at your waist as he started to guide you in a more upbeat dance. Unexpectedly, you were composed with your eyes locked on some vague middle distance and never on him. It was a curious thing but you danced like someone trying not to be seen, while he moved with casual confidence, wanting to be looked at, speaking all the while to you. Intimately and too low for anyone but you to hear.

But too loud for Aemond’s liking.

Whoever that man was, whatever title or sigil he bore, his interest in you was laid bare for all to see. It was not subtle and certainly not harmless. Aemond could see it in the way the man looked at you like he was drinking in every inch of your presence, not just admiring, but consuming. Feasting on you with his eyes as though you were something delicate and sweet set out just for him, ripe fruit for the taking.

There was no mistaking it, not in the way the fool smiled too easily, leaned in too close, nor in the way he dared to touch you under the veil of dance, fingers grazing your hand with too much ease. It was the look of someone who wanted, who believed he had the right to want, who didn’t care if others noticed.

And Aemond noticed, even from this high up.

Whether you realised it, that was another matter.

You didn’t lean into his attention, didn’t glow under it the way some ladies in your situation might. No, your movements were tight, graceful as expected, but still nervous and a tad awkward if someone was looking hard enough. There was tension in your shoulders, in the way your jaw set when the man spoke. You smiled, but Aemond saw it for what it was, something brittle, the kind worn by women at court who had been raised to endure.

He watched your smile flicker with each step, watched you nod along to whatever insipid thing the man was saying, even as your eyes betrayed you. Uncertain, darting, never still for long. You weren’t enjoying it, that much was clear.

Aemond was no fool, he knew what it was like to be pulled by the tide of expectation, to dance when you’d rather flee, to play at pleasantries with those who made your skin crawl.

You weren’t refusing because you couldn’t.

Because your refusal would be seen, remarked upon, something for the vultures to feed on. It would be just another whispered thing tied to your name.

Aemond didn’t know your full history with the man and frankly, he didn’t care to. You were his betrothed and that was the extent of it. You were a match signed and sealed by his mother, king, and council. Another step in the tower of alliances and politics. There was no disillusionment, not after this morning and the fuss he’d kicked up, Aemond did not want you, he barely knew you.

However, your name would soon be chained to his in the mouths of lords and ladies across the realm, and frankly, he didn’t care to have a wife who would so openly dance with other men, or even have one speak to her as such. Even if it wasnt your choice.

As soon as you stepped off that fucking boat, your reputation was married to his.

He could stay where he was, and let the snakes pick you apart, but it would be far too easy for gossip to fester so early. A woman seen dancing too closely, too warmly, with a man not her intended, and before the betrothal had even been finalised? The court would feast on the scandal like dogs on meat. They wouldn’t care that you hadn’t chosen it, he knew they never did.

And then his name would be dragged into the mire alongside yours.

Aemond Targaryen, forcibly cucked and made to watch his wife fuck a reachman right under his nose, or whatever notion they’d spread around.

No, he would not let that happen.

Not because he harboured any romantic delusions about you. He didn’t. He barely thought of you beyond the obligations you represented. But as a woman soon to be his wife, whether he liked it or not, you were a reflection of him. And he would not be made to look a fool before the court while some foppish lord with wandering hands played puppetmaster on the dancefloor.

His grip tightened again on the stone balcony railing as a huff of annoyance breathed through his nose. Many ideas rolled around his head of what to do, he could have his sister intervene and ask to talk to you, or perhaps have some scene made, but the likelihood of anything happening was slim.

Annoyingly there was only one thing, he could do.

So, with one final glance down, he stepped away from the edge.

There was no rush in his stride as he descended the stairs leading down to the great hall. No urgency. No fury. He moved with the quiet certainty of a man who never questioned the rightness of his own decisions.

He would cut in. Not because you needed saving—whether you did or not was irrelevant—but because this farce had gone on long enough.

The Reachling had made his move.

Aemond’s descent into the hall was slow and methodical, rushing towards anything was beneath him, and he wouldn’t be seen scurrying towards some pretty welp of a girl. The music swelled as the musicians shifted into a new rhythm, something with a softer edge, a song made for gliding steps and brief touches, something couples would usually dance to. He took the stairs one at a time back down to the throne room, his hands folded neatly behind his back, and though the hall was bustling with the energy of the feast, it felt to him almost quiet.

As he closed the distance, he could see the discomfort in her smile clearer and clearer. It was small, so small most wouldn’t notice, but Aemond had been trained to read tension and he still saw it in the way her shoulders didn’t rise with laughter. In the way her hand looked limp in his hold, almost indifferent.

She was performing, dancing not out of joy, but out of expectation. The man she danced with, that flaxen-haired, smirking creature who looked far too pleased with himself. He held her not with reverence or courtesy, but with something else. Something indulgent. Like he was playing a private joke.

And the court was watching. Aemond felt their eyes like embers as he stepped fully into view. He was not a man who was made for feast halls. He preferred libraries, candlelit chambers, and rooms where things were quiet enough to think.

But tonight, he was reminded of the use of spectacle, of what it meant to be seen.

He crossed the floor without hurry, and as expected dancers moved around him, skirts and sleeves brushing him, heads turning as he passed, they were just as shocked as he was to even me out in the middle of the dancefloor. He heard his name in the hush, spoken in soft surprise, and watched as nobles craned their necks to see where he was going, and who he was going to.

Aemond didn’t spare them a glance.

His attention was on her, the girl in soft pink silk moving through the steps with her partner like a ghost in her own body. She was trying not to flinch when the man leaned in too close again and said something low in her ear, too low for anyone else to hear, but Aemond saw it.

Saw the small, stiff line of her jaw, the strain in her eyes.

He arrived just as the music shifted again, a convenient moment, one that made his interruption seem, at least to the casual eye, almost natural.

He stepped directly into the space next to them.

The man startled, not dramatically, but enough to falter for a heartbeat, caught off guard by the sudden presence of the Prince between himself and his dance partner. Aemond didn’t care enough to give him time to recover or even look at him. He merely extended a single hand, palm open and steady, expectantly wordlessly cutting in.

There was a moment of uncertainty, the kind that clung like damp wool, he knew he could not be denied.

“My prince—” the man began, his tone laced with false charm, the kind of arrogance only second sons and minor lords carried with such ease.

“I believe I’ll have this next,” Aemond said calmly, not loud, but sharp enough to slice through the music. His eye, cold and pale, didn’t blink. Didn’t move. He looked directly at the man, unflinching, and held his hand out without wavering.

The man hesitated, a falter in his step that told Aemond that he wasn’t as confident as he seemed. Perhaps the fool was weighing his station, his pride, against what it might cost him to challenge a prince. Aemond waited, whatever challenge the idiot could bring would be handled.

He never moved, he didn’t need to.

And like that, the other man caved like a paper house in the wind.

He resisted the want to smirk as the man stepped back with a mocking little bow, one not deep enough to be respectful, but not shallow enough to be overtly rude. Cowardice thinly veiled in civility, but Aemond paid it no mind for now. He no longer existed to him at that moment.

Instead, his eye shifted to her.

She looked up at him, startled, not afraid, but unsure. She hadn’t expected him to come down, not when he had so clearly removed himself from the night’s festivities. Her fingers trembled faintly at her sides.

“Lady Redwyne,” he said smoothly, without warmth, “Dance with me.”

There was no choice in it, not really. He was not asking her to dance, he was telling her, and they both knew it.

Still, she hesitated, a placid little thing out of uncertainty, not rebellion. There was a beat of hesitance from her before placing her hand in his, her fingers were warm, slightly clammy, and for a moment he wondered if she was embarrassed, or simply exhausted by the performance of the evening.

Aemond wasted little time and drew her into the proper frame without ceremony, his hand resting lightly but firmly at the curve of her back, his other hand cradling hers with practised grace.

And with a breath, they moved.

The first few steps were awkward, as they adjusted to one another’s rhythm. She didn’t look at him. Her gaze lingered somewhere over his shoulder, flitting from face to face in the crowd like she was counting how many people were watching.

And many were. Lords and ladies leaned closer to whisper behind their cups, and he didn’t need eyes in the back of his head to know that someone had already passed word to the Queen. Aemond didn’t speak, he didn’t ask her if she was alright, he didn’t tell her she looked well. He simply danced, guiding her with ease, his body fluid, elegant, trained not for joy, but for appearances. For control.

The silk gave under his touch like water, cool yet warm from the heat of her skin beneath. The bodice had structure, yes, but the rest of it moved like it barely clung to her frame, brushing against his fingers and his boots as they turned through the dance.

It suited her, that dress, perhaps more than it should have. The colour softened her and caught the light in a way that made her seem gentler, more breakable, like a figure carved from porcelain. And Aemond, even in his indifference, noticed. Not because he wanted to, but because it was impossible not to.

Every step they took together reminded him of it, how small her waist felt beneath his hand, how the brush of her skirts swirled like wind around his boots, tangling against his legs like she was trying to trap him. There was something dissonant about it, this softness paired with the tension he could feel in her spine. She contrasted him in every way, the soft silk clashed harshly with the leather of his garments; like the way sand would meet rock, there was a line between them that was ruled all the way down to their clothing.

She moved with grace, yes, but there was a stiffness just under the surface. She wasn’t at ease. He could feel that in the slight hitch of her breath when he guided her into a turn, the way her hand twitched ever so slightly within his own.

Still, she felt light in his hands, not fragile, but held in a way that spoke of restraint. He could sense how much she wanted to shrink, to disappear from this moment. Perhaps not from him, but from the weight of the night; from the eyes, from the whispers, from the man who had tried to drag her into something unseemly just moments before.

Aemond didn’t care for her feelings, or how she would probably flee as soon as he released her from his hold.

But he did care for her name, and his.

Letting her be paraded by some shrewd Reach peacock would do nothing for their engagement. The court would smell blood, and the rumours would outlive the night. She’d only been here a few short hours but he knew that people would already be questioning the match, comparing her station, his reputation. Aemond wouldn’t have her looking weak, not because he pitied her.

But because she was his betrothed, and weakness by her side reflected on him.

So, he danced, wordless and focused, body poised like a blade sheathed in velvet.

He hadn’t come to rescue her; he had come to remind the court exactly who she was marrying.

The silence of your chambers was nearly deafening after the roar of the feast.

It greeted you like an old friend the moment the heavy doors shut behind you, muffling the fading notes of music still lingering in your head from the great hall. Having declined any help for the evening, you stood there for a breath too long to centre yourself. Your back pressed to the carved wood as if the weight of the night hadn’t truly settled on your shoulders until now, until the moment you fled and returned to your rooms. It was only then, in the solitude of the candlelit room, did your body find the will to sag, the effort of appearances finally dragging you downward as you slouched for the first time in hours.

Despite how upset you felt, you didn’t cry, you weren’t sure if that was from restraint or exhaustion, but no tears left your eyes yet. They would come, but right now, exhaustion riddled you useless.

It felt like a godly effort, but you found the strength to push off your door and walked slowly into the room, fingering itching as they reached behind to the ties of your dress. Undoing the clasps of your gown with stiff fingers and bated breath.

It wasn’t the dress’s fault, it had looked beautiful, it was beautiful, but after this disaster of a night, it clung to you like a memory you didn’t want.

The fabric was soiled with Ashton’s laughter and his cruelty, the feel of his fingers curling too tightly around yours, the mocking grin that never left his face no matter how soft his words became. It clung to the hem and the bodice like perfume, unwelcome and sour. You wondered if the embroidered flowers on the dress would somehow wilt due to his wretchedness.

The closer you drifted to your vanity, the more the weight of the evening clung to your skin like oil, like something foul that needed to be scrubbed off.

Your fingers worked on pure instinct, finding the ties and clasps, loosening seams that had felt too tight since the moment you’d stepped into the gown hours before. You didn’t even look down as it slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet in a sigh of fine pink silk. You could only step away from it like it was ash, something scorched and ruined, unfit to be touched again.

Let it lie where it fell. Let it burn a hole in the rug if it wanted to.

The room felt quieter without it, not in sound, but in pressure. It was like your lungs could finally expand again as you drew the first calming breath of this evening.

The fire roared in the hearth and flickered across the room, crackling softly, the orange glow crawling across the cold stone walls, licking gently at your bare skin. It didn’t chase away the chill completely, but it was something. Something tangible, something real, when so much else that night had felt like a performance.

The air was still, but not silent. There was the distant whisper of the wind outside the keep, the occasional pop of resin from the logs, and the rustle of your underthings as you peeled the last of them off. You stood there for a moment, wholly unguarded, stripped down to your skin in this foreign chamber, where nothing yet had your scent, the bed didn’t have your shape.

You could feel the weight of your hair falling down your back as the pins were plucked from it. Pearls falling to the ground like tears, and the gooseflesh rising along your arms. with each soft ping of them falling to the floor. Your heartbeat was loud, thudding steady and stubborn beneath your ribs as your hand drifted to your bare torso, soothing the skin with ghosting fingers to try and remedy the anxiousness.

It was strange, this bare newness, to be unwrapped and naked in an unfamiliar space. You weren’t used to being watched at court, not like that, not like tonight, and yet you still felt the phantom burn of eyes on your back, the heavy weight of stares you hadn’t invited to even look at you. You tried to push them out of your head, tried to will them back to the feast hall where they belonged.

But they followed you here, haunting you while their hands clung to your shoulders, a memory you couldn’t shake.

It was out of nervousness, but your gaze slid to the bed, to the nightgown hung neatly over the bedpost, waiting for you to climb into—something gauzy, simple, soft, untouched. You reached for it instantly, with fingers that were colder than you realised, brushing the linen like it might vanish if you moved too fast. You slipped it on in silence, letting it fall over your frame with a sigh.

And only then, wrapped in something that was yours, did you exhale fully. Your shoulders slumped, your throat ached as the fabric kissed your skin.

The fire in the hearth was the only warmth in the room as you moved toward it, arms wrapping around you, chilled despite the heat from the dancing flames. It was still early spring, and the heat hadn’t settled into the nights yet. It was cold and lonely in your rooms, even if there was still voices echoing in the sharp of your mind.

Ashton? No, you willed him away, your brain trying to focus on something else, you couldnt think about him, not now.

Aemond.

You hadn’t dared look at him during the dance, not properly, not like this morning on the docks. And certainly not straight-on. Your eyes had flitted, caught in the space just barely over his shoulder, to the far walls of the hall or the blur of movement from other dancers.

Anything but his face, not because he wasn’t beautiful, he was, but because what if you looked and saw disdain? Or worse—nothing at all again?

His expression from the moment he had stepped in had been carved from stone. You weren’t the type to be able to read anyone, but he was truly unreadable, untouched by the warmth of the feast. Not cold exactly, but distant, like he was seeing straight through you. His hand at your back had been firm, unmoving as his fingers sunk into the fabric, the weight of it solid and inescapable through the thin fabric of your gown.

But it hadn’t hurt, no, there was no cruelty in his touch.

You had danced with him like a ghost of yourself, there in body, swaying in time to the music, but your spirit had splintered somewhere else. You moved because you were meant to, because he had extended his hand and the room had turned to watch. Denying him wasn’t an option, not when his eye had locked with Ashton’s like he knew something you didn’t.

It had felt like you were being hunted.

When he’d taken your hand, there had been no softness in the gesture, no attempt to ease your nerves or offer comfort. It was all duty, and as he’d placed his hand on your back and led you into the dance, there had been no flicker of familiarity or curiosity in his face. Just that same look you’d seen earlier at the dock. Detached.

He was exhausting.

Not in the way that loud, foolish men were like Ashton were—no, this was something else.

It was the weight he carried, the way he seemed to suck the air from the room by simply standing in it. The way his silence spoke volumes and forced you to fill it with endless questions you weren’t brave enough to ask.

You wanted to talk to him, extend a hand and tell him that the two of you were in the same situation. But it was clear, painfully so, that he had no intention of getting to know you, not truly. You were a name, a political match, his new obligation.

A body to wed and keep.

Every thought of him had you sinking to the floor in tiredness, your fingers brushing the edge of the mantel as you stared into the fire, trying to will the heat into your skin.

The rug was rough even through your nightgown, but you didn’t care. The cold tonight wasn’t just physical, it came from a place deeper than that—clawing its way from the hollowed pit in your stomach, the ache in your throat from saying too little, and the shame that now sat so stubbornly in your chest.

There was something wrong with sitting here, childish, you thought vaguely. Something undignified in being on the floor, in nothing but your nightgown, legs curled beneath you as you watched firelight flicker and warp the edges of the room.

But still, you stayed, the warmth of the fire was the only thing that reached you and even that felt undeserved.

You tried not to think about the dance. Not about his hand at your back, not about the silence between you. Not about the way the air in the hall had shifted, how people had looked. Not about Ashton’s cruelty or smirk when he stepped away, or the way your stomach had twisted in panic when Aemond had reached out for you.

But the thoughts came anyway.

The fire snapped, and your shoulders flinched, even though it wasn’t loud. Every sound felt like it might splinter something inside you, the anxiety hadn’t lessened with the night, if anything, it had grown roots.

And you were left here, body curled in, chin resting on your knees, folding inward like maybe you could disappear into yourself.

Disappear into the heat, into the shadows cast against the stone, somewhere else but now. You hadn’t said a word to him. You hadn’t said a word to anyone that mattered, and now your silence clung to you like smoke.

You didn’t know if it would ever come off.

The stone corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast were still cold at this hour—not just in temperature, but in spirit. But they had always felt like that to Aemond, a series of quiet, winding networks that little knew about. A hidden home of half-forgotten passages built for secrecy, for war, for escape. The kind of place where ghosts felt more at home than men.

He liked it here.

His boots struck the ground in a measured rhythm, their echoes soft against the stone walls. The torch in his hand sputtered with each step, its flickering light barely holding back the shadows that clung to the corners like cobwebs. The air in the tunnels always reeked of damp stone, dust, and something older—something metallic like rot.

Not that he cared, he never walked through them for the atmosphere. He was walking because if he’d stayed a moment longer in the feast hall with her any longer, he really would have climbed onto Vhagar and flown away that very night.

Part of him wanted to argue that this wasn’t about her, not truly.

It wasnt about the way her fingers trembled slightly as she danced with that smug green-and-gold Reach bastard.

No, he didn’t care. She was his betrothed at this moment, not his wife. The arrangement wasn’t of his choosing and it wasn’t a matter of love or want. She could dance with half the court for all he minded, so long as she understood the boundaries. So long as they did.

It was about that man… Ashton Fossoway.

Aemond knew his type well, soft-handed, easy-tongued lords who grinned as they slid daggers between ribs. The mocking kind who whispered poison behind goblets of Arbor gold and pretended it was a jest.

Aemond flexed his fingers even the thought og his name. His jaw tense as he passed deeper into the tunnel, his eye burning from the light of the torce—or maybe from the restraint he’d forced on himself all evening.

He had held it in, he had danced with her, cold and civil. He had kept to his role, even though he didn’t wish to. And now, here he was. Walking through the underbelly of the Red Keep in search of something. A place. A person. A moment where he didn’t have to keep holding the mask to his face.

Aemond needed release.

He had gold tucked in his belt and his cloak wrapped tight to hide his hair from any prying eyes. The guards at the postern gate knew better than to ask where he went on nights like these, or even stop him from coming and going. Some men drank. Some hunted. Some chased women.

Aemond preferred clarity. Something brutal. Something honest.

He didn’t lie to himself about what it was. There was a woman in the city, tucked away in a quiet quarter far from the eyes of court, whom he visited when his thoughts grew too loud or his temper pressed too tightly against his ribs.

A woman who asked for no tenderness, gave none in return. There were no lies in her hands, no illusions in the way she was paid to talk to him or the way she looked at him like he was not a prince. He was not a dragon in there, but a man—a man wound too tight, too cold around the edges. Who was just desperate to feel something that did not come wrapped in duty or shame.

That was what drew him into the tunnels.

What had him turning down a narrower stairwell, the stones slick with age, and inhaling slowly. It wasn’t desire, that drove him. Not lust. Not love. It was need. A crack in the wall of control, a hunger for silence in the aftermath of the spectacle he was made to endure. He had danced. He had allowed her to be touched by a fool and had said nothing.

Now he needed the storm to break somewhere.

And not within the Red Keep. Not where the walls had ears.

Not near her.

He needed something he had control of, something of his choosing, something fleeting.

He just needed release.

He had navigated the tunnels to the holdfast more times than he could count, he could walk it with his eye closed and his ears plugged, and still would end up in the same places. It was always a left at his mother’s wall, where it was always quiet. He could sometimes hear the soft shift of her footsteps, or her muted voice in prayer or conversation.

From here he knew hiis sister's apartments were further off, filled with the distant echo of her children’s laughter or the mumbles of her talking to her crickets.

Now, the part he walked down now contained the nicer guest chambers, the ones down here were often empty, and when they weren’t, they were too loud, too foreign to hold his attention long. He didn’t often didn’t linger there.

Aemond’s steps slowed as he approached the narrow corridor that let someone squeeze past the guest chambers, the light falling in through the lattices in the wooden walls. His boots made barely a whisper against the stone as he shuffled. This part of the holdfast was always quiet—intentionally so. As they should be.

He expected the silence, relished it, that was until the silence cracked.

It was soft. So soft he almost missed it if he was walking any faster—it slipped through the tunnels like the creak of old wood or a breeze slipping through a window left ajar.

But Aemond was not a man who missed things.

In losing an eye, his other senses sharped drastically, and while others might have missed it, he found himself stopping mid-step, head tilting slightly. The sound had come from behind the carved lattice to his right—one of the intricately patterned walls built to let heat and air pass from room to corridor.

It was curious, but he turned his head toward it slowly, the torch he carried lowered to the ground to let the fire burn out incase the person on the otherside saw.

He thought that maybe it was a one off noice, but there, it was again the closer he got.

A choked inhale, a trembling exhale, quiet but soaked in emotion. Then a sob, not sharp or shrill, but the kind that sat in the back of the throat, struggling to be kept down.

Through the narrow, patterned gaps in the lattice, Aemond leaned in just enough to peer into the chamber, the thick carved wood cool beneath his palm as he steadied himself. His eye fixed on the sliver of the room beyond, adjusting slowly to the contrast of light and shadow. The light from the room bled faint golden stripes through the cutwork panel, trailing down his face like stained glass.

Everything was dim, the candles had slowly gone out, but the hearth still gave the room a light that bathed everything in warm tones. The firelight licking up the shadows made the space feel softer than it truly was, filled with false warmth.

His eye narrowed further, focus sharpening as he looked around what he could of the small space. The light inside the room was steady, but not bright, which made details slow to come into clarity. What he saw first was the rug, thick and plush, patterned with rich thread, it absorbed the firelight like old velvet.

And then movement, a shift, subtle and hesitant, he stepped slowly to the side to see just past the couch, his head tilted slightly downward.

Someone was there.

When he realised who it was he felt his body go still, his breath softening as he adjusted his angle slightly, tilting his head just so just to get a clear picture.

There she was—the Redwyne girl.

Sitting low near the hearth, folded into herself as though trying to vanish entirely into the space she occupied. She sat near the hearth, wrapped just in her nightgown. The material was gauzy enough that the light from the fire caused an outline of her body. She was curled like a soft piece of cotton with knees drawn close, arms looped loosely around them.

The fire warmed her skin, painting her bare arms in soft tones, but it didn’t reach what he could see of her expression. Her face was turned slightly to the side, but it was not enough to hide the way her brow pinched and her lips trembled. Small beads of water gathers on her cheeks.

She was the one crying, not loudly, not desperately. But it was raw, real, and more honest than anything he’d seen from her since her arrival. Her shoulders hunched forward slightly, almost childlike in the way that she cuddled herself. Every so often, her breath would stutter from trying too hard not to make too much of a sound.

He didn’t move, he barely breathed as he watched her.

There was something deeply strange about watching her like this. It was not out of amusement, nor desire, nor pity. He didn’t even know what he felt. Only that he was watching, and that he could not look away.

There was something about the fragility of the moment, about seeing her so small, so unseen—that settled something uncomfortably in his chest. Something familiar, like he’d been that person before.

He should have left the moment he realised, turned and gone the way he came, left her to her grief. But his feet remained planted, his single eye fixed. Perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps calculation. Or perhaps something far simpler: an understanding of what it meant to bleed behind closed doors.

Watching her cry had killed that need for release that he had, that need to sink himself into some warm body and replaced it with something he hadn’t felt in years. Something he kept locked and controlled, the astute and uncomfortable feeling of being laid bare.

The restless hunger that had driven him to the tunnels in the first place—his need to sink into some faceless warmth, to dull himself in carnal release, to claw something human out of the night—died quietly in his chest the longer he watched her.

His desire was snuffed out like a candle with no air.

Aemond clenched his jaw and let his eye drift shut for a moment at her sobs, dragging in a slow, steady breath as he tried to take everything in.

Then, without a sound, he made his decision.

Finally turning and melting back into the tunnels, back to his rooms to deal with it himself, the whisper of his boots on stone the only sign he’d ever been there.

[21wanderer]

Secrets (Part 4 of 4)

Part 1 - The Prelude

Part 2 - The First Project

Part 3 - The Second Project

Almost half a year had passed before I dared making the last BodyPlast suit. I had been lying low for a while, but Easter was approaching and soon exam season was upon us, so time was rapidly running out, and I still had one last classmate on my checklist.

Martin - and he was definitely worth the wait. He had really been hitting the weights lately, and his bulk increased - he was almost as big as Lucas, and I was as envious as ever. Envy - my constant companion.

Another spiked drink, another classmate collapsing - and once again I volunteered to take my unfortunate classmate home. I told myself, this would be the last time, one last suit.

Martin was out like a light, but he was heavy, if not heavier than Lucas, and I for certain hadn't been hitting the gym. I managed to get him position on the strewn newspapers. As he laid on the floor I began to paint him using the last remaining of the first can of BodyPlast. I wanted to test the limit of this stuff, so unlike before I painted his entire body from head to toe, then I waited.

Slowly but surely the colour faded and Martin was back in his glory. No traces of the coating that I had applied to the whole body. I struggled trying to find an edge at his lips that I could start peeling from, and I started panicking, frantically trying to get the suit off. Finally I managed to get hold of something, and I could begin stretching the shell of BodyPlast from its host. I couldn't help, but thinking of an animal shedding its skin, as I peeled off the replica of Martin, and once I got his head free the rest was easy. His strong neck, wide shoulders, smooth and built chest and arms and so forth, losing their definition as I pulled the shed skin off, before returning to their former glory as his real skin was revealed underneath. With a final *pop* at his feet, I had released the skin, and while I was very satisfied with my previous creations, this one was even more impressive. It was like a deflated balloon of Martin, twisted grotesquely, but still recognisable, I could only imagine, what it would feel like to wear this. I couldn't afford to waste anymore time, the process had taken longer than I anticipated, and the longer I waited, the higher the chance of something going wrong.

Martin had moved out, so there was nobody at his place to confront/greet me - in my head I had an idea of putting on the Martin-suit straight away, slip on all that nice smooth muscle and his handsome face, as well as putting on his clothes and pretend to be him. I could imagine myself being pulled over as I drove and present myself as Martin, with his license and everything, and the real Martin playing the role of my drunk twin brother. But it was too risky, so many things I had done had been risky and if I kept tempting fate, then at some point...

I folded the Martin-skin neatly and placed it on the back seat, before redressing Martin in his clothes and dragging his unconscious body to the passenger seat. I couldn't stop thinking of carrying out the scenario I had imagined, just slip on the suit straight away and pretend to be Martin, it seemed so easy and yet I couldn't get myself to go through with it.

Fifteen minutes later I let myself into Martin's apartment, it was pretty unremarkable in every way, but I supposed it was to be expected since he hadn't lived here for long. I imagined a different scenario, where I simply took Martin's place, his life, his appearance, everything that was him, wearing the BodyPlast version of him permanently. Thinking of having his face, his muscles, his... aura.

Having placed Martin on his sofa, I stood as if I was alone, I made a decision. I rushed down to the car, and picked up the skinsuit and stashed it in my backpack before returning to Martin's apartment. I stripped and began to pull on the Martin suit, entering through the mouth. It was much easier to get on, compared to getting it off Martin before, so that was at least of perk of being small... for now. I replaced my skinny frame with Martin's muscles, his sculpted features superseding my own. I plunged my arms down the suit's mouth and into Martin's strong arms. I finished the transformation as I stretched the mouth one final time, pulling it over my head. The result was impeccable, I could pass for Martin's twin... or Martin himself. Seeing myself in Martin's mirror, I couldn't contain myself and I ended up climaxing right on the floor of his living room.

As if Martin's personality had also awoken within me, his confidence and cool, I didn't feel nervous or worried anymore, I couldn't be bothered to clean up that stain, and by the time Martin would wake up, it would probably have dried up. I walked over to Martin placing my identical face down by his neck and took a deep breath, inhaling his smell. The same scent that clung to this skin, it was intoxicating. I threw a blanket over Martin and began to redress in my own clothes, the pants were very tight on my bigger legs, but I managed, the shirt was a problem however, but I decided to be resourceful if not daring. I found Martin's laundry bag in his bathroom, rummaging around before pulling out a sweaty long-sleeved shirt, that I, without hesitation, pulled over my head, loving how it stuck to my artificial arms and torso. Now that I looked the part, I couldn't resist the temptation of pulling Martin's wallet out of his pocket, after all I was going to need his license to get home.

I left the apartment, snapping a few pictures of my new body. Nobody would know it wasn't the real Martin...

And by Monday I would return his shirt and his wallet. The wallet had fallen out of his pocket, when I brought him home, and I had borrowed his shirt as he accidentally threw up on me - that's what I would be telling him, it would probably be for the best.

---

Fortunately my parents let me sleep undisturbed, so I kept on the Martin-skin, but once I awoke, I had to take it off and stash it away, and go back to be boring old Damien, keeping my secret guarded - and I truly thought that I had nothing to worry about, but a couple of days later my father wanted to speak to me...

“Damien, we need to talk,” said my father, his tone was very serious, and the whole ‘we need to talk’ wasn’t something I had ever heard him saying before. Dad sat down on my bed and looked at me with a stern face, “Damien, I know you stole the BodyPlast from the hospital.”

I flinched… He knew, how long had he known?… “Why did you do it?” he asked, there was an undeniable disappointment in his voice.

Having my secret exposed, I decided there was no point in lying, I might as well be honest.

“I’ve been using it on my classmates.”

“Why?!” my father said clearly shocked, “they are your friends, why would you do that?”

My father’s words really stung, though he probably wasn’t aware of how much they did, having had my secret exposed was mortifying enough, my voice began trembling as I answered.

“Friends?!” I said trying to hide being upset, “They were never my friends.”

My father’s face changed from shock to concern, which made me feel a bit better. It seemed like he understood.

“I thought things were going much better socially, you were popular, you were spending more time with them, going to all the parties – even coming home late at night.”

“It was all just a facade, so that I could get away with it… Earn their trust and not to arouse any suspicion.”

My father said nothing, he just looked at me with something I assumed was sympathy, so I continued my rant.

“To them I was merely an asset, I was useful. I only got all that attention, because I was the first in my class with a license, I could drive them places, be it drive-ins, the city or home after they had drunk their brains out. I was their chauffeur, their designated driver, that’s all. I’m not saying I was being excluded or bullied or anything, but I’m just not like the others… And despite all the attention I’ve gotten, it still doesn’t change that I don’t see them as friends, they are just my classmates, acquaintances if you would prefer a different term…”

My father remained silent, he clearly was going through some strong emotions too, struggling to put them into words. I hadn’t seen him like that before, it almost felt like, he thought he had failed as a father for not noticing my discontentment sooner.

“I see,” was the first thing my father said after a long pause, it took him some time before he continued, “how did you do it? I don’t suppose they volunteered for it.”

“I put something in their drinks,” I admitted, saying it out loud made me feel very ashamed.

“That’s very irresponsible, do you have any idea how dangerous that is?!”

“I know, but you have taught me of how to dose sleeping pills, and I only gave them a very small dose, I never hurt any of them, I just needed them to be passed out long enough for me to…”

I hesitated, I probably shouldn’t go into more detail, I think he got the picture; “and none of them suffered any side effects.”

“You couldn’t have known that, you can’t just-”

“I know, I know, it was wrong and I’m sorry, but what’s done is done.”

“And what did you do with them?”

I went over to my closet and opened it, then I pulled out the three skinsuits, placing them all on the bed for my father to see. He was breath-taken and shocked as he looked at the display.

“You made three?”

I nodded.

“Have you- have you worn them?”

“Not really, no, a few times at home, but not for long, I couldn’t risk you or mom walking in on me. And it’s not exactly like I can go outside wearing them, I’d risk running into someone, who knows them, or even worse – run into one of them. But I really wish I could have… trying to be someone else, if only briefly.”

My father seemed lost in thought, then he resolutely got up and looked straight at me, “then pack your bags, you and I are going on a little road trip.”

I couldn’t believe his reaction, it was a relief.

[spaceshipkat]

messy

buddie | explicit | 8k

Buck doesn’t actually want Eddie here, helping him move into his new apartment, for the same reason he didn’t want Eddie with him while touring places with a realtor. It’s the same reason he made sure the movers arrived to clear the house on South Bedford of Buck’s furniture while Eddie was still in El Paso boxing up his own, and the same reason that Buck held his tongue about offering Eddie the other side of his king-size mattress when he returned for Bobby’s funeral.

Eddie’s only just gotten back to LA, only just gotten back to the 118, and he needs to find his footing here with Chris again. He can’t do that if Buck is always in his house, everywhere he looks. Eddie certainly can’t do that if he’s spending time that he could be spending on Chris with Buck instead. So when Eddie offered to tour places with Buck, Buck declined and bought tickets to a basketball game for Eddie to take Chris to instead. He’s not sure if Eddie believed him when he said he won them, but he took them anyway. He hadn’t gotten the chance to take Chris to the Mavericks in Texas, after all.

And when Eddie told Buck to wait to move out until Eddie and Chris got back with their stuff so they could figure out what they wanted to keep, Buck said, “Of course,” then surprised Eddie with an empty house upon his return to LA and declared, “Now you won’t have to get rid of any of your stuff just because mine’s in the way!”

And after a single night of Eddie on the couch with its terrible lumbar support when he returned for Bobby’s funeral, Buck cut whatever Eddie was about to suggest off to instead offer to take turns in his bed.

He wanted Eddie’s return to LA to go as smoothly as it possibly could. He didn’t want Eddie to have a single reason to regret coming back. And that meant Buck had to act normal, which means knowing that Eddie and Chris need their space and time away from him. Because Buck is not in love with Eddie, and he doesn’t want anyone to think he is. Least of all Eddie.

So Buck made himself scarce—he’d even moved into a hotel while he looked for a place despite Eddie’s offer of his couch. And Buck had been doing a good job of staying out of the way, of being easy, breezy Buck, until parking the U-Haul on the curb outside his apartment building this morning to find Eddie with Chimney and Ravi, dressed in cutoff jeans and a tank top, sunglasses pushed into his hair to hold it out of his face. Buck wanted to wring Chimney’s neck, and then when Chimney pointed at Ravi while pretending to rub his nose, he was tempted to chase Ravi around the firehouse with a chainsaw again. Ravi had at least looked sorry, and whispered to Buck, “I didn’t realize he wasn’t invited,” while Eddie and Chimney were arguing about how to carry the couch through the front door of Buck’s apartment.

Buck had just grimaced a smile and held his tongue, even when he stepped outside an hour later to find Chimney running off with some excuse and Ravi having disappeared into thin air, leaving him and Eddie there at the open door of the U-Haul, two piles of boxes left. “We got this, bud,” Eddie had said, clapping Buck’s shoulder, none the wiser to the vigorous grinding of Buck’s teeth, and Buck had smiled and hummed and gritted out, “Sure thing.”

And Buck hopes to continue to hold his tongue now, while he and Eddie stand here trapped inside the elevator of Buck’s brand new apartment building, the two rusty, creaky hand trucks they’d borrowed from the hardware store taking up more space than Buck thinks is necessary. The elevator had seemed large until it clanked to a sudden stop, doused them in darkness, and lit the world in emergency red.

Now it’s just small, because it’s been fifteen minutes of Buck and Eddie leaning against opposite mirrored walls, with Buck attempting to avoid eye contact—but with so many reflections around and above them, it’s asking the impossible. It’s not his fault that Eddie’s so good at catching the eye. The eye is naturally drawn to movement, and so every time Eddie scratches his nose, or glances at his phone, or shifts on his feet, Buck’s gaze flies to a mirror: Eddie’s right side, his left side, from straight overhead.

He supposes he should be grateful the floor isn’t mirrored, too.

It’s not a new thing, Buck wishing he had the power of teleportation. It’s a common daydream, actually, when he’s sitting in LA traffic and watching the clock tick closer to the hour he’s supposed to be at work. But it’s never felt more desperate than right now, with Eddie exhaling breath after breath onto one mirrored wall and drawing one smiley face after another, creating an army up to the elevator doors.

On his return, they become frowny faces.

Buck shoves his hands into his hoodie pocket. “Sorry.”

“Ain’t your fault the wiring’s faulty,” Eddie says, adding angry brows over this frowny face’s eyes.

“Right,” Buck says, and winces. “But, uh, I meant you losing your entire Saturday to this.”

Eddie’s eyes meet Buck’s in the mirror. Buck quickly looks away.

“Uh huh,” Eddie says, at length.

“It’s—That’s why I asked just Chim and Rav. You’ve got Chris, and—”

“And Chim has a baby.”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“I didn’t have anything else planned.”

You still could have just spent this time at home with Chris, Buck thinks but doesn’t say. He can’t just point out the obvious and make Eddie feel even guiltier for wasting his day with this. Wasting it on Buck, instead of his son, who he uprooted his entire damn life for, just to get him back. If Buck points out that Eddie should have chosen Chris, it’ll make the wait trapped in this elevator even worse.

So he doesn’t say a thing, and watches Eddie resume his frowny faces. They become weepy on the wall toward Buck, and then Eddie spins and drops back against the wall a foot away. Buck wonders if it would be too obvious if he moved to put that space back between them. It’s not that he’s worried he’s going to jump Eddie—he has more self-control than that. But he can’t confuse his body. Sure, he’s thought for years that Eddie is attractive, has known for years that Eddie might be the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. But giving in to his attraction might give his hopeless heart hope.

continue reading on ao3!!

[indecisiveavocado]

May I add some more?

#1: Who said they don't get one?

No, seriously. Where did anyone in this conversation ever say anything about Palestinians not getting a country?

That's right. They didn't. Yes, they won't get all of the land.

But imagine that the US agrees to give its land back to indigenous people. But the only indigenous group recognized is, I don't know, the Osage. So the Osage get all of the land.

That wouldn't be fair, right?

Because historically, it wasn't just the Osage who inhabited the US. Because in the same plot of land, there can be more than one indigenous group. Hell, look at this, from the indigenousness-denying native-land.ca, for, say, part of New Zealand:

In fact, it gets worse, because there are many groups whose entire homeland is subsumed in that of another group's, like the Wari of South America, Ibadan of Nigeria, the Taivoan of Taiwan, the Ati of the Philippines, the Goreng of Australia, almost all of the Tlingit, the Omaha, the Penobscot, and so on. Recognizing only one indigenous group would erase the heritage of the other. Any given plot of land can have more than one group indigenous to it, and if they get a state, they will need to learn to share the land.

In math, to be a function, a line needs to have one output per input. Plotted, that means that for every x value, there should be at most one y-value corresponding to it. (Common confusion: it's fine if an individual y-value has more than one corresponding x-value.)

Why?

Because if you do, if the line has points at (3, 1) and (3,2), then if I give you "3", you won't know where the output is.

And it's tempting, in life, to try to do the same. This plot of land belongs to this group, this plot of land belongs to that group. It's easy. You don't have issues where you ask your computer "What's the output for 3?" and it breaks.

But life isn't like that. Sometimes the line is at (3,1) and (3,2), and we just need to deal with that, because we're not computers. We can handle two things being true. We can handle a plot of land belonging to two groups, or three, or four. We can deal with graphing a vertical line (horror of horrors! You input a number and you get either zero results, which is fine, or infinite, which is...not.)

Concise:

Zionism is the Jewish people's right to self-determination in their ancestral homeland. To oppose that you either have to (1) negate Jewish peoplehood or (2) believe that the Jewish people do not deserve the same rights as other people. Either way, that's antisemitism.

[prettyiwa]

Sakura Haruka x Reader | 610 words post-canon. fluff. pre-relationship. takes place between leaf in your hair and and you love me.

inspired by this with @kweenkatsuki-fics 💜

Sakura’s been finding himself walking up and down the street that divides the territory between Bofurin and Shishitoren more often than usual. He isn’t even sure when it started, but it’s enough that the Bofurin kids all greet him as though he belongs here as they make their last rounds for the evening. It pisses him off, but it’s not like they’re wrong, so there’s not much he can say. 

The atmosphere is heavy with the impending rain, the light scent of petrichor lingering after the wind blows through. Leaves rustle and a car passes on one of the connecting streets, its headlights casting long shadows as it does. In addition to walking this part of town more frequently, he’s found himself walking it later and later. He should be heading home—the storm won’t be forgiving and he didn’t bring an umbrella—but still, he keeps walking. 

The garden lights are on at the house at the end of the street, illuminating the blue violets you planted earlier in the year. Another favorite of yours, though you say that about a lot of flowers. His eyes flicker to your front door as he nears, coming to a crawl. There’s a light pattering in his chest and an itch in his palm as his mouth goes dry, and that’s before your door opens.

You step out, your eyes immediately finding his as though you were expecting him. That smile appears, the one that blurs the edges of his world. On instinct, he freezes, almost feeling as though he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t—stupid, considering all he’s doing is walking—but your smile widens and it makes the corners of your eyes crinkle and that pattering in his chest increases until he’s sure something’s going to burst. You make it hard to breathe.

“Good evening, Sakura. You’re out kinda late, aren’t you?”

He should say something. Is it late? You’re home, so maybe it is. All he can do is swallow under your watchful gaze.

“What’re you doing out? You should be inside.”

(Great job). (Just what he wanted to say to you).

Dipping your head, he hears your laugh. “I had a feeling I might catch you out here.”

Oh.

Sakura’s hit with that familiar heat, instantaneous as it spreads across his cheeks. It’s been years and he’s grown since his days in Furin, but you still manage to pull blushes out of him like it’s your goddamned job.

“I-I’m just patrolling!” As if this is his territory to patrol anymore.

At that, you scoff, the sound nonjudgmental, raising a brow as you rest your hand on your hip. “Sure you are. Well, since you’re out patrolling, I guess I shouldn’t ask if you want to come in and eat with me?”

His stomach growls at the reminder and part of him is tempted to turn you down, but a larger part of him, the part of him that remembers the taste of your cooking, refuses. 

“I—” 

You step aside, pushing your door open in a clear invitation and he takes a step forward.

“I guess… I could stay for a bit.”

You laugh again before reminding him, “You can stay for longer than ‘a bit,’ Sakura. You know you’re always welcome here.”

That warmth blooms across his chest, spreading like wildfire down his limbs. It only grows the closer to you he comes, your gentle smile doing him no favors. You shut the door behind him and he tries to think of something to say, some response appropriate for your open invitation, but you beat him to it.

“Should I make omurice tomorrow night for the next time you’re ‘on patrol?’”

misc fandom masterlist | hanakotoba masterlist

[solradguy]

Strives design problems are so frustrating because like... It's the classic male vs female design issue in games. I'm thinking of that post about overwatch designs where men are allowed to be weird and boxy and have extreme features and then they gave the robot the same fucking face as the rest of the women in the game

Either way I wish the devs would actually push a woman's design to be outside of their current mold and weird like Faust or Pot and not just be cowards about it :/

Yeah

I have rips of all of the GGST character models (minus Unika because she's brand new) and I'm tempted to make a similar graphic like this with them in T-pose. ABA is the tallest woman in Strive at only 5'8". I feel SUUUUUUUUPER BADDDDD putting ASW/Team Red anywhere NEAR Overwatch/Blizzard but like........... Come on......

Even Granblue Fantasy Versus Rising has more diverse body shapes for its female characters than Guilty Gear Strive (!!!!!!!)

The more I think about it, the more I just don't know why the hell they're playing it so safe with the female cast in Strive

[sanchoyoscribbles]

Tokyo Mew Mew X Lisa Frank style! 🌈✨

a little process (kind of) gif, since I knew there was no way I'd be able to record a speedpaint with as time consuming as this actually was! I also merged a lot of layers while working just because I had an ungodly amount of them and clip studio KEPT CRASHING BECAUSE OF IT. Like for such a simple looking style it's actually very involved...and I had to color most everything on separate layers, which I don't usually do?

this was a big compilation of lf refs I made- you can see there's actually three main different body types that are done: very chibi, semi chibi, and a more realistic doll sorta body. I did semi chibi because I thought it would be the most recognizable + easy. I never really color with the airbrush except for highlights, but a good 70% of these are airbrush shaded (there are a few that are more cell shaded randomly?) so that was.. an Experience trying not to let the colors get muddy. something also really interesting about the lisa frank style is that the animals are drawn pretty realistically compared to other cartoon animals (except the eyes), but they are colored with the rainbow whimsical colors.

the stickers added (the hearts and stars) are based on real lf stickers. I have a sticker book and opened it to reference them! and obviously the girl's specific animals have never been drawn in lisa frank style, but it was easy to base them off animals she HAS drawn like the husky for the wolf, the usual cat for the iromote cat, the dolphins referenced for the porpoise, etc.

this is something I've wanted to do ever since I did that mira drawing in the lisa frank style last may!

it has its own post, but for comparison:

I think I def improved on emulating the style!! ofc the above drawing was done in a day for my daily may challenge to myself last year, but still.

I am tempted to take this newer art to a print shop that does folders and see if they won't print me a folder with it for nostalgia's sake. I just think it'd be really really funny to put..idk, tax documents into it, lmao. But I’d need to draw another one so the front and back could have different images (if I flipped this version the text would be backwards on one side!!) and I’m not sure if I’d want to draw like.. the girls in their cafe uniforms, berry and ringo, or maybe the aliens for the back side of the folder? 🤔 and with me trying to get more comic pages and dtiys prizes done this month and artfight in July I’m not sure when I’ll be able to do that! But another one of these might be in the future! 🫣

[syndrossi]

Regret AU: Part 7

In which we get a Volantene POV for once!

x~x~x

“We are no longer in that bird-shit excuse for a city,” Ghordo said. “And we have the dragon children. You do not have to pretend to be a toymaker.”

Felydas glanced up from the thin wire of silver he had been painstakingly coiling. “It is no pretense.”

The toy dragon that little Prince Rhaegar had fallen in love with had scales of red. It matched neither of the young princes’ new hatchlings, and he was determined to correct that, though it would likely take most of the journey to Pentos.

He had never considered himself to be a particularly tenderhearted man, or one with a fondness for children, but he had enjoyed keeping that stall in the markets of Gulltown. It had surprised him that the people of Westeros did not have many such shops of their own. Children and grown men and women alike often displayed the same delight when happening upon his stall.

And their mission had allowed him to price trinkets low enough to tempt families even of simple means. It meant more work for him with the number of sales, but he had not minded, though his greatest passion remained the more elaborate works.

The children’s anguish at their protector’s near-death had been wrenching. Although they had since settled back into the carefree curiosity they had shown at his stall, Felydas was determined to ensure that the remainder of the journey was full of delight and wonder.

Ghordo continued watching him for a time, before tiring of the silence. “Do you think he will find us?”

“Prince Daemon?” Felydas set his finished coil down and picked up the second length of silver wire. “I do not know. Denyno claims that it will be no trouble if he does.”

Ghordo’s head turned in the direction of the cabin that Denyno had claimed as his own. “You have spent the most time with the warlock. Do you believe him?”

“You have seen his magic,” Felydas said.

Denyno had repeatedly shown command of both fire and illusion, the latter of which had been necessary to have the drugged wine distributed throughout the castle guards. Fortunately, they had been very ready to believe that Lord Grafton would celebrate Prince Daemon’s impending arrival with a victory toast throughout the castle.

And then there had been the eerie silence that had fallen over the yard, so that those who were affected more slowly could not raise an alarm. By the time they had reached the children’s chamber, all within the holdfast itself had succumbed already.

None of that magic troubled Felydas. What did set the hairs on his neck to prickling was the strange candle that he kept on him at almost all times. Sometimes, Denyno lit it, and other times, it lit of its own accord, but whenever it shed that eerie shadow-light, Felydas felt a pressure on his skin, as though he were deep beneath the water, with the weight of it crushing down upon him. He was in the presence of something vast and unknowable, and all he knew was that he did not wish for its gaze to be upon him.

“I believe,” Felydas said.

“If they have such power, what need do they have of dragons at all?”

Felydas shrugged. He had wondered as much before, but he was only a man. The ways of warlocks were far beyond him. But then—it was not the dragons they sought, but rather the children. Children that could not burn.

“Such matters are above us,” he replied. It seemed there must be a reckoning between the triarchs and the warlocks of Asikos, for dragons without a rider seemed a recipe for a city aflame. Perhaps that is why there are two, he thought with an unexpected pang. Perhaps they shall take one, and we the other.

Felydas secured his unfinished work, then went to the crate that held the wares from his stall. He had argued for its importance, against Denyno’s initial reluctance. The little princes will need toys. After fishing around for a minute, he decided upon a pair of dolls. One had light hair, and the other dark, though they were not a perfect match.

It was nearing time for a midday meal, so he made a tray for the princes, their dragons, and their knight. They had shown a love of fruit, so he chopped flesh from melons and peeled an orange and cut the slices into toddler-sized bites. For the knight, he included bread and a wedge of cheese, along with a bowl of nuts. The people of Westeros were inordinately fond of cheese, he had learned. For the little dragons, it was roasted mutton leg, which abounded within the Vale.

His arrival at the princes’ cabin was met with great excitement from the children, and a watchful attention from their knight. He let them eat first, until their hands and faces were sticky with juice. The knight dampened a cloth in some water to wipe them clean, and then they eagerly fed their hatchlings, which had been freed from their cages.

Felydas watched the dragons with particular fascination, marveling at how readily they could rip strips of flesh from the leg mere days after hatching. Denyno said that they are even capable of flame.

“Would you like to see what I have brought?” Felydas offered once the dragons had eaten their fill.

“A present?” Jon asked shyly.

He was the more cautious of the two, Felydas had noticed, holding a reserve around all but their knight. Young Rhaegar meanwhile had spotted the cloth-draped offering that Felydas had set down on the table and tugged at his brother’s sleeve.

“It is a present,” the child said in a loud whisper.

“This is for you,” Felydas said, unveiling the dolls to twin gasps of delight.

He stepped back, letting them approach with their hatchlings. They each went for the dark-haired doll, which caused a mild commotion.

“This one looks like me,” Jon insisted. “That one is like you.”

“It is not,” Rhaegar said, his confusion plain. “We look the same.”

“No,” Jon said with a toddler’s impatience. “Your hair is white.”

“It is not,” Rhaegar repeated with growing upset, turning to the knight as though for confirmation.

The knight knelt down beside them, and they plopped down on either side of him, hatchlings settling in front of them to nose at the dolls curiously. “Your hair is lighter than your brother’s,” the knight said. “Like this doll’s. It changed when I washed you in the river.”

Rhaegar frowned at him. “Change it back,” he commanded.

“I cannot,” the knight said apologetically.

Jon seemed to notice that his brother was upset, patting at his hand. “It’s pretty, like snow.”

“But you’re Lord Snow,” Rhaegar protested.

“You’re Prince Rhaegar,” Jon said. “And he has white hair.”

That particular piece of toddler logic had lost Felydas, and by the Westerosi’s expression, he was similarly confused. Finally, Jon reached for the light-haired doll. “He’s Prince Rhaegar.”

Rhaegar’s mouth formed an “o” of surprise. He took the dark-haired doll. “And he’s Prince Jon!” He then looked to Felydas. “Are they twins like us?”

He smiled at the princes. “Just so.” Then an idea stuck him. “Grant me but a moment, little princes.” He retrieved a length of silver cord, bringing it with him back to the children’s cabin, where he cut and fashioned it into circlets for each doll. “There. The princes must have crowns.”

“We don’t have crowns,” Rhaegar said sadly.

Felydas disappeared once more to retrieve a more substantial length of silver cord, which they watched him shape in breathless anticipation into thin circlets of their own. That naturally led to both toddlers asking whether dragons wore crowns.

“They do not,” the knight said, much to Felydas’s relief, and the toddlers seemed to take his word as truth.

Still, the hatchlings themselves were equally entertained as the children staged an elaborate adventure involving Ser Berry, the princes’ sworn knight, and their fierce dragons. Felydas stayed longer than he should have, a fact that Denyno’s frown made apparent when the warlock made his appearance.

“I require the children’s attention,” he said, withdrawing the twisted candle of red dragonglass from within his robes.

Felydas shivered, a protest dying in his throat. They are too young for such terror, he had wanted to say. But such sorcery would be as much a part of the young princes’ fate as the wonders of Volantis itself. Perhaps it would be different, since they were still young. Or perhaps it will be worse.

He took his leave with a bow and set himself to work on the next dragon with renewed vigor. They shall require all the comforts I can give.

x~x~x

This almost qualified as "not an escalation of Willam's days getting worse" but I'm pretty sure that candle shenanigans ruin anyone's day.

[castorizz]

... ❝ SIREN SONG. ❞ ft. hugo x reader

𝒾. ⠀IN WHICH : you find yourself captivated, enthralled by a creature that seems more beautiful and more deadly than you could ever comprehend.

꒰ contents ꒱ cw: blood, vague allusions to death, hugo may or may not have eaten a person. siren!hugo. gn!reader. horror-ish, open-ended. wc : 1351

꒰ notes ꒱ suggested by @rainswept! written as a part of my mermay series. this... feels kinda rushed. idk if i like the ending but i was STRUGGLING trying to keep this close to the same length as the others, and i didn't even manage it.

Blood, the faint, metallic scent of blood is the first thing you register when your toes meet the sand. The smell makes you halt in your steps, glancing wearily across the beach to find the source. There was nothing, no one. It was well after dark, and all other residents of the town were tucked away in their homes, too scared to even glance outside at the stirring ocean.

You were warned too. Once, twice, more times than you could count, they tried to warn you. And you tried to listen, you truly did. But something pulled you back, every time.

It was the song at first. A sweet, crooning melody that carried into through the open windows of the inn, filling your room with its pleasant tune. You’d peered outside, only to find an empty beach staring back. Still, the song continued, echoing from the stretches of rocks past the shore. It almost drove you mad, resigning yourself to pressing a pillow against your ears to drown out the noise. 

When you asked the innkeeper about it in the morning, he went pale. “Lower your voice, kid.” He whispered harshly, eyeing the other guests eating breakfast two tables away. “Listen, no matter how much you want to find it, leave it be. It ain’t worth it. If you’re hearing the call, that means it's got its eyes on you now. There’s nothing you can do but turn away and pray it finds some other slab of meat to sing to.”

You stared in bewilderment, your words spluttered. “What are you talking about—”

“Hush!” He hissed. “The siren, kid. What else?”

Under no circumstances should you leave after dusk, you were told. The creature rises from the water with the moon, and won’t stop singing until its hunger is sated. You nodded silently, mouth slightly agape. His words, and the urgency he spoke them in, made very little sense, but you swallowed down the rest of your reservations quickly.

That night, you stuffed your ears with cotton and pretended not to hear when the singing rose to a crescendo. 

It took you three, maybe four days to crack. By then, the dark circles around your eyes looked like bruises, and you were snapping at every face that dared to pass you in the halls. It was torturous, it was miserable, and you—

You had enough. 

The sun had just begun to rise by the time you stumbled back, your shoes missing and your head in a daze. One of the staff, an early-riser by the looks of it, balked at your appearance at the foot of the stairs, shooting you a worried look. You smiled thinly. The concern was sweet, but it wouldn’t stop you. Not from leaving to visit the shore again the next night, and the night that followed that, and so forth.

You don't think you could stop yourself if you tried; once you were tempted the first time, he had you—hook, line, and sinker.

As you reach the rocks, you slip your shoes off and leave them on the sand, climbing onto one of the rocks closest to the ocean and dipping your feet into the water. Already, the proximity to the sea seems to soothe some latent ache in your shoulders, filling the absence of something you never knew you were missing.

“You’re back, my dearest. I have been waiting for you.”

The voice cuts through the night as cleanly as a blade, making you jump. You didn’t notice his appearance, not a single splash nor ripple breaking the surface of the water. And as usual, he seemed to take delight in catching you off-guard.

“Hm? What's with that look?” A hand works its way under your chin, tilting it from side to side. Sometime in between your slow blinking, Hugo had pushed up onto the rocks, propped up by the long, slender fish-tail that replaced his lower half. He forced you to face him, giving you a perfect view of his heterochromic eyes—one a pale grey, the other a startling red. “Don't tell me you came all this way not to talk to me?”

“No,” You say slowly, your heart rate rising at his touch. The reaction he seemed to draw out of you was unsettling; no matter how much his silky smooth voice put you at ease, no matter how easily you melted under his touch, your body would always reach like a cornered animal, shaking and pulling away.

You could still smell blood, lingering in the air.

“It's so dry up here,” He sighs, dropping his hand. Your face grows cold, but you bite back the urge to lean into him again. “Come to the water, with me, won't you? I promise I'll keep you close.”

It was the same question, every night. Every night Hugo would draw you in with his song, every night he would meet you at the rocks and shower you with affection, and every night he would ask you to come down into the ocean with him. He would never push, never force, but you always got the uncomfortable feeling that the question was merely an illusion of choice.

The way he looked at you was with an inhuman sort of hunger, his eyes dragging along your body like he was sizing you up to devour you. One of these days, you would break, and one of these days you would sink into the waves. Perhaps that was why he seemed so sure of himself when he asked it; if your resolve was weak enough to come meet him every night in the first place, then it was only a matter of time before it cracks fully, splintering like driftwood.

“I... can't.”

“Surely you’re not still so wary?” His voice was teasing, but there was something sharp to the edge of it. Through a flash of teeth, you caught a faint speck of dried red stuck to his canines.

“I can't swim.” You blurt out suddenly.

“Oh? Are you scared, my dear?” The man—no, the creature murmurs, leaning forward to press a kiss to the pulse point of your neck. The sensation was feather-light, and yet sent you shivering. You could imagine the fangs hidden beneath his closed lips, a single fold of tissue between their sharpened points and the delicate flesh of your neck. Under his mouth, your heart was beating at the pace of a rabbit.

You felt exposed, raw. A helpless prey animal, caught in the grasp of its natural predator. He was toying with you; and he had to know it. Otherwise, why else would he be holding you so gently, arms circling around your waist with just enough tightness to be uncomfortable, as if he knew exactly how much pressure to apply to snap you in two?

And yet, there was a softness to his touch that you couldn’t ignore, a tender sort of reverence in the way he traced along your skin. It almost made you forget, for just a moment, the sharpness of his teeth. A moment, only a moment is what it took, but it made you falter. There was a voice in the back of your head, crying out—reason, or common sense, or some sort of instinct, begging you to pull away. To run, while your neck wasn’t yet torn to shreds.

Your instincts screamed, but they weren’t what answered him. 

“No,” The words fall out too quickly, too carelessly, as if he has his claws in your throat, pulling them out by force. You can’t stop them, especially not when he’s kissing the taste of them right off your lips before you even have a chance to regret them. “Not of you. Never of you.”

And at that, his eyes soften, and your guard wavers. Because for a moment, it seems like the answer pleases him, an almost genuine smile wrapping across his face. It makes your heart flutter, heat rising over your cheeks. He nods, once, then twice.

“It's okay.” Hugo grins, so wide you can see the traces of blood in his teeth. “Whenever you're ready.”

©castorizz 2025 : do not copy, translate, repost, redistribute, or use my work to train ai. reblogs are appreciated <33

[leahz3roes]

tempted to ask my upcoming hookup if i can film some things for my blog :3 even if its just audio of me plowing her bunnygirl brains out and growling like a feral beast while i do so :p

[argumate]

brazenautomaton said: [...chopped for brevity...] was the entire post and all of its conclusions supposed to be a mocking joke? because you still concluded that the left was no worse at cognitive empathy than the right, that it wasn’t important to understand your opponents, and that you can “do a good job explaining your ideas” without knowing what their opponents think.

we've all been around this merry go round a thousand times over and I think we know how it goes at this point.

firstly it's always a bit of a waste of time to talk about "the left" and "the right" when it's hard enough to get consistent answers out of one person let alone a completely undefined random subset of historically contingent internet commenters, we know that.

secondly one "side" being better or worse at cognitive empathy makes little difference in practice to issues where interests are opposed: understanding where someone is coming from does not unlock a magic sequence of words that changes their mind (if anything it might reveal how difficult it is to shift their opinion).

it is obviously tempting to paint our favoured faction as being the ones who are sensitive and understanding while their opponents are blockheaded fools who just can't listen because if they just had some empathy they would immediately realise the rightness of our position just as we can so clearly see the wrongness of theirs but we can forgo that exercise I think.

framing the appeal to empathy in terms like "Trump would not have been elected if his opponents just understood what the people wanted" is facile because if you oppose Trump's policies then enacting those same policies to prevent his election would achieve nothing, in fact it would normalise the very ideas you don't want to spread, and even if you did attempt to out-Trump Trump he might still win on charisma anyway.

now you could say that people were upset about prices going up and that contributed to Trump's victory and so more decisive action on controlling inflation could have helped, but that is less about ideological empathy and more about basic polling and economic observation, I think.

ultimately this discussion would be a lot more interesting if someone, anyone, had an example of an ideological principle that people fail to understand, and that failure of understanding is an actual mistake that leads to genuine negative consequences that could have been corrected by improved cognitive empathy, because a lot of the time it reads like the standard evangelical approach where it's assumed that if someone just explains Jesus one more time they'll GET IT.

[lesbianfakir]

duck is a pegasus pony because shes literally a bird. mytho is an alicorn princess because hes royalty in not just a societal sense but also on a metaphysical magical being level. (princess tutu and princess kraehe are also alicorns but this does not carry over to duck/rue). you MIGHT be tempted to think that fakir is a unicorn because hes a book wizard. this is wrong. first of all unicorns have the weakest consititutions of any of the three pony types, which doesn't fit Sir Cockroach The Unkillable, who bled to death at the bottom of a lake and yet also lived, somehow (and everyone called him cringe for it.). SECOND. in gen 4 earth ponies are associated with nature magic. talespinning is associated with, Big Tree, suggesting its kind of like earth magic. because fakir is strong and photosynthesis hes actually just a really magically powerful earth pony. this leaves rue as the unicorn because shes fancy and also is canonically stated to lack stamina. and daddy dross? draconequuss. thank you for coming to my ted talk

ANON GET BACK OVER HERE YOUR MIND!!!!!!

you're so so right in all your takes. Earth pony Fakir is REAL. I could see an argument for earth pony Rue (she was human all along) but I think her temperament suits a unicorn more. Sir Cockroach the Unkillable had me giggling out loud that's going in my vocabulary. Anon pls im begging come back lets make an au

[neuvilette-tea-party]

I love all your Steb fics he’s my precious boy

I was thinking about like Creature from the black lagoon and I started thinking about if that was Steb and god I haven’t stopped thinking of reader x black lagoon! Steb- I know he’s already technically there but oml-

Mmmmmmmmm... Feral Steb ʕっ˘ڡ˘ςʔ Yum yum

𓇼𓇼𓇼𓇼𓇼𓇼 Steb x F!reader 𓇼𓇼𓇼𓇼𓇼𓇼

Tags : heat stroke, almost drowning, kidnapping, Steb is selectively mute, slightly more animalistic/feral Steb

“I’m so hot...” You gasp, fanning yourself. “Can we take a break?” 

“We took a break 2 hours ago! Let’s continue further!” Your comrade counters 

“I can’t go on farther without stopping first!” You bargain, feeling your legs trembling. 

The sun is cooking you alive in this bayou, despite the leaves of the trees; its rays burn your skin like you were a rotisserie chicken. You gasp, throat dry, sweat pearling down your neck and back. You stop, hands on your knees, breathing hard. 

Why did you choose to follow the group? You don’t even know them that well! 

“Please, guys... At least give me a second to drink in that river...” 

You kneel in the dirt and dip your head in the clear water to take big sips, quenching your thirst at last. You open your bottle and fill it up to the top with rapid breathing. You scoop some water and splash your face and neck to cool down a bit. 

“All right... Let’s go.” You announce, standing up. 

You spin on your heels only to discover you are all alone now. 

They... They did not even wait for you! They left you here! 

You grab your bag and continue in the general direction you were heading toward, in the hope of finding them again. You were not following any trails or human-made paths, you were going in blind. 

They can’t be that far already, right? 

Right...? 

You prick up your ears but can only hear the sound of the birds, bugs, and the river next to you. 

No voice, no steps, no laughs, no shouts. 

No human sounds except for your banging heart in your ears. 

You gulp and keep going, further into this bayou without any map or compass, any way to direct yourself precisely and find your way back to civilization. 

And that sun... 

If you follow the stream of water, you are bound to find a city or a village at some point, correct? 

You keep walking and walking and walking, hurrying up as fear gradually seizes you, the further you walk without finding any sign of life. 

You jump when you hear a huge animal roar somewhere near you... You are not safe around here. 

You feel dizzy and feverish as you walk; that water must not have been as fresh as you thought it was. Your head starts spinning dangerously and you stumble and fall in the water... 

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

 Steb was swimming silently, a shadow among the waves. 

The monotony and peace of his life have been broken by a group of humans on the shore. The bayou is no longer the haven of peace it once was for the young Vastaya male; those unfortunate neighbors disturb the balance of the place with their loud screams and trash, polluting the waters of Steb's new territory with their garbage. They destroy the lands and scare the fauna above and underwater. 

Steb was utterly fascinated, completely enthralled by what he was seeing. 

No scales of any sort, no claws, no fangs,   

But 

Those unruly undesirables also came with... tempting company. 

Steb could not help but notice among them, the presence of a female, a very beautiful one in his ocean eyes with her (color) hair and her shiny (color) skin, gleaming under the sun. Her eyes were shining with intelligence, but also a lingering fear as she followed the group of males. 

It doesn’t look like she wants to be here or with them... 

Steb remained in the water, silently observing the woman with round eyes of enchantment. What a beautiful woman! What grace she has when she moves, what delightful notes her voice can reach; she is nothing short of mesmerizing! 

Steb can feel his heart picking up the pace each time he grabs a glimpse of her in her privacy, away from the group. He details her gorgeous face and stunning curves. 

They are just like he hoped his mate will be 

He always envisioned himself with a fellow Lagoon Vastayan mate, but... Maybe it doesn’t have to be? 

Those strange scaleless creatures have their own peculiar charm, and that human female is a perfect example. His parents used to warn him about those creatures when he was young, that they used to hunt his fellow down    

Steb knows he has to defend his newly acquired territory from any threat, but he also needs a mate... Why not her? It has been a while since he crossed paths with one of his kind, surely another sign of their decreasing population, so why not take one of their female? 

She seems pleasant, and she is to his taste. Maybe their little ones could be a bridge between the two species! 

Again, Steb follows her today, last one of the group, head low and visibly tired, she must wish she were anywhere else but under this blazing sun and that choking, moist atmosphere. He follows them underwater as they more or less follow the stream and witness the males abandoning their friend behind as they keep going. 

When she stands back up, she realizes she is all alone, her ‘friends’ nowhere to be found. He hurriedly put her strange bag on her shoulders and resumed her walk with a hurried pace. 

But they just... disappeared. She is all alone 

With him. 

How to approach her? How not to scare her off? How will she react seeing him in all his aquatic nature, with scales, fangs, and claws? 

He keeps following her, growing more and more weary as she stumbles more and more as she walks, obviously losing her balance under the pressing heat of the day. Several times he hesitates if he should jump out of the water to catch her before she falls and hurts her head 

And then 

She simply... Falls into the water, right in front of him. 

He grows closer as he realizes she doesn’t start to swim back to the surface and instead lets herself drown at the bottom of the bayou like a rock. He swims to her and catches her in his strong arms, pulling her up to the surface. They pierce the surface together, but she does not take a liberating breath. 

He starts to panic as she remains unresponsive.  

What to do?  

He inspects her neck and discovers no gills of any sort. She is not amphibious like him... 

Tentatively, he approaches his ear to her sternum and listens... 

No air flow 

He grabs her cheek and tilts her head, listening to her mouth... Again, no air flow. 

He looks around, but her ‘friends’ are indeed long gone and nowhere to be seen. He turns back to her in an increasing panic and, as a last resort, presses his mouth to hers, opening his gills wide to gather as much air as possible. 

Their teeth clumsily clash together as he pushes air down her throat, desperate to see her react in any way. 

He just needs a sign... A hint of life... 

She suddenly starts coughing in his mouth, and he parts from her, letting her cough out all the water she inhaled in her unfortunate dive. She clears her throat and spits out all the water before falling inert in his embrace. 

He gulps, her face in the crook of his neck as she floats between consciousness and unconsciousness. He gets rid of her heavy bag that he lets sink to the bottom of the river and starts swimming to his lair with her in his arms. 

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

You woke up coughing and drenched. You are lying on something cold and hard, almost slashing your cheek. You open your eyes. 

You are not in the forest anymore... 

You are in some sort of cavern... Wet to the bone, without any backpack. 

You immediately sit up and regret it, your head spinning dangerously. 

What happened? You remember falling and feeling icy cold, but outside of that it’s a black hole in your memory... 

How did you end up here?  

Where even are you? 

You tentatively try to get on all four to move, your palms and your knees getting slits all over. Your head is banging like a drum, it is so painful. 

You try to advance toward a light, wondering how you will ever live that damned bayou, if ever. 

You stop when a dark silhouette appears in the light far ahead of you. 

Your friends! They came back! They found you! 

“Hey...! Hey...! I am here...! Guys! Guys!” You call desperately. 

The silhouette approaches slowly, and the closer she gets, the bigger your doubts. 

Is that... Your friend? 

No... 

No it is not! 

You crawl back before that silent stranger, backing up against a wall, desperately trying to get away. 

The closer they get, the less human they appear! You can guess some long, pointy nails on their hands, and weird pointy ears. As light caresses their skin, you realize this is not skin, but scales. 

Green, iridescent scales. 

Inhuman scales 

Were the legends true? Were the autochtones right about the live aquatic creature in this bayou??? 

You... You cant believe it. This is impossible! How could it be?! 

You press your knees to your chest in a desperate protective move, to protect your heart and your lungs, body parts the legends say they are quite fond of... 

They stop right in front of you and kneel. You close your eyes not to see their fangs and how they will attack you to eat you. 

You jump when you feel something grazing your cheek, strangely softly and tender. It gently caresses your skin in silence, you can feel their breath on your face 

They are so, so close...! 

When the fatal slitting of the throat or heart-pulling off the chest doesn't happen after a minute, and it appears clear they are not moving, just caressing your cheek, you hesitantly open your eyes... 

You are met with a beautiful and deep blue gaze, impressively human in its emotion. But the being in front of you is clearly not of the human race! 

He contemplates you in silence, tilting his head as he observes you, only caressing your cheek like he knew you for decades with the tip of his clawed fingers. 

You gasp and gulp as he dives into your eyes. He draws circles on your flesh with the pad of his thumb delicately. 

You both remain still, you of fear and he in contemplation. 

That’s when you realize... This is not a simple cavern... It is arranged. There is a sleeping space and space to do some form of primitive cooking... Even a former dead fire. 

Your gaze comes back on him. 

You flinch when he approaches his face to yours, closing his eyes. 

And he simply 

Kisses 

Your cheek 

Very softly, he presses his lips onto your skin like he meant to do it from the beginning. 

His kiss tingles a bit, like his lips had some sort of poison reacting to your skin. 

That’s when you realize your lips are also tingling. 

You let out a breath you did not realize you were holding as he grabs one of your hands to kiss it to. 

You will never leave this cavern, you realize... 

By choice or by force 

You are trapped here. 

With that scaly creature 

With that man... 

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