#and rated them based on whether I speak the language whether they are in the EU which would allow me to move there without trouble and

[mothmans-cumrag]

Am I the only trans*/nonbinary German who is already constructing a plan where to move to and what to take with you in case we lose the country to fascism again?

[spicy30]

Modernness of 1400s 011

Pairing: HOTD x Fem!Modern!Reader

Extra: The reader is noted to be bilingual (Spanish speaking) and is familiar with the majority of Latin-based languages, No use of Y/N

Rating: 18+ (Masturbation, religious psychosis)

Tags: @fan-goddess @meowmeowmothermeower @bunxia @your-favorite-god @coolalienstatesmansports @georgiatesulitsyeykite @qwerrtsworld @wegottastayfocus @dakota-rain666 @talilosha @the-deep-dark-abyss @101crows @agustdeeyaa @ggglich-exe @illjhhlisa @deepeststarlightmoon @cluelessteam @a-fruity-snack @i-zenin @justablondeeee @feyresqueen @yduimobsessed @pinkluv29 @xmenteria @itwaszzmoon @powllito @xadaboo @magdalenacarmila @btzams @jellyforbrains @thebl00rwyrm @smiley-roos

WC: 20.2k

17th day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

There are few things in this world that are truly holy.

And you, despite your deeds, have never been counted among them. The High Septon does not see you as holy. Not even your remarkable acts—curing illnesses, mending the King’s failing health, disproving age-old scientific fallacies—are enough. The King, though healed by your hands, cannot evade death; your brilliance, though it shatters centuries of ignorance, does not sanctify you. Even as the faithful gather at the sept to pray for you, their devotion cannot transform you into something divine. To the High Septon of King’s Landing, you are ordinary. Unholy.

That is until he hears it—a melody, soft and sweet, whispering in his ear. A song so heavenly that he cannot deny its origin: it must be from the Seven. The music echoes through the walls of the sept as you stand beneath the towering effigies of the Seven. The stained glass scatters sunlight, framing you in an ethereal glow, each ray dancing like a blessing upon your form.

The Seven seem to watch you, their gazes carved into the very stone of the sept. The light catches your hair, setting it aglow like spun gold. Your skin gleams with a divine radiance, smooth and flawless, while your white gown shines like a star reborn. The gold adorning your body reflects the sunlight in shimmering patterns, as if touched by a celestial hand.

And then, as though you too hear the melody, you turn your head toward the Father. The movement is graceful, purposeful. The light refracts off your skin, casting a spectrum of colors—each hue a reflection of one of the Seven. A faint rainbow dances upon you, a living symbol of divine unity.

The High Septon is struck silent. The melody still hums in his ears, and the vision before him—bathed in the sun’s radiant light—leaves no room for doubt. You must be sent by the Seven. There, in the heart of their sacred light, you stand as a vessel of their will. Holy. Transcendent.

The High Septon falls to his knees, his voice trembling with awe. “A blessing... a messenger of the Seven themselves.” He clasps his hands together in reverence, his ornate robes pooling around him like a tide of silk and gold. The sept is silent save for the soft hum of the melody, a sound that seems to dim with each passing moment. The smallfolk who had gathered outside now pressed closer to the sept’s open doors, drawn by the radiant light and the sound of something beyond mortal understanding—Or so it would seem.

“High Septon, please. It should be I who bows.” Your voice is soft, yet it carries a weight that makes the High Septon freeze in place. He watches, mortified, as you incline your head toward him, a gesture of humility that feels utterly misplaced.

“Please, no!” he exclaims, his voice trembling. “It would be blasphemy!” He moves to stop you, his hands halfway raised, but then he falters. He cannot touch you. Something holds him back—whether fear or reverence, he does not know. The light that surrounds you, shimmering with the colors of the Seven, makes it impossible to believe you are of this world. Even as the Father of the Faithful, the voice of the new gods on earth, he feels unworthy.

How can he call himself the Most Devout when he has ignored your calls for months? When he has turned away from your work and dismissed your deeds? Shame wells in his chest, his knees buckling beneath the weight of his own failings. “I have wronged you,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I have failed to heed your summons, to meet you as I should. I beg your forgiveness.”

He bows deeply, pressing his forehead to the cool stone floor, his heart heavy with regret. For the first time in his long tenure, he feels truly small, unworthy of the title he bears.

And then, like the breaking of dawn, you smile. The light around you brightens, casting a soft, golden halo that almost hurts to look upon. The High Septon shields his eyes, his breath caught in his throat, as though gazing upon the sun itself.

“High Septon, please,” you say, your voice gentle, unyielding. “You needn’t beg. It is of no consequence.”

The High Septon lifts his head slowly, his heart pounding in reverence and disbelief. Your words—so calm, so forgiving—ease the tension in his chest, though the sight of you, radiant and otherworldly, leaves him trembling. He does not rise, unwilling to meet your gaze on equal ground.

“You are merciful,” he murmurs, his voice quivering. “Far more than I deserve. Your grace is a testament to the Seven themselves.”

You extend a hand toward him, a gesture so simple yet profound, and for a moment, he hesitates. The aura around you shimmers, as though the Seven themselves watch over every movement you make. Slowly, reverently, he takes your hand, careful not to break the fragile sanctity of the moment.

“High Septon,” you begin, your tone warm and inviting, “I come not to reproach but to seek guidance. You are the Father of the Faithful, the voice of the Seven on earth. Surely, you can help me understand their will.”

His breath catches, and he nods fervently. “Of course, my lady. Anything within my power. I am yours to command.”

You smile again, though this time it is softer, almost conspiratorial, as if inviting him into a sacred trust. “I do not seek to command, but to learn. The Seven have blessed this world with their wisdom, and I wish to understand their teachings more deeply. I feel their light, but I lack clarity. There are answers I need—answers that only they can provide.”

The High Septon straightens slightly, emboldened by your words. “If the Seven have chosen you, as I now see they have, then you are already closer to their wisdom than any of us. But I would be honored to guide you as best I can, to walk this path with you.”

“Then we shall walk it together,” you say, your voice like a balm. “The Faith is vast, and its mysteries profound. I seek to cultivate a relationship not only with you but with the Seven themselves. If they have granted me their favor, it must be for a purpose. Help me uncover it.”

The High Septon’s heart swells with purpose, the doubts that had plagued him vanishing like shadows before dawn. “I will dedicate myself to this task,” he vows. “With the Seven as my witnesses, I shall help you find the answers you seek.”

You squeeze his hand gently before releasing it, the light around you softening but never fading. “Thank you, High Septon. Together, we will uncover their will and ensure that their light shines brighter than ever before.”

As you turn to leave, the High Septon remains kneeling, his heart alight with a newfound resolve. He looks to his hands, now covered slightly by your blessing, they too shine as bright as the Seven. The Seven had sent him a guide, a vessel of their divine wisdom. He would not fail you—or them—again. 

…

21st day of the 8th moon of 129 AC

When Aegon first tried the herb you called "weed," he wasn’t fond of it. It burned his throat, sharp and unforgiving. Yes, Aegon is a Targaryen—fire made flesh—but it still burns. Over time, though, he came to admit you were right. It did get better. It always does.

Which is why he sits here now, perched on the highest point of the Red Keep, looking out over King’s Landing with smoke curling lazily from his lips. The cold wind bites at his face, and for once, the weight pressing down on him feels lighter. You were right about this too: there’s no better feeling than losing yourself in the wind while the world below feels so very far away.

“So, I heard you’ve gotten your foot in the faith,” Aegon says, exhaling a plume of smoke. For a moment, he feels almost like the dragon he’s supposed to be, like the conqueror whose name he bears. It’s fleeting, but it’s there—a taste of what it might be like to accept the crown his mother pushes on him.

He glances at you, standing beside him with your eyes fixed on the bustling city below. The wind whips your hair across your face, and Aegon notes that same faraway look you always seem to have. You’re high—it makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is that you always look like this, as though your mind is in another world entirely. Why? Aegon doesn’t know.

(And frankly, he doesn’t care enough to find out. You’re fun—he’ll give you that. Aegon can admit he enjoys your company, your wit, your odd mannerisms. But you also bother his brother, and Aegon, despite all his misdeeds, loves Aemond. Loves him in a way he’s sure Aemond, deep down, loves him too. So, no, Aegon doesn’t care to unravel your mysteries, because he’s certain Aemond is the cause of them. And Aegon loves his brother more than he cares for you.)

You extend your hand toward him, and Aegon passes you the ‘blunt.’ (Or so you called it) It doesn’t take long before you’re exhaling smoke, matching him with ease. “Yeah,” you say, leaning back, “I’m a pretty lucky person, I think. Always have been. But lately, my luck’s been running thin. Guess it was saving up for that encounter with the fuck-ass priest—or Septon—or whatever the fuck they’re called.”

Your vulgarity makes him chuckle. The randomness of your phrases, the chaotic way you piece together words—it’s absurdly creative. Aegon files “fuck-ass” away for later use, much like he did with “fuck with.” You’re a poet of profanity, and it’s hilariously endearing.

“You don’t fuck with the High Septon?” Aegon asks, extending his hand for the ‘blunt.’

“Nah, I do,” you reply, passing it back. “Mans got me in, you know? Just didn’t like how he switched up on me when—by chance—something happened. Now he worships the ground I walk on. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice. Just… crazy to see.”

“What happened?” Aegon leans back, smoke curling from his lips, his smile lazy and knowing.

“Who knows? Weird shit, for real,” you say with a shrug, your tone dismissive.

Aegon studies you for a moment. He suspects you know exactly what happened. A part of him even thinks you orchestrated it—whatever it is. But right now, he doesn’t have the mind or energy to sift through the peculiarities of your schemes. It’s easier to let the questions drift away with the smoke, at least for now. 

“Word.” Aegon hears you laugh beside him, the sound breaking through the haze of smoke that lingers in the air. He turns, lifting a brow as he takes another hit, the ember of the ‘blunt’ glowing softly in the dim light.

“It don’t sound right with your posh accent,” you tease, letting out another laugh that pulls a grin from him despite himself. “Pronounce the ‘r.’ That’s how it’s done.”

“I like the way I sound,” Aegon counters smoothly, his voice tinged with amusement. He watches as you shrug and sit back, exhaling smoke in a slow stream.

“So, when will I get to hear your music?” he asks, leaning forward slightly, curiosity sparking in his voice.

“Never.”

Aegon turned swiftly towards you watching you with brows furrowed as you attempted to blow out an ‘o’ shape. (Aegon saw you do it once and you both ran around yelling.)

He stares, incredulous. “What!? Why?”

You shrug casually, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I don’t know where my phone is.”

His jaw slackens. “What?”

“I was pretty bummed out at first,” you admit, your tone light despite the words. “For the first few days, I was suffering from withdrawal, but now��� I’ve come to terms with it.” Another shrug, as if it means nothing, but to Aegon, it means everything.

No. This wasn’t just your loss. This was his loss. The music he had wasn’t enough anymore—not after what you’d introduced him to. He can’t live in silence now, not after hearing the melody of No Church in the Wild or the haunting beauty of Are We Still Friends? How was he supposed to go back to the same old tavern ballads or the Red Keep’s dull minstrels when you’d opened the door to something timeless, something transcendent?

“How did you lose it?” he presses, his voice sharp with urgency.

You glance at him, unbothered. “People going through my stuff,” you reply simply, and Aegon stiffens.

Oh. Him.

His brother’s face flashes in his mind, unbidden. Aemond. Of course. Your little secret isn’t so secret anymore. The strange contraptions you’ve hoarded and hidden away are probably being picked apart by his ever-curious, ever-judgmental younger brother. Or worse—Aemond had already known about them long before Aegon did. Either way, it didn’t matter. What mattered was this: it affected him.

Aegon leans back against the cold stone, running a hand through his messy silver hair in frustration. He needed your music. He needed to hear Timeless again, just one more time, to feel that strange, inexplicable pull that only your land’s melodies could offer. The silence felt unbearable now, heavy and suffocating.

“I’ll find it,” Aegon declares, his voice uncharacteristically firm as a rare clarity seems to pierce through his haze.

“Yeah, good luck with that. Your brother isn’t exactly thrilled with me these days.” Your tone is dismissive, casual, but it’s enough to make Aegon pause. His determination to recover your music remains, but now there’s something else nagging at him. Why is Aemond upset with you?

“Well, what did you do?” he asks, his curiosity piqued.

“Nothing.”

“You had to do something.” Aegon presses, leaning forward as he narrows his eyes at you.

“I swear, I didn’t do anything. That’s why he’s mad,” you say with a chuckle, taking a long, final drag of the blunt. Smoke swirls around you, and Aegon watches the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Well, then do something!” he exclaims, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

“And risk getting him even more upset? No, thank you.” Your words are accompanied by a lazy exhale of smoke as you offer the blunt to him. Aegon shakes his head, declining. This wasn’t a joke to him—not this time.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of him.” His tone is playful, teasing, but there’s a sharper edge beneath it. He’s poking fun, yes, but he’s also genuinely curious.

Your reaction is immediate. You choke on the smoke, coughing harshly as you hurriedly toss the rest of the blunt out the window. “I’m not!” you snap, defensive, your brows knitting together as you abruptly stand. Aegon tilts his head back to look up at you, his amusement fading as he watches the tension ripple through your frame.

“I’m not afraid of him,” you repeat, quieter this time, almost as if you’re trying to convince yourself rather than him.

Aegon studies you for a moment, his earlier grin fading into something softer—almost contemplative. Defensive or not, there’s something in the way your voice wavers, something in the way you won’t meet his eyes, that makes him wonder. Whatever his brother had done to make you like this, Aegon doesn’t know. 

He leans back, crossing his arms as he watches you. “If you’re not afraid of him,” he drawls, his tone laced with skepticism, “then what’s stopping you?”

Aegon watches as your jaw tightens, but you don’t answer. The silence between you stretches, and Aegon lets it linger, his gaze sharp and searching. Whatever game you and Aemond were playing, Aegon decides, it’s a dangerous one.

…

25th day of the 8th moon of 129 AC

“Tag! You’re it!” 

Ser Criston watches as you run around with Jaehaera and Jaehaerys. You had been playing with the twins for quite a while now as Helaena sits far off mumbling. “First shall come the gnashing tide, a flood of scurrying claws,”

Ser Criston was advised to ignore the Princess' odd behavior. You had been spending more and more time with Helaena and Ser Criston can only surmise it has something to do with Aemond spending more and more time in the training yard always upset. 

“You missed!” Ser Criston watched as you dodged Jaehera’s hand. You always stayed just out of reach and it was clear that the twins were planning to gang up on you. And they did. They both cornered you but you ran towards Jaehaerys stepping out right before leaning left and spinning out his reach. “Oh! Ankles have been taken! I took out your ankles Jaehaerys.” You began laughing as both of the children hopped on top of you as you sat down. 

That’s when the twins veer toward him, giggling as they dart behind his cloak. He feels their small, sticky hands clutching the pristine white fabric, pulling it taut as they hide. Criston stiffens, resisting the urge to sigh.

You approach, your breath coming out in light huffs as you slow to a stop before him. Your body almost seems lazy. Your eyes relaxed and it almost seems as if you're not fully here. There’s a mischievous glint in your eyes as you crouch slightly, pretending to search for the twins. Criston remains still, his face impassive as you attempt to coax the children from their hiding spot.

“Using a knight for cover, are we?” you tease, glancing at Criston with a knowing grin. Criston looks down. The whites of your eyes are slightly red. Like you’ve been crying, but they’ve been red for quite some time. Such a carefree smile you show him. Nothing like the silent woman that day in the council room. “You can’t hide behind him forever.” He watches your eyes flicker down towards the twins as you stand up pretending as if you’ve lowered your guard.  

He doesn’t respond, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword as he waits. You’re unpredictable—he’s learned that much. And yet, as the twins erupt into laughter behind him, their little bodies finally darting out from their hiding place, Ser Criston finds himself... watching. Always watching. Because whatever game you’re playing, he knows it’s not as innocent as it seems.

“Woah!” Ser Criston’s attention flickers toward Aegon as he lifts Jaehaera into the air, her giggles echoing through the garden.

“Prince Aegon,” you breathe out, surprise threading through your voice.

“My lady,” Aegon nods in acknowledgment, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. “What are you playing?”

“Tag,” little Jaehaerys pipes up, tugging at his father’s trousers with eager hands.

Ser Criston watches the scene unfold, a quiet observer of the boy he once watched grow into a man now playing with his own children. Though he knows the weight of such responsibilities came too soon, Criston remains impassive, his expression betraying none of his thoughts.

“The plague of rats, their shadows stretching across the lands.”

His gaze shifts briefly to Princess Helaena, her soft murmurs drifting on the wind. As always, he forces himself to look away, as instructed.

When his eyes return to the scene before him, the knot in his chest tightens. It is then he notices it—the easy familiarity between you and Prince Aegon. In your arms is little Jaehaerys, his small hands clutching your shoulder as you glance toward Aegon with a smile. Too familiar. One could almost mistake you for his wife with how naturally you interact.

It isn’t long before Aegon joins in on the game, chasing after the children with exaggerated steps that send them into fits of laughter. Yet, for Ser Criston, there is a melancholy that lingers in the air.

Though Prince Aegon is now well into his twenties, no matter how Criston views him, he still sees a boy—running, laughing, playing. Not with his children, but with children. There’s a hollowness to the image that Criston cannot shake, one he dares not examine too closely. His eyes shift to Princess Helaena, and suddenly, she isn’t the mother of two (Though soon to be three, or so it is rumoured by the maids.) but a quiet fourteen-year-old girl sitting alone, detached from the world around her.

He tries to banish the memory, but it clings to him—the year her small belly swelled with a child, and it was clear that she was much too young for it. How wrong it looked, her small underdeveloped body swelling with twins.

And then there’s you.

Ser Criston doesn’t know you, not truly. To him, you seemed like any other courtly lady at first glance (Except you never were, because you did not have a name. You still do not have a name.) save for the peculiarities that have since come to define you. You are close in age to the royal adults—children, really, at least in Criston’s eyes. Yet, as he watches you laugh and dart behind trees with the twins, he sees something unsettling: a regression.

There’s a flicker of something in the way you move—instinctual, fluid, and practiced. It’s not just playfulness fueling your evasion but a muscle memory, a honed reflex that speaks of something far more sinister than a game of tag with children. Ser Criston’s brow furrows as he watches. This isn’t the carefree jest of a lady indulging the younger royals. This is survival, disguised as mirth.

Aegon, for his part, seems oblivious, his clumsy movements no match for your speed. He barrels forward with all the grace of a charging boar, his hand swiping through empty air as you spin away, light on your feet. Your laughter rings out again, but Ser Criston isn’t fooled by its melody.

What is it about you that feels so out of place, so wrong?

The thought gnaws at him as he observes the scene, his hand resting instinctively on the pommel of his sword. You don’t just evade; you anticipate. Every feint, every twist is calculated. It’s almost unnerving how natural it seems for you to be one step ahead, as though this isn’t a game to you at all but something far more serious.

And yet, you smile—wide and radiant, your cheeks flushed with color as you run away from Aegon and the children. For a moment, you appear as harmless as they do, a vision of innocence and joy.

But Ser Criston can’t shake the feeling that it’s a mask.

“Their teeth will gnaw the fragile peace, spreading whispers of decay,” Helaena murmurs once again, her voice barely audible over the sound of the children’s laughter.

“Ser Criston!” Aegon’s voice carries across the garden, his tone laced with boyish amusement as he calls out. “Capture her!”

Criston gives a curt nod, his duty as unshakable as ever, and begins his approach. You stand your ground, arms crossed as your lips curve into a smirk.

“You’re cheating, Aegon,” you call out, your voice teasing but firm. “That’s not fair.”

“Rules do not apply to a Prince of the Realm!” Aegon replies with a laugh, his grin as wide as the sky above.

Criston notes the flicker of your gaze toward Aegon before making his move. Lunging forward, he reaches for you, but you step back, just beyond his grasp, nimble as ever.

A smile plays across your lips, a playful challenge in your eyes as you dance out of his reach once more. Undeterred, Criston lunges again, his focus narrowing, but you twist away, leaving him empty-handed.

It was a game to you—to Aegon, too—but to Criston, it is something else entirely. For just a moment, as the chase continues, he wonders if he is being played as much as the game itself. 

“Come on, Ser Criston!” Your teasing voice carries through the garden, light and playful, as you dart away with the agility of someone far too familiar with evasion.

He exhales sharply, his patience thinning as he begins to give chase. Duty compels him to follow, though there is a part of him that questions why he’s being roped into such childish antics.

Before he knows it, Aegon joins in, his laughter loud and uninhibited as his children squeal and sprint alongside him. Their delighted giggles mix with your own, a symphony of amusement that contrasts sharply with Ser Criston’s singular focus.

Sounds of laughter ring in his ears, growing louder with each step. But to Criston, this isn’t a game—it’s an obligation. He isn’t here to entertain; he is here to serve. He pushes himself harder, his armor clinking with each determined stride, as his eyes stay fixed on you.

You dart around a tree, Aegon and the children following suit. It’s chaos, pure and unbridled, as you all weave between the garden paths. Criston moves with precision, his every step calculated, but you remain maddeningly out of reach.

“Faster, Ser Criston!” Aegon calls out between breaths, grinning over his shoulder. “She’s making a fool of you!”

Criston clenches his jaw but says nothing, focusing on closing the gap between you. He can feel the weight of Aegon’s jest, the implied challenge in his words. It’s not the first time Aegon has tried to needle him, but today, it feels different.

Finally, you pause near a fountain, momentarily caught off guard as you turn to check your pursuers. Criston sees his chance. With a burst of speed, he lunges, his hand outstretched.

But at the last second, you spin away, your laughter ringing out like a bell. “Too slow, Ser Criston!” you call, your grin infuriatingly triumphant.

“And from their filth shall spring the curse of crimson sores.”

Helaena’s soft, cryptic words hang heavy in the air, and for the briefest moment, they seem to freeze you in place. Your smile falters, your laughter dies, and the light in your eyes dims as though the weight of some unseen burden has fallen upon your shoulders.

Ser Criston doesn’t miss it. The sudden shift in your demeanor sparks a flicker of curiosity within him, though he buries it beneath his sense of duty. Whatever troubles you, it is not his concern.

Using the momentary distraction to his advantage, Criston lunges forward and seizes your wrist, his grip firm. “Caught,” he announces, his voice tinged with triumph.

But the victory is short-lived.

In your attempt to twist free, your heel catches on the hem of your dress. A sharp gasp escapes your lips as you stumble backward, pulling him with you.

The world tilts for a fleeting second before a loud splash shatters the stillness of the garden.

Cold water engulfs him and you both as you both tumble into the fountain, the shock of it jolting Criston from his focus. He surfaces quickly, sputtering as droplets stream down his face, his hair clinging unceremoniously to his forehead.

You emerge a moment later, your dress heavy with water and your expression caught somewhere between shock and disbelief. For a beat, the two of you simply stare at one another, both dripping and equally at a loss for words.

Then, you laugh.

It’s not the polite laughter you might reserve for a courtly jest, nor the restrained giggle that punctuates your playful teasing. This is unrestrained, unabashed laughter, spilling from you like the water cascading from the fountain’s edges.

Criston scowls, running a hand down his face to wipe away the water. “This is hardly amusing,” he mutters, his voice low and irritable.

“Oh, but it is,” Ser Criston hears Aegon reply as he laughs. Your laughter mixes with Aegon’s and his children, and even a small giggle from Helaena. Eventually your laughs subsided into soft chuckles as you wring out a section of your dress.

“Ser Criston Cole, the ever-dutiful knight, bested by a fountain. Truly, a tale for the ages,” Aegon jeered, his voice ringing with amusement.

Criston huffed out a sharp breath, his patience wearing thin as he yanked you to your feet with more force than was necessary. His grip on your arm was firm—unyielding, even—as though he were anchoring you to the moment, making sure there was no chance for you to dart away.

He looked down at you, taking in the way the water clung to your features. Your reddened eyes, framed by damp lashes clumped together, gave you a doll-like appearance. The sunlight caught in them, giving way to a beautiful color. 

In this way all eyes look beautiful in the sun. All eyes look beautiful when catching the sunlight, not just yours.

“And tag,” Aegon announced, tapping your other arm with a laugh.

Criston’s grip didn’t falter as you shifted slightly, your body tensing with the intention of lunging toward Aegon. But before you could make your move, Criston pulled you back sharply, keeping you firmly at his side.

“Oh, come on, Ser Criston,” you quipped, raising a brow as water dripped from your soaked hair. “You’re such a stick in the mud.”

He didn’t respond, his lips pressed into a hard line as his gaze lingered on you. Whatever that phrase meant, it was irrelevant. What mattered now was keeping you from whatever mischief you were undoubtedly planning.

“Brother!” Aegon’s voice rang out again, louder this time.

Criston’s sharp eye caught the subtle change in you. Your smile faltered ever so slightly, and though it lasted only a moment, your entire demeanor seemed to stiffen. The vibrant energy that had been radiating from you mere seconds ago dimmed.

So there were issues.

He didn’t have time to dwell on the thought before Aemond’s familiar figure appeared, his stride purposeful and his face a mask of cold disdain. The contrast between the two brothers could not have been more apparent—Aegon, all reckless energy and smirking irreverence, and Aemond, a storm contained within human form.

“Having fun?” Aemond’s voice cut through the air, low and biting. His single eye flickered briefly to Criston before settling on you.

“Loads,” you replied, your tone far too casual, though your stiffened posture betrayed you. “We’re just playing a game.”

Aemond’s gaze didn’t waver. “A game,” he echoed flatly, his tone making it clear he found the notion ridiculous.

“It’s called tag,” Aegon interjected with a grin, clearly enjoying the tension that crackled in the air.

Criston felt your arm twitch in his grip, and he tightened his hold slightly, a silent warning. Whatever this was, he was not going to let you escalate it.

“And I see Criston has already captured the prize,” Aemond remarked, his eye narrowing as he gestured vaguely toward you. “How fitting.”

Your jaw tightened, and for the first time, Criston saw a flash of something raw in your expression. Defiance, perhaps. Or was it fear? He couldn’t tell, but whatever it was, it burned briefly before you masked it with a forced smile.

“Well,” you said lightly, though your voice wavered just enough for Criston to catch it. “You know me.”

“Do I?” Aemond replied, his voice like ice.

Criston’s grip on your arm was the only thing keeping you rooted as the tension between you and Aemond thickened, the unspoken weight of whatever grudge lay between you pressing down on everyone present.

“Ser Criston, release her.”

Dutifully, Criston did as commanded, his grip loosening immediately.

“My lady.” Aemond extended his hand toward you, his expression as cold and unreadable as his tone.

Criston didn’t miss the hesitation in your movements, the way your gaze seemed to flit just past Aemond’s hand, as though searching for something—or someone—else. Still, after that brief pause, you placed your hand in his.

The moment your fingers touched his, Aemond’s grip tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who held the reins. He wasted no time turning on his heel, leading you away without so much as a glance back.

“I will excuse myself,” you called over your shoulder, your voice forced into a semblance of calm. “I must gather a change of clothing.”

Aemond’s steps didn’t falter, but his eye flicked toward you, sharp and questioning.

“You’ll have no need,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Criston watched the two of you disappear around the corner, your figure still visibly stiff beside Aemond’s towering form. The air that remained in their wake was thick with something unspoken, something that left Criston unsettled.

“My brother,” Aegon muttered with a smirk, breaking the silence as he approached Criston. “Always so dramatic, isn’t he?”

Criston said nothing, his eyes lingering on the empty corridor where you had been led away. Aegon’s humor didn’t reach him. Something felt…off. But it wasn’t his place to pry. At least not yet.

It wasn’t long before Aegon dismissed him to change. His white cloak was soaked through, the weight of it dragging against his shoulders. Criston’s jaw tightened as he made his way down the hall.

“I think you’re overreact—” Your voice rang out, you were giggling and laughing, only to be cut off abruptly.

Criston’s steps slowed instinctively, his gaze shifting to the dark corner ahead. There you were, pressed against the stone wall, with Aemond looming over you like a shadow. His dominant arm was raised, where his hand lay, Criston knew. He knew by your eyes, wide and pleading, and your hand raised holding onto Aemond’s arm. Ser Criston did not falter. He resumed walking, his pace steady, his gaze deliberately forward. He didn’t acknowledge the strained sound of your breaths that echoed faintly in the silence.

(The honor of Ser Criston Cole died long ago)

You polluted so much. Criston had always known that. You had polluted Aemond, a prince he believed would never behave in such a way toward a woman. Yet here you were, dragging him into the chaos that seemed to follow you like a shadow.

Ser Criston told himself it wasn’t his place. The Queen had not commanded him to intervene. The crown had not tasked him with your redemption. Still, as he walked away, the unease lingered like a sour taste on his tongue. Aemond was changing. And for better or worse, it all seemed to lead back to you.

…

Alicent cannot count how many hours you have spent staring at her sworn hand. The way your gaze lingers on him, with that peculiar curiosity you seem to carry for everything, makes her skin prickle. You had begged for a horse—so insistent, as though you believed yourself entitled to such privilege. Alicent does not doubt you wanted to ride alongside the men, away from her watchful gaze. The High Septon’s words about you echo in her mind: the gods sing through her; her skin is a reflection of the Seven themselves. Nonsense.

To Alicent, all she sees is a harlot reaching too far. A harlot who has already corrupted her son. She feels her throat tighten at the thought and resolves, with steel in her heart, that you cannot meet Daeron. You must not. Her sweet boy, her last hope—the only one she can still convince herself is untainted.

Her eyes flick to the high-collared dress you wear, elegant and modest in cut, but it does little to conceal the faint, creeping purple at the base of your neck. A bruise. Alicent feels the muscles in her jaw tighten as she forces her gaze back to your face.

It is your fault, she tells herself. Aemond would never… Not unless it was necessary. Her son is dutiful, measured, and righteous. If his hand left its mark on you, then surely it was deserved. It had to be. You push too far, speak too freely, play too dangerous a game.

You do not look toward her, your focus instead turned to the carriage window. Your head leans slightly out, as though you are eager to escape even this small space you share with her. The sunlight dances on your skin (there is a shine to it, but Alicent will not admit that. She will not admit that she too can see the small specks of the color of the seven on your skin.),the faint breeze tousles your hair, your impossibly long dark lashes, the same flushed look you always seem to have even as the wind blows, and finally your plump lips that shine in the sunlight, but to Alicent, there is nothing graceful or pure about the sight. There is only calculation in you.

“You’ve grown awfully quiet,” Alicent remarks, her tone laced with an air of authority that expects a swift and proper response.

You straighten slightly, turning your gaze toward her, though you keep your head bowed in deference. “There is little to say, Your Grace, that would interest you.”

“Is that so?” Alicent’s voice is sharper now, her posture rigid. “You’re rarely so reserved when others are around to listen.”

There’s a flicker in your eyes—something unreadable that Alicent does not like. “I only meant that my thoughts are unworthy of wasting your time, Your Grace.”

She narrows her eyes, studying you. There’s no outright defiance in your tone, but the undercurrent of something unsaid needles at her. Alicent grips the edge of her dress tightly, a quiet storm brewing beneath her calm exterior.

“You are to tread carefully in Old Town,” she says, her voice firm and deliberate. “The Faith is not as easily charmed as my husband or my son.”

Your head bows further, your tone soft and measured. “I understand, Your Grace. I will do my utmost to meet the expectations of the Faith.”

Alicent’s lips press into a thin line. It’s the perfect response, yet somehow, it still feels like an affront. “Good,” she says, though her tone is far from satisfied. “Oldtown is not a place for missteps.”

“I would never dare, Your Grace.”

Her gaze flicks back to the faint bruise once more, and she resists the urge to sigh. Foolish girl. Alicent is convinced it is your audacity that led you here. You provoke too much. You speak too freely. And her son—her son—had merely reminded you of your place.

The carriage jolts slightly, and Alicent’s hand grips the armrest for balance. She turns her gaze back to you, but you’ve already returned to staring out the window, your expression unreadable.

Alicent watches you in silence for a long moment, her mind whirling. The Faith may sing your praises now, but Alicent knows better. There’s something about you that doesn’t belong—something that unsettles her. Whatever game you are playing, she resolves to put an end to it before it can spread further.

The road stretches endlessly ahead, and for the first time in years, Alicent finds herself praying—not for herself, but for the strength to protect what little remains incorrupt.

Time stretches on, a monotonous drone of hooves and wheels against the dirt road. Your gaze remains fixed on the world beyond the window, your eyes following the guards as they ride in rhythm with the carriage. Every so often, your gaze lingers on Ser Criston Cole, though your expression betrays little. Finally, you lean back, letting the glass pane fade from your view, and close your eyes.

Alicent watches you from across the carriage. Your breaths are soft, measured—a lull that seems almost serene. You, a mere commoner, asleep in the presence of a queen. The thought should anger her. It should ignite the same righteous indignation that has kept her spine straight through decades of duty. But instead, it settles like a lead weight in her chest, pulling her down, suffocating her under its quiet enormity.

And then your head tilts back, your features soft in repose. But the calm shatters for her as the high collar of your dress shifts, revealing the deep purple marks circling your neck like a cruel mockery of jewelry. Her breath stills.

Alicent’s fingers twitch in her lap. There’s an itch beneath her skin, one she can’t quite place, but it festers as her eyes remain fixed on you. She grips the folds of her dress tightly, her nails pressing into the fabric, then against her palm. Aemond wouldn’t do this. He couldn’t have done this. He is good—he is better than this.

Her nails dig deeper, but the itch refuses to fade. Her gaze flickers between the bruises and your still form. You sleep so peacefully, as though you have no weight to carry. But Alicent can feel it. She feels the weight of your presence, the way you’ve crept into her life like a shadow she cannot escape. You infect everything—her court, her children. It’s you. It has to be you.

She scratches harder, the skin of her palm breaking beneath her nails. It isn’t enough. She bites at the side of her nail, tearing at it until she tastes blood. But even that doesn’t ease the ache building in her chest. The sight of those bruises—those vile marks—gnaws at her. You must have done something. Provoked him. My son would not… could not… unless it was necessary. It is your fault. You are the problem.

Her breaths grow shallow as the ache twists into something unbearable. The itch deepens, crawling up her throat, demanding relief she cannot give. The carriage feels too small, too confined. Every jolt of the wheels rattles through her bones, every breath a knife she cannot avoid.

“Stop the carriage,” she says, her voice hoarse and brittle.

The carriage lurches to a halt, the abruptness jolting you awake. Your eyes blink open, hazy with confusion, and you glance toward her. Alicent doesn’t look at you. She cannot. She forces herself to step out, the rush of cool air biting against her flushed skin.

The guards look to her for instruction, but she ignores them, her eyes fixed on the empty road ahead. The stillness of the air feels deafening, the weight of her thoughts pressing harder now that she is no longer confined.

Behind her, she knows you are watching. You adjust the collar of your dress, your hands pulling it higher, though it can never truly erase what she has seen. The bruises remain etched in her mind, as much a scar on her conscience as they are a mark on your skin.

Alicent stands motionless, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. Aemond wouldn’t. He couldn’t. But the thought circles back to her, relentless and cold. Unless it was necessary.

The wind brushes past her, carrying with it no answers, only the bitter chill of failure.

Unless it was necessary.

How could it not be? How could it not be when you tempt those around you, flitting through their lives like a spark too close to dry kindling? You walk as if you belong everywhere, stretching your arms wide as though ready to embrace the world. Your steps are light, but your presence weighs heavy. You look at everything with those wide, curious eyes, as if you are discovering Westeros anew.

Alicent watches, her jaw tight as you meander over to the horses being tended by the King’s Guard. She watches as you run your fingers along their manes, pulling at tufts of long grass to feed them. Her lips press into a thin line as you strike up a conversation with Ser Arryk, who humors you with a faint smile, answering questions she can’t quite hear.

Unless it was necessary.

The thought loops endlessly in her mind. It has to be true. It must be true. How else could she reconcile the sight of those bruises on your neck with the son she raised? Her perfect, dutiful boy who would never harm without cause. You must have provoked him. You must have done something.

Alicent’s hands curl into her skirts, her nails digging into the fabric. She cannot stand it—cannot stand you. The itch resurfaces, crawling beneath her skin, making her feel raw and restless. Her gaze meets Ser Criston’s, and she finds him already watching her. His face is unreadable, but his presence only sharpens the itch. It prickles her arms, sends gooseflesh rising across her skin.

It is wrong, she knows, this loathing that wells within her every time you are near. She tells herself it is because you are dangerous, because you have ensnared her son and polluted her household. She tells herself that no mother could endure what she must endure, watching you move so carelessly through her family’s fragile world.

But Alicent also knows she cannot survive much longer in your presence. The mere thought of returning to the carriage with you, sitting so close that she can hear your breaths, makes her stomach twist. The itch demands relief, and she scratches at it in her mind, even as her resolve cracks.

“Give the girl a horse,” she murmurs, her voice low but firm, a queen’s command. Without waiting for a reply, she retreats to the carriage alone. The door shuts behind her with a heavy finality, sealing her in a space that feels marginally safer now that you are no longer there.

Inside, the itch subsides, though only slightly. Her hands tremble in her lap as your voice drifts through the air, clear and bright.

“In all honesty, I cannot ride well, Ser Arryk. I’m afraid I will need lessons. Sorry.”

Alicent’s lips curl into a grimace. Why would you ask for a horse if you cannot even ride? It makes no sense. Nothing about you makes sense. You are a puzzle she does not wish to solve, a disruption she cannot ignore.

The carriage jolts as the horses start moving again, and Alicent leans back, closing her eyes in a futile attempt to find peace. But even here, away from you, your presence lingers like a shadow, impossible to shake.

Alicent is given an hour of peace before your voice rings out again, slicing through the fragile silence she had desperately clung to.

“I think I’ve got it,” you announce with an air of triumph, the sound of hooves clattering unevenly as you approach.

Her jaw tightens instinctively. Slowly, she opens her eyes and peers out the window of the carriage. There you are, perched precariously atop the horse, wobbling slightly as you grip the reins. One of the guards walks alongside you, holding the bridle steady, while Ser Arryk watches from a few paces away with barely concealed amusement.

“Steady!” Ser Arryk calls out, his voice laced with patience.

“I am steady!” you snap back, though your swaying posture betrays you. “This is easy. See? I’m practically a natural.”

Alicent exhales through her nose, long and slow, as though releasing the weight of her irritation. But the truth is, she can feel the annoyance bubbling beneath her ribs, like hot oil threatening to spill over. She has no desire to watch this display of yours, this... spectacle.

Alicent looks outside and suddenly you're making the horse gallop and while you sway, the speed of which you have managed to ascertain this skill…Alicent rests her head against the back of the seat ignoring the prickle she feels.

“My Lady please go with caution!” Alicent can hear Ser Arryk or Ser Erryk yell after you. She can only imagine just how you are riding now. The wind blowing through your skirts as your horse continues to gallop. (And Alicent can picture the sun illuminating your face as fragments of the Seven shine upon your skin. Though she will not give any acknowledgement that she can see how the High Septon may have been fooled by you.)

After hours finally the sun was beginning to set. It wasn’t long before everything was set up. Alicent looked around. You were nowhere in sight…and neither was Ser Arryk. 

Harlot.

Alicent’s eyes flickered to Ser Criston once more, but he was already on the move, drawn away from her as always. She remained in the carriage, waiting as the men prepared the camp, listening to the distant clatter of armor and hushed orders.

Then—shouting.

“STAY WITH THE QUEEN!”

The call rang through the night, sharp and urgent. Alicent turned toward the window just as the full moon bathed the camp in cold, silver light. And then—hands. Unfamiliar, rough hands yanking her from the carriage.

She screamed, a shrill, desperate sound. No—no, no, no! She cannot die. Not now. Not when the realm needs her. Not when her children would be left without her. What would become of them?

“SHEILDS!”

The thud of arrows sinking into wood filled the night, the sharp twang of bowstrings cutting through the chaos. Alicent’s breath came in short, panicked gasps as she struggled against her captor, her thoughts frantic. Where is Ser Criston?

Still looking for you.

Selfish, reckless, insufferable you.

And now, because of you, because of your ceaseless ability to command attention, she was here, vulnerable, desperate for her sworn shield—yet you had him as the wrath of the Seven crashed upon her in full force.

Why?

Was it because she had violated the sacred vows of marriage? Because she was a mother who would go to any lengths to protect her children? What crime had she committed so great that the gods saw fit to damn her like this?

Alicent barely had time to think before she was shoved to the ground, the impact rattling through her bones. Warmth splattered across her face. A metallic tang filled her mouth. Blood. Not hers.

She screamed.

Why must she suffer? How much more must she endure before the gods smiled upon her? Had she not done everything right? Had she not abided by the Seven? Had she not fulfilled her duty as a wife, as a mother, as a queen? She is not the one who birthed bastards.

The screams and clamor of battle dulled into ringing silence, her breath shallow and uneven. The chaos melted into an eerie stillness, and then—hands. Strong hands lifting her from the ground.

She could not see who they belonged to. The moon hung full and bright above them, yet its light did not reach her. Be they rogue men or the King’s Guard, she did not know. The gods had left her blind in the dark.

Then, at last, a voice.

Ser Erryk. Or was it Ser Arryk? Their faces blurred together in the dim light, indistinguishable. If they were both here, then—

Where were you?

Had you been killed in the chaos?

Something warm trailed down her temple. Slowly, Alicent raised a trembling hand, her fingers brushing against the thick wetness. As she pulled away, the dark smear on her skin became visible.

Blood.

Alicent’s breath shuddered in her chest, though she did not allow herself to tremble. The knight wiped her face, the blood smearing before it was cleared away.

“Tis not your blood, my queen.”

No, it was not. But whose was it?

She barely registered the chill of the night, the acrid scent of blood still thick in the air. One of the twins turned from her, disappearing toward the woods.

“Where are you going?” she asked, though her voice sounded distant to her own ears.

“The lady was left alone in the woods with Ser Criston and her horse.”

The words settled over her like a burial shroud. The lady. You.

So you were dead.

Alicent exhaled through her nose, steadying herself. She had no doubt. Ser Criston had killed you. He was always thorough. Always dutiful.

Her own words returned to her, whispered in the confines of her mind.

Unchecked, yes, but not for much longer.

She had nodded to him, and he had understood. (He always did.) This had been the best time. A death under the guise of an attack. A necessary evil.

She stepped forward, her pace steady but laced with urgency. She needed to see it herself—no matter how gruesome, no matter how stained with blood. The truth could not be avoided.  

The guards moved with her, silent specters in the night. Seven in total. Four from the City Watch, their golden cloaks muted beneath the moon’s gaze, and three from the Kingsguard, gleaming white even in the gloom.  

For her protection, she had briefly assumed. After all, only the finest warriors in all of Westeros were chosen to serve the Crown, and three of them walked by her side. But it was not for her, was it? No, not for the Queen of Westeros.  

It had taken only a few hushed words from Viserys—words spoken in passing, laced with an unease she had not heard from him in years—for the realization to sink in. He worried for you. The three were for you. 

How could they not be?  

You, who played the role of a god in her husband’s eyes. You, who bent the King’s ear with ease while she, his lawful wife, was left to wither in silence.  

The forest stretched before her, vast and unyielding, the trees gnarled like the grasping hands of the dead. Shadows coiled between the trunks, thick and endless, swallowing the light of the moon. Had it not been for the gleaming white of the Kingsguard’s cloaks—like fallen stars against the darkness—she might have been lost to the night entirely.

It was not long before she heard it—muted cries, soft and broken. Alicent halted mid-step, her breath catching in her throat.

The moon had not shone for her, offering no solace, no guiding light. But for you… the moon bathed you in its radiance, casting you as something otherworldly amidst the gnarled shadows of the trees. The sight sent a ripple of unease through her.

Fear. She had never feared you before. Not truly. Not in the way she feared you now, standing there with the Seven seemingly dancing upon your skin, your form aglow beneath the silver light.

Something black streaked down your cheeks, pooling at your chin, yet it was not for yourself that you wept. No, your sorrow was reserved for the creature at your feet—the very horse you had met mere hours ago, now gasping for breath, its life slipping from between your fingers.

The moon did not shine for Alicent. The Seven did not smile upon her. But for you? They wept with you, grieved with you, their presence so stark and undeniable it made her stomach turn.

She cannot understand it.

How the light clings to your features, how it renders you ethereal. How you kneel beside the dying beast, shushing it with soft murmurs, your voice weaving through the cold air in a tongue she cannot place. “Santificado sea tu nombre,” Yet, she knows—you are praying.

And that—more than the blood, more than the darkness streaking down your cheeks—makes her ill.

"By the gods."

She shouldn’t swear. She knows she shouldn’t—another reason for the Seven to turn their faces from her. But Alicent cannot stop the words from slipping through her lips, breathless and shaken. Because this cannot be. You cannot be.

The High Septon had spoken of divinity, of the gods whispering in your wake, of holiness reflected in your very skin. But Alicent had already damned you in her mind. She had condemned you as a harlot, a corrupter, a creature born to bring ruin. The gods cannot claim you now. (But perhaps you had always been theirs.)

Yet here you are, and the world bends in your presence. The forest, once thick with shadows, parts for the moonlight that clings to your form. The dark streaks down your cheeks, the tremor in your breath—it is not for yourself that you grieve. You cry for the dying beast at your feet, hands pressed to its shuddering side as if you might will life back into it. And the gods—her gods—watch over you.

Alicent cannot bear to look.

Her gaze seeks out Ser Criston, her sworn shield, her ever-faithful hand. But when she finds him, he is not looking at her. His eyes are fixed upon you and behind him are blinking lights as the lights of the forest shine for you and those who repent. 

And then Alicent feels it—a lurching sickness, twisting deep in her stomach. Because she knows that look. Awe. Repentance. The quiet devastation of a man who was meant to kill you but cannot.

Her eyes look towards you once more, your eyes red as you cry and pray for the dying animal and more lights begin to flash behind you. Rhythmically almost.

She turns away and retches into the dirt.

The sound of her own breathing, ragged and uneven, barely drowns out the silence behind her. She does not need to turn back to know what she will see. Ser Criston’s morningstar lying useless on the ground. A blinking light on it. His sword cast aside. Another weapon with blinking lights that sit upon it. His white cloak dirtied at the edges but forgotten in his reverence. And worst of all—the truth written plainly in his eyes.

He was going to do it. He was going to carry out her will.

But he could not.

Not when the gods themselves seem to shield you. Not when the Seven have wrapped you in their light and forced his weapon from his grasp.

Not when they have chosen you.

…

But you left.

Aemond knows he was wrong. He knows it deep in his bones, in the quiet moments when he is alone in his chambers, staring at his own reflection in the polished steel of his dagger. The bruises he left upon your throat haunt him. A phantom wrapped around his fingers, a weight he cannot shake.

(But did you have to act like that with Cole? Did you have to hold onto him? Did you have to continue to humiliate him? Why is that you deem it proper to humiliate a Prince of the Realm? )

But you—you should have told him. If you had only spoken, if you had only trusted him, then it wouldn’t have come to this. He wouldn’t have had to force it from you. Wouldn’t have had to feel his pulse pounding in his temples, his fingers tightening against something so soft, so breakable. Wouldn’t have had to see the shock in your eyes, the betrayal that stole your breath.

He tries to tell himself that it wasn’t his fault. That it was you who made him do it. But the thought is hollow. Aemond has spent his whole life mastering control—of his mind, of his body, of his rage. And yet, when it came to you, all of that control unraveled, slipping through his grasp like sand in the wind.

And now you are gone.

He tells himself it is for the best. That you will see reason in time. That you will return. But doubt festers in his chest like an open wound, aching, throbbing, refusing to heal.

You left. And Aemond is beginning to fear that you might not come back.

You wouldn’t leave him. Would you?

Not when he knows the most intimate parts of you, and you of him. Not when you unraveled each other in ways no one else ever will. Not when he owns a part of you—a part that lingers in the very bed he lies upon, in the imprint left on the sheets, in the scent still fresh on the linen.

You could not leave him. Not when Aemond has been your solace, your refuge when the world turned cruel. He knows it. You found something in him—he saw it in your eyes, heard it in the way you whispered his name in the dark. You cannot walk away. Not when you know he is more capable than the others. More than Aegon. More than Jacaerys. More than Cole. More than Daeron, should you ever meet him. More than anyone.

With Aemond, your worries disappeared. You told him so. He never even had to ask.

You will come back. Of course, you will. And when you do, everything will be as it was.

Even if you make him suffer in your absence, even if you seek to punish him with distance—to make him hate you—he will endure it. Because Aemond is nothing if not resilient.

Aemond simply is.

Yet there is a doubt that creeps in his mind as he bucks his hips upwards into your sheets, desperate to inhale your scent. 

No, Aemond can take it. He can take it, swords twisting into him, Dragon fire pecking at his skin, blows from the strongest warriors and fighters. He can take it. (Except he cannot, he cannot take having you gone, even if you are coming back soon. (And you will…right?)) 

Aemond is desperate, it’s been days since he’s last had you, since he’s last tasted you. You are a necessity. 

And he is a necessity. You have made it so. Aemond wonders if you too are on a bed in Old Town, mayhaps your fingers between your thighs. Desperately trying to recreate him as he is trying to recreate you now.

You will come back. You will come to him. You must come back to him.

Him? Aemond, a Prince here in your bed desperately trying to find you? He cannot go on living like this, you will come back. 

You are ideal. Had you only been born with a noble name, you would’ve been perfect. Though he supposes your attempt to claw your way up is endearing as well.

But by the gods, he needs you now. Your familiar warmth. His body that now longs for your warmth. 

Aemond has worked hard to mold you to him, and you are for him.

You cannot have him like this. Hopeless, turned boy once more searching fruitlessly for his mother’s affection. (Now you do, however, you have him wrapping his hands around his cock trying to simulate the feeling of your hands that have never known a day of work, while his face is buried into your sheets trying to smell you once more.)

Aemond knows he lost his temper with you. It wasn’t on purpose, he swears it wasn’t on purpose. He cannot recreate your hands with his own, his own that he knows that holds the weight of his betrayal of you. A distinct whimper slipped through his parted lips. Aemonds chest rose up and down, releasing the short gasps.

God, he needs your lips. Those kisses that he remembers as if it was only yesterday. The sweetness that to him tastes like honey. Aemond can only hope to try and remember when his body would enter yours little by little, while he kissed your tender skin. 

Another groan left him. Those sounds Aemond made that he knows would have you clenching around him. Every minute, no, every second of it, it was perfect. You exist for him. You have to when you react to him in such a manner. 

But now you're gone.

His hand wrapped around the throbbing genital, fisting it after his first climax had his vision blurring, tears sparkling his lash line.

Aemonds hand never stopped. It's what you would've done, as revenge perhaps…a get back at him?

Excuse after excuse. Aemond longed for your presence beside him and if you weren't gonna appear, he'd have to visualize you inside his mind.

The large, veiny hands were replaced with the cold of your own, Aemond shuddered, head tipping back against the bed frame. His eyebrows scrunched together, eye half-lidded and allowing the pleasure to seek through his veins.

A finger caught on the thin slit, spreading the pearly-white pre upon the tip, rubbing the spot, a giggle leaving your lips, watching as his cock sprung up. Pumped and angry.

Aemond blanked out, his hand was mindlessly keeping the rapid movement of stroking his length, roughly so. He blinked away tears, painting the scenes of you together inside his head.

The imagination was truly a powerful thing.

A coil tightened in his stomach, a cold touch to his dick and the thumb caressing his tip.

Again. Again. And again. 

Until the pain turned into pleasure, all his thoughts faded out, crawling out of his head.

“F-fuck! You…come!” He slurred.

Sensing his next climax about to crash down on him. His head was mushy, squeezing the muscles of his face together.

“Please…! I never–!” The white filling spurted out of his cock, now coating the whole length by the continued strokes,

“–meant it!”

It sent that paralyzing chill up his skin until it reached his neck, Aemond fell back on the bed exhausted, overstimulation having his body slowly ticking into sleep.

Another snicker had his heart dropping to his stomach, eye blown wide.

Yet…you weren't there. He was slowly losing the rope that he clutched onto. The fabric that had his sanity tightly bound together.

“You’ll come back.” Aemond looks down towards his mess on your sheets. It was fine. It’s how it was supposed to be in the first place. Silently slipping under your covers he covered himself completely as sleep took him.

…

"And the King has approved of this?"

Ser Criston lingered just beyond the heavy doors, the hushed murmurs within barely muffled by the thick wood. It had taken three days—three days—for the Grand Maesters to grant you an audience.

How absurd. You carried the King’s word.

(And perhaps, if Ser Criston’s eyes had not deceived him, the will of the gods as well.)

That night, gods be good, he was to strike you down. He bit the inside of his cheek as he listened to the murmurs behind the door. He felt sick. So sick when he saw you crying. He had thought you hurt yourself, or perhaps one of the bandits had gotten to you before Ser Arryk could strike them down. But it was quickly dismissed when he crossed paths with Ser Arryk informing him you had no such injuries. 

And yet, the image of you remained burned into his mind—the moonlight kissing your skin, the gods weeping with you, the streaks of black down your cheeks like some holy anointment. The horse’s dying breath rattled in the cold air. His fingers clenched at his side.

He had been meant to kill you.

Alicent had willed it. He is her sword shield. What she wills he does. His sword, his faith, his duty—he had steadied himself for the blow. And then the gods had turned his weapon to dust as they wrapped you in their light and they danced upon your skin. 

He had seen it in Alicent’s eyes. The horror, the fury, the sickness of a woman who had called upon righteousness only to find the gods had already made their choice. And not in her favor.

Ser Criston closed his eyes briefly, willing the memory away as the murmurs beyond the door grew sharper.

“And you, a woman, was the one to propose it?” one of the Grand Maesters was saying, his voice filled with mockery. “I am sure you are a woman who is coquette.” Criston’s eyes narrowed. (He knows he once regarded you as such once before, but was he wrong? Is he right? Ser Criston does not know anymore.)

There was a pause. The rustling of parchment.

“If King Viserys so desires it, with the approval of Otto Hightower, then we shall look it over honestly.”

A scoff. “Otto Hightower is not a man to be ‘persuaded.’”

Criston exhaled sharply through his nose. The Maesters could play at logic, at reason, but they had not seen what he had seen. They had not stood in the presence of something they could not explain.

Another voice—one that made his stomach twist.

“Yet his name is signed. Everyone in the small council has signed it. If they all signed, should it not be a sign that it is worth a look? Regardless of who proposed it?” Your voice sounded and guilt twisted in his stomach. 

He had not felt guilt like this in almost a decade. 

He must will himself through it. 

Criston Cole has a role to play and he will play it well. The role of Ser Criston Cole, an honorable knight, who had taken an oath of celibacy, and is the sworn shield to Queen Alicent Hightower.

(Yet he did not play his role when he saw you against a wall with Prince Aemond’s hand around your neck. He was not honorable then.)

This must be a test of sorts. But for who, he does not know. 

Criston does not know anymore. 

Criston had once believed himself a man of unwavering faith, his conviction as firm as the steel he carried. He had followed the will of the gods, the will of his Queen, without question.

And yet, as he stood beyond those doors, he can only listen as they ridicule you, and mock you. Criston Cole does not know what to feel as he hears you petition for the people, hears your voice heavy with conviction. 

Ser Criston’s hands remain empty, his sword untouched, his faith in tatters—he could not help but wonder:

Had the test been yours?

Or had it been his all along?

Ser Criston lingered just beyond the heavy doors, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his jaw rigid. The voices within were hushed yet sharp, their tones laced with authority and condescension. He should not be listening. He should not care. And yet, his ears strained to catch every word.

“You think you can do what Maesters for decades could not?” The voice was old, lined with skepticism, the weight of experience carried in its rasp.

Criston imagined the scene inside—wrinkled hands folded over thick robes, chains rattling as the Maesters exchanged glances. He could picture the way they sneered down at you, their superiority draped around them like armor.

“You are not properly educated, nor can you be,” another scoffed. “Women cannot become Maesters. Only midwives.”

A pause. He could almost hear the way you tilted your head, the way your lips would curl, sharp as a blade before you spoke.

“I can assure you, I wield proper education. Some would wager, more advanced than yours.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Criston exhaled sharply through his nose. A bold answer. Too bold. You had no fear, did you? Or perhaps you did, but you wielded it as a weapon rather than a chain. (Yet Criston knows the Gods protect you.)

A shift of robes. A deep inhale, drawn through gritted teeth.

“Mind your tongue,” the elder Maester snapped, his voice taut with barely veiled irritation. “You are foreign. Where you come from, I’m sure they use dirt as money. You are not special. You are commonly born, without a name behind you. You are a woman.”

The words settled in Criston’s stomach like a stone, heavy and unyielding.

Another man might have laughed—might have found amusement in your humiliation, might have thought it fitting. But Criston only pressed his palm against the hilt of his sword, fingers tightening until his knuckles burned, his jaw clenched so hard it sent a dull ache through his skull.

He did not know why.

No, you were not like him. You were nothing like Criston Cole. He had been a fool to think otherwise. And yet, for some reason, the realization felt like a betrayal.

Criston Cole had never stood where you stood. He had never been in your position, just as you had never been in his. He had never been protected by the gods. That was the difference, wasn’t it? That was why you stood so assured, so unshaken—not because you placed faith in yourself, but because you placed it in them.

Envy is a disease blooming within him, curling its way through his ribs like ivy tightening around stone. It festers in the quiet moments, in the spaces between breath and thought, poisoning him with its whispers.

(Envy is a disease.)

Envy—for the way you stand unbowed beneath their ridicule, for the way their scorn does not touch you as it once had him.

Envy—for the appearance of self-assurance when he has never known such a thing, when every step he takes is burdened with doubt.

And now, envy that claws at him from the inside out, sharper than any blade. Envy for your unmovable faith—the kind that has not only endured but has been rewarded.

“Proper education?” Another scoffed, incredulous. “You speak as though knowledge is plucked from the air like an apple from a tree.” A faint rustling of parchment followed—a deliberate gesture, no doubt, a reminder of their many tomes, their vast libraries. “We have spent decades studying, interpreting, refining our craft. And yet you, a nameless girl, would have us believe you possess wisdom beyond our station?”

Another chuckled, low and derisive. “She thinks herself above Maesters. A scholar, perhaps? Did you sit at the feet of great men and scribble down their words like a dutiful little scribe? Or did you trade whispers in the dark, learning your lessons between silken sheets?”

A ripple of laughter followed. Criston’s grip on his sword tightened.

(Why? He cannot say why. Why should he care when you are nothing like him.) 

“Perhaps she fancies herself a healer,” another mused, his voice thick with amusement. “Is that what you are, girl? Did you brew a few herbs, press a few leeches to flesh, and now you believe yourself learned?” A beat of silence, then a sneer. “Or is your skill in another craft entirely? A different kind of medicine, one that does not require ink or parchment, only a well-placed smile and willing men?”

The laughter was louder this time. Ugly.

Criston exhaled sharply, staring at the thick wood of the door as though it might crack beneath his gaze. He should not be here. He should not care. He should turn on his heel and walk away, let you fight your own battles, let you bear the weight of their scorn alone.

And yet.

He remained rooted in place, listening.

“I bring the word of King Viserys and I ask that you would so humbly listen to what I have to say. My proposition of—” Your voice finally came out, though now…Criston could not recognize it. 

No you were nothing like him. 

Nothing at all, but your voice sounds so much like his when he was denied his life. 

“Do you truly think you can live up to someone like Bran the Builder. I think not. You are the King’s glorified messenger. The faith may smile upon you, or so it said, but here, the Gods will not help you. You are a girl who has mistaken arrogance for knowledge. A child playing at wisdom. A woman who believes herself exceptional simply because she dares to speak above her station.” One chided and Ser Criston only stands and listens. 

It was bound to happen. The rules will not bend for you. (But are there rules for gods? Criston does not know.)

“Tell me, then,” the eldest among them finally said, voice soft, but no less cruel. “If you are so learned—so wise—why, then, are you here? If you were half as clever as you claim, you would have already found another way. Instead, you come before us, expecting the respect of Maesters, yet bearing none of their titles, none of their chains.” A pause. A smirk, perhaps. “Or did you think you could charm us as you have others? Shall we bow to the wisdom of a woman who was never meant to possess it?”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Criston clenched his jaw. He knew this game. He had played it himself, once. He had wielded his own tongue like a blade against you, testing, pushing, waiting to see if you would break.

And now?

Now he could not understand the sickness curling in his gut, the bitterness on his tongue as he listened to them flay you apart with nothing but words.

"I know," one of them sneered. "Go out into the streets of Old Town and beg for coins while preaching your grand… proposition. If the people find your cause worthy, then perhaps—perhaps—we shall spare a scholar or two to help you make sense of Bran the Builder’s work."

Laughter erupted, a chorus of mockery that echoed through the chamber.

Then, silence.

A voice, heavy with condescension, cut through the stillness. "Women do not possess the minds of men. No man will ever bow willingly to the weaker sex."

"Then I wonder how you will fare when the day comes that you are forced to bend the knee to Crown Princess Rhaenyra."

The door creaked open, drawing all eyes toward Ser Criston. His gaze found you, and for a moment, he hesitated. Your expression was unreadable, your eyes glassy, distant—yet there was something simmering beneath them. Something neither he nor the gathered men could name.

He watched as you walked past him, your shoulders trembling ever so slightly. A silent tremor, but a tremor nonetheless.

(Ser Criston’s honor had been lost long ago, but he prays his faith has not.)

So he follows.

Your voice, low and sharp, spills into the corridor—a tongue he does not understand, but the venom in it is unmistakable.

"Desgraciados. Que chinguen toda su puta perra madre."

The words slip through gritted teeth, hushed yet seething, as though cursing the very air you breathe. Ser Criston watches the way your hands clench at your sides, the tension coiling through your frame like a storm yet to break.

He watched you storm into a room, the door nearly slamming behind you. For a moment, he lingered outside, uncertain, before stepping forward. The flickering candlelight inside cast long shadows against the stone walls, and when you turned to face him, the golden glow only made the raw humiliation on your face more stark.

“What?” Your voice wavered, your hands planted firmly on your hips as if bracing yourself against the weight of the moment. Your shoulders rose and fell with uneven breaths, and though you tried to hold your composure, he could see the gloss in your eyes.

“Can I help you?” you asked again, sharper this time, though the tremble in your voice betrayed you.

Criston remained silent, unsure of what to say, of what he was even doing here.

Your lips pressed together, your chin lifting in defiance. “Have you come to laugh at me? I know you do not like me.” The words were forced, brittle, as if saying them aloud might solidify them into truth. “And I can understand why. Loyalty is a noble trait of yours. But I ask that you would spare me and not kick me while I’m—”

Your voice broke. A single tear slipped down your cheek, then another. You tried to catch your breath, swallowing hard against the sobs that threatened to consume you, but it was no use.

“While I’m down.”

The words barely made it past your lips before your breath hitched again. You turned away, as if unwilling to let him see you like this, but Criston knew—some wounds, no matter how much you willed them away, could not be hidden.

He took the chance to step closer—may the gods forgive him for not interfering sooner.

“What do you want from me!?” You had already stepped inside, but he followed, drawn forward despite himself.

Criston bit his lip, uncertain. You were nothing like him. He should not be here. His sworn duty was to Alicent. He was meant to kill you. He should kill you, for it was the will of the beacon he followed. You did not matter because he could not live through you any longer.

“My lady, the Maesters, spoke overly harsh words.” His voice felt foreign to him, softer than it should be.

Criston cannot live the life he once wanted—his honor is lost, despite the clean white cloak draped over his shoulders. His nobility is tarnished, a stain no absolution could erase.

A queen cannot restore it. (A queen has only worsened it.)

His nobility cannot be given.

But perhaps the gods can bless him still. 

The idea is quickly shattered by a scoff. Your scoff. Maybe the gods scoff at him as well.

“Now you want to act noble?”

For the salvation of himself, for the salvation of his beacon—perhaps.

“And where were you when I asked for your help?”

Shame pools in his stomach, heavy and unrelenting. He cannot look away from you, not when your eyes are red, raw with tears that still fall.

“You looked at me, Ser Criston.” Your voice wavers, but there is fire beneath it.

A sharp shove against his chest. He does not move. He will not move.

“And you left me.”

Another shove. His breath stirs, but he remains where he stands, bound by guilt.

“You left me. No good knight—no knight from the songs or stories—would have done that.”

Another shove, harder this time.

“You left me there, and now you want to act noble?”

The words strike deeper than your hands ever could. He deserves them.

“He is a Prince of the realm.” It’s not all his fault. How could he attack a Prince of the realm? His job is to protect them. To protect the righteous.

(But you were not righteous. Or were you? Criston Cole no longer knows.) 

“Loyalty is only as noble as the cause it serves.”

“I am a King’s Guard!” He will not let his loyalty be questioned. He will not let his Queen be questioned. Not by you. Not by you who has corrupted a prince.

“Then why are you here!? I am no royal! Why are you here?” You snap at him, your hands rushing to gather your belongings, your frustration evident. You’re preparing to leave, to return to Hightower.

“Yet you are involved with a royal.” He shouldn’t have said that. It was gossip, rumors, and unworthy of his station. But when he sees your reaction, he knows it struck a nerve. You freeze.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. So get off your high fucking horse and get the fuck out of my room!”

Another shove, though this time your eyes are dry. The remnants of your tears cling to your face like a map of the pain you’re carrying.

“Get out! You have no idea who I am or what I’m doing, so get out!”

“I am to escort you back to Hightower.” He forces the words out, but there’s a heaviness in his chest. Maybe Criston was too far gone, lost in the shadows of duty and shame. If the gods would not take him, then who would?

“I want someone else, so get out. I don’t want to see you!” You push him again, this time with a finality that stings. He takes a step back, giving in to the distance between you.

“I will be waiting outside.” His voice is low, as if the weight of his own failures is too much to carry in a single breath. He will follow the beacon that always shines for him, even if it’s nothing but a dim, distant flicker.

…

“Tis been four years, Uncle. I am aware my letters have not been as frequent as they should, yet… I find myself tense.” Daeron’s voice was measured, though his fingers curled slightly where they rested. He looked toward his uncle, searching for something—reassurance, perhaps.

Four years. Four years since he was sent away from his mother. Four years away from his brother—though from what he has heard, he wonders if that was for the best. Four years apart from his only sister, now a mother of two.

Daeron Targaryen, the fourth son of Alicent Hightower and Viserys Targaryen, does not know what to feel as he rereads his mother’s letter, announcing her arrival in Old Town. Would she be proud of him?

(He is a boy with no mother. It is only natural to yearn—for her presence, for her approval. For some validation that he has not been forgotten.)

“Your mother will be happy to see you,” his uncle said, and Daeron gave a firm nod.

A moment later, they entered the chamber. His mother sat by the window, bathed in the light of the setting sun. In four years, she had not changed. The tired look she always wore had not lifted, nor had the anger that seemed to smolder just beneath the surface.

Yet when her eyes met his, all his worries faded.

A smile bloomed on her face—warm, genuine. A smile meant only for him. It was infectious, and Daeron felt his own lips curve in response.

“Mother.”

“My boy.”

Before he could say another word, she was in his arms. The last time he had held her, he had been shorter. Now, he towered over her, but in her embrace, he still felt small. Her hands, soft and warm, cupped his face, and he leaned into her touch.

“How you’ve grown.” Her voice held something deeper—pride, yes, but also sorrow. A wistfulness that made Daeron furrowed his brows.

“I was worried,” she murmured. “You write less and less these days.”

“The fault is mine, not yours, Mother,” he admitted. “I have found myself… occupied as of late.”

Her eyes flickered with something unreadable before her smile returned, albeit weaker. She traced his cheek with her thumb, studying him. “Tell me,” she said, gently but firmly. “What is it that keeps my son so busy that he forgets his mother?”

Daeron hesitated. There were many things—his training, his studies, the expectations placed upon him in Old Town. But there was also something more. A restlessness that had settled in his bones. A feeling that he was meant for more than quiet halls and whispered prayers.

He exhaled slowly. “I do not forget you, Mother. Never. But I—” He paused, searching for the words. “I feel as though I am standing at the edge of something, waiting to step forward. And yet, I do not know where that step will take me.”

Alicent studied him for a long moment before sighing softly. “You are growing into a man, my love. And men must find their place in the world.” Her fingers lingered at his temple, brushing back a lock of silver hair. “But wherever you go, whatever path you choose, you are still my son.”

Daeron swallowed, nodding. He wanted to believe her, to hold onto this moment, but he could not shake the feeling that whatever lay ahead would change everything, for his mother always has reason behind her actions. Why she was here in Old Town, she never said.

The next few hours passed with Daeron simply basking in his mother’s presence as she spoke with his uncle. He listened, half-engaged, yet his mind drifted elsewhere—toward his brothers.

Uncle Gwayne never mentioned them, not once, as he conversed with his mother. That alone was enough to stir unease in Daeron.

“And this law, you do not present it, sister?”

His uncle’s voice carried a sharper edge now, drawing Daeron’s attention. He straightened slightly, ears keen to the shift in tone. Behind him, he felt his mother go still. He turned just enough to catch a glimpse of her face—rigid, unreadable.

What could make her react in such a way?

The answer came swiftly.

You.

The next hour was spent speaking of you. The newest addition to the Red Keep. And, to his mother’s evident horror, a potential addition to the family—by marriage.

You and Aemond.

Or so his father had suggested, according to his mother’s tight-lipped retelling.

Just who were you?

A woman who had seemingly restored his father’s health, yet disturbed his mother’s peace.

Daeron knew it was wrong to judge before even meeting someone, but the mere mention of you unsettled his mother. That was reason enough. He would not allow it—not a foreigner.

“And what do you have to say on the matter, sister?” his uncle asked.

Daeron turned his gaze to his mother, expecting the same anger she reserved for his bastard nephews or, on occasion, his eldest brother. But what he found instead was… hesitation.

Uncertainty.

Nervousness.

No. You could not remain.

His thoughts were soon reflected in his mother’s words.

“If Aegon is to be king… she cannot stay.”

Daeron watched as his mother reached for her brother, her grip tight, her voice carrying something that unsettled him.

“But Gwayne… brother, what I have seen from the girl—may the gods forgive me for ever wanting to do away with her.” A sharp breath. A pause thick with unspoken things. “Brother, she is…”

Distress. Genuine distress laced her tone.

You?

You had unsettled the Queen herself?

“I do not know what she is. I fear—”

“Fear what, sister?”

She swallowed, the words slipping through barely parted lips.

“That mayhaps, for proper forgiveness from the gods, a marriage between her and my son will be best.”

Just as Daeron was preparing to ask what importance you held and where exactly you were, a prickle ran down his spine.

Tessarion.

The sensation was unmistakable, an unspoken pull deep in his bones. His dragon was calling him.

He shot to his feet.

“Daeron?” his uncle called, brow furrowed.

“Tessarion calls me.”

“For what reason?”

“I do not know.”

His uncle regarded him for a moment before nodding. “Go. I will remain here and speak further with your mother.”

Daeron turned to Alicent, bowing his head before leaning down to press a brief kiss to her forehead—the same way she had once done for him, when he was still small enough to tuck beneath her chin.

“I will meet you for supper,” he promised.

And with that, he strode out, the weight of an unknown summons pressing against his ribs.

Whatever awaited him, he would soon find out.

Daeron rode swiftly across Oldtown, the familiar spires of the Hightower fading behind him as he reached the makeshift dragon pit. There, he found Tessarion—his proud, blue-scaled dragon—tugging against her chains, her body trembling with barely contained agitation. She wanted to fly. No, she needed to fly.

He did not hesitate to oblige her.

The moment the chains were loosened, Tessarion took to the sky, her wings slicing through the crisp air as she carried him high above the city. But she did not stop there. Higher and farther she flew, as if something unseen pulled her forward.

Then Daeron saw it.

A shadow in the distance—vast, black, and impossibly large. His breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had never seen anything so massive, so ancient. Fear coiled tight in his chest, and Tessarion responded with a defiant roar.

"Daor, Tessarion!" he shouted, gripping the reins. No. Whatever that thing was, it could swallow them whole.

Another roar sounded. His grip tightened around the reins of Tessarion. The roar was deafening. He could feel it in his bones. The way his bones shook and it hurt his ears, the sound was so strong. Groaning, he forced Tessarion to turn back and take him back to Old Town. Whatever or whoever it was, Daeron wouldn’t stay around to find out. 

Unfortunately, the other beast decided otherwise. A sudden gust of warm wind hit his back, and he turned sharply, his blood running cold.

Gods be good…

It was an ugly beast—great and ancient, its green hide worn and weathered with age, its teeth long and jagged. And it was gaining on him.

“Naejot Tessarion!” He urged and his dragon dove. Though through the wind he heard his name. Someone was shouting his name. Turning he saw the large beast diving with him, though the head was so great, he could not see who was on the dragon. 

Daeron’s heart pounded in his chest as Tessarion descended, skimming just above the ground before leveling out. Behind him, a thunderous thud echoed—the large beast was landing. Each of her steps sent tremors through the earth, as if the ground itself might crack beneath her weight.

His gaze flickered to Tessarion. Would she ever grow to such a monstrous size? He doubted he’d live to see the day—doubted she’d even be his by then.

Tessarion rose once more, and as Daeron turned, his eyes settled on the figure now visible atop the massive dragon.

He and Tessarion dove again, closing the distance.

Then he saw him.

A face he hadn’t laid eyes on in years—so changed from the boy he once knew that, for a moment, he doubted himself.

Until his name was shouted.

"Brother."

Daeron’s jaw tightened.

Aemond.

And that meant…

This was Vhagar.

The Queen of Dragons.

Daeron guided Tessarion to land, his dragon’s claws kicking up dust as she settled. Overhead, Vhagar let out another ear-splitting roar, and Daeron winced at the sheer force of it. The Queen of Dragons soon lowered her ancient head, her massive eyes fixed on his smaller dragon with something almost like curiosity—or perhaps indifference.

Sliding off Tessarion, Daeron turned just as Aemond dismounted from Vhagar.

A weight settled in Daeron’s chest.

Prince Aemond Targaryen. The One-Eyed Prince.

The stories of his older brother had traveled far, tales of his prowess on the battlefield, his ruthlessness, his command over the largest dragon alive. Had he entered the tourneys, he would have dominated them, carving his legend alongside that of their uncle Daemon, just as the Rogue Prince had done all those years ago.

Aemond was taller than Daeron remembered, though perhaps that was no surprise—he had always been taller. Two years his elder, yet it felt as though an eternity had passed since they last stood face to face.

Back then, Aemond had been just his older brother.

Back then, he had two eyes.

And no dragon.

Now, he stood before him, draped in black and steel, the weight of war and Vhagar’s shadow behind him.

"Daeron," Aemond spoke at last, his voice smooth but edged like a blade.

Daeron straightened. "Brother."

A moment stretched between them, heavy and unreadable. Then, with measured steps, Aemond closed the distance.

"You’ve grown," Aemond observed, eyeing him with an intensity that made Daeron bristle. "Oldtown has not made you soft, I hope."

Daeron lifted his chin. "You’ll have to test that for yourself."

A ghost of a smirk touched Aemond’s lips. "Perhaps I shall."

Daeron grinned, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around his brother in a firm embrace. His older brother. The one who had once been the family’s jest now stood before him, taller, commanding.

Aemond was no longer the boy Daeron remembered—he had grown into his frame, his presence looming. Daeron suspected he now stood taller than their bastard nephews and perhaps even Aegon himself.

"What brings you to Old Town?" Daeron asked, a playful lilt to his voice. "Come to chase after Mother?"

The energy between them was light, easy. He had always gotten along with Aemond. In his youth, Aemond had been softer, and Daeron had naturally gravitated towards him. Even when Aegon teased him—mocking that Aemond might one day steal his dragon—Daeron never believed it.

His big brother wouldn’t do that.

In truth, Aemond had been the one to play with him and Tessarion whenever he could, always watching out for them in ways no one else did.

"No," Aemond replied, his voice quieter, more measured. "No one knows I’m here."

Daeron watched as Aemond stepped closer to Tessarion, his single eye filled with something unreadable. He lifted a hand but hesitated, glancing back at Daeron for permission.

Daeron would never deny his older brother. He gave a nod.

"She has grown much since I last saw her," Aemond murmured, his gloved hand running over Tessarion’s shimmering blue scales.

Tessarion did not flinch. She allowed the touch.

"I only began riding her last year. This is my first time beyond Old Town." Daeron glanced toward the massive green beast. "So this is Vhagar."

"Queen of Dragons," Aemond affirmed. It was fitting, Daeron supposed, that his brother had claimed the largest and most formidable of dragons—the last living relic of Aegon’s Conquest. Aemond had always yearned for greatness.

"Why are you here, brother?" Daeron asked, stepping closer to Tessarion.

"Have you seen Mother?"

Daeron resisted the urge to sigh at his brother’s habit of answering with another question. "I have."

"And the woman who travels with her?"

Daeron frowned. "There was no woman. Only Mother."

Aemond’s expression tightened. "Ser Criston?"

"The Dornishman?" Daeron had heard tales of Ser Criston. The man who bested the Rogue Prince in battle. The man who came from no noble name, yet he is one of the seven in the King’s Guard. Ser Criston Cole is a well known name.

"Yes."

"He was not there," Daeron said firmly. "It was only my mother."

Daeron caught the flicker of annoyance in his brother’s eye.

“Who is she?”

Then, your name left Aemond’s lips.

You. Again.

You, who made his mother speak in hushed, fearful tones. You, who now had his noble older brother seeking you out with urgency. Who were you to command such attention?

Aemond offered no explanation, only the weight of his silence.

“I heard mention of her being at the Citadel,” Daeron added, watching closely.

The moment the words left his mouth, Aemond stiffened. His spine straightened, his fingers flexing at his side, and something unreadable flickered across his face—something Daeron could not quite place.

“Daeron,” Aemond finally spoke, his voice low but firm. “Can you bring her to me?”

Daeron hesitated, brows knitting together. “Why?”

Aemond turned to him then, his lone eye sharp, assessing.

“Brother… have you taken a lover?” The words felt absurd the moment he spoke them. Aemond—their mother’s ever-loyal son, rigid in his discipline, a man who lived by duty alone—taking a lover? Unthinkable. You, of all people, the one who sent their mother into whispered prayers and sleepless nights? Impossible.

Aemond’s lips curled slightly. “Of a sort.”

Daeron’s head snapped toward him, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and alarm. “She is your lover? Do you know how she torments our mother? And you would take her to your bed!?”

“Daeron.” Aemond’s voice darkened. “You do not know our mother. You were raised in Old Town, far from her shadow. I see you have grown well and true, but her… caution is not as well-founded as you might believe.”

“Aemond, she is our mother,” Daeron shot back, voice tight with frustration. “And you would choose this—this foreigner over her counsel?”

Aemond exhaled sharply, as if barely restraining his temper. When he spoke again, his words were measured, his tone carrying a weight Daeron had not heard in years.

“Mind your tongue, brother.” His gaze held no room for argument. “Can you bring her to me?”

Daeron clenched his jaw. He had been away too long—long enough to feel the shift, to sense the distance between them now. The boy who once followed Aemond’s lead without question had grown into a man who no longer recognized the brother before him.

But for the sake of old loyalties, of blood and brotherhood, he would not deny him.

“I can.”

Aemond nodded, his expression unreadable once more. “This stays between us. I will wait here. See that no one follows you.”

“How will I know it’s her?” Daeron stopped in front of Tessarion. 

“Offer her water from a vendor. She’ll decline it. Then offer her meats, she’ll decline that as well.”

Strange.

Daeron nodded, murmuring a few words to Tessarion before setting off. Now to find you.

You were said to be near the Citadel, accompanied by a Dornish knight. That alone should make the search easier—Dornish men stood out in Old Town, their dark hair and sun-kissed skin a stark contrast to the pale, flaxen heads of the Reach. Still, Daeron found himself doubting the ease of his task.

Tessarion deposited him safely back in Old Town, her great wings stirring dust as she settled into her pit. He ran a hand along her shimmering blue scales, bidding her a quiet farewell before turning to retrieve a horse.

As he rode toward the Citadel, he repeated your description in his mind, over and over again. Yet the more he turned it over, the more he wondered if he should take it with a grain of salt. Aemond’s words had been brief, and something about them had felt… deliberate. Carefully chosen, as if he did not want to say too much.

What had his brother truly meant by of a sort?

A lover. A conspirator. A pawn.

Or something else entirely?

He exhaled sharply and urged his horse faster. Whatever the answer, he would find it soon enough.

Daeron’s sharp eyes caught sight of a white cloak, the pristine fabric standing out against the muted colors of Old Town's streets. Beside it stood a woman, her eyes rimmed with red, as if she had been crying.

Well, that fits the description well enough.

And beside you, just as Aemond had said, was a Dornish knight. A man with the unmistakable sun-darkened skin and sharp, narrow features of his people.

Daeron narrowed his eyes. Aemond had warned him there was something distinct about you—something he had not put into words. And now, seeing you for himself, Daeron understood why. He could not place it, not exactly, but there was something inherently… Strange about you.

(Though Aemond had never called you strange, not aloud. That was Daeron’s own word for it, and he would not shy from it. You had committed the crime of making his mother afraid, and if the Queen feared you, then you must be something.)

Frowning, he pulled the hood of his cloak low over his silver hair and steered his horse toward a shortcut. He needed to separate you from the Dornish knight. Best not to cause a scene in the open streets.

As he maneuvered through the winding alleys, his gaze flickered back toward you. The way you spoke to the knight was… aggressive. Your posture was rigid, your hands tense at your sides. Even from a distance, Daeron could tell that whatever you were discussing was not a friendly exchange.

Clearly, you were not happy with him.

Interesting.

Perhaps he wouldn’t need to intervene at all. If fortune was on his side, you would storm off on your own. But if not… well, he had other means of ensuring you followed him.

“I’m hungry.”

The words were quiet, almost petulant, but Daeron caught them all the same. Your voice was thick—congested from tears, no doubt. Why had you been crying? That wasn’t his concern.

“You can eat at House Hightower,” Ser Criston replied, his tone clipped, leaving little room for argument.

Daeron watched as your expression crumpled, your eyes glistening once more. Again? He nearly rolled his eyes. If his brother—his noble, disciplined brother—had truly taken a lover, he never would have expected this. You were… spoiled. Soft.

“I don’t want to eat there.”

“We must return.” Criston didn’t turn back as he spoke, already moving ahead of you.

Daeron saw his opening.

You had stopped, glancing around as if weighing your options. He could see it in the subtle shift of your posture—the flicker of hesitation, the restless energy in your limbs.

“No,” you muttered, more to yourself than anyone else. “I want something from here.”

Ser Criston remained turned away, oblivious to the danger of leaving you unattended for even a moment. A mistake. One Daeron wasted no time exploiting.

In a single fluid motion, he closed the distance, clamping a hand over your mouth before you could so much as gasp. Your body jolted, a wild, instinctive struggle immediately following, but Daeron was stronger, quicker. With an iron grip, he dragged you back into the alleyway where his horse waited, your feet kicking out uselessly against him.

You fought like a wildcat, but Daeron only chuckled under his breath.

So, you weren’t entirely soft after all.

Daeron hoisted you onto the horse with little effort, swinging himself into the saddle before spurring the beast forward. You squirmed in his grasp, your movements frantic, but his hand remained firm over your mouth, muffling any protests.

For a while, you fought him. Then, just as suddenly, you stilled.

Only when he was certain you were far enough from prying eyes did Daeron finally release you, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze.

Fear. It was plain in your eyes, in the stiffness of your stance, in the way your gaze darted—searching, calculating, already trying to find a way out.

Daeron tilted his head, observing you with mild curiosity. This was the woman who had their mother so shaken? The one Aemond had spoken of with such weight? He couldn’t see it. You were just… a girl. A little strange, perhaps, but normal enough.

You swallowed hard. “Listen, please, I don’t know what this is, but—” your voice wavered, pleading, “—I have to go back.”

Daeron said your name again, slower this time, as if testing the weight of it on his tongue. His brow arched, expectant.

“Who?” you echoed, blinking up at him in clear confusion.

His lips parted slightly. That wasn’t the reaction he had anticipated. He repeated the name, firmer now, but the response was the same—uncertainty, an unfamiliarity that sent a ripple of unease through his chest.

“Listen, I don’t know who that is or who you are,” you insisted, voice thin with desperation. “But…I need to get back home. Please, ser.”

Daeron’s stomach twisted. Gods be good. Had he just kidnapped the wrong girl?

His mind raced, scrambling to piece together an explanation, to make sense of the situation. He forced himself to school his expression, to keep his features composed, but a pit of dread was already forming in his gut. What in the name of the Seven would they think of him now?

“You’re not her?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

You shook your head, tears threatening to spill again, your distress evident in every stiffened muscle, in the way your hands clenched at your sides.

No. No, it couldn’t be you.

The woman Aemond had spoken of, the one their mother feared, the one whose mere presence had left Criston Cole shaken—she wouldn’t be like this. She wouldn’t be trembling before him, sniffling through unshed tears, looking as though the world had just caved in around her.

Of course not.

Daeron exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. What now? He couldn’t just leave you here, alone in the alley. But returning empty-handed would be an even greater humiliation.

Damn it all.

“You’re sure?” he tried again, grasping at some slim chance that this was all some misunderstanding.

You stared at him, expression incredulous. “I—yes! I just told you, I don’t know who you think I am, but I swear it, you have the wrong person.”

Daeron muttered a curse under his breath. What a disaster.

"May the gods forgive me," Daeron muttered, exhaling sharply. "My sincerest apologies. I was under the impression you were someone else."

He hung his head, shame settling like a stone in his stomach. This was going horribly. An unforgivable mistake. Yet even as he acknowledged it, something about you gnawed at him.

How could you not be the woman Aemond spoke of?

You were different—so different that you stood apart from everyone around you. It was in the way you carried yourself, the way you spoke, the way your presence lingered even in silence.

"Why in the world are you kidnapping girls in the first place!?" you snapped, your voice tight with anger and disbelief.

Daeron flinched, heat creeping up his neck. He felt like a child being scolded. Which, he supposed, at this moment, he was.

Worse still—he needed to answer you. 

He needed an excuse. He cannot say he was taking you to his brother. Aemond was clear in his instructions. 

He swallowed hard, glancing away, feeling the slow, mortifying burn of embarrassment creep across his face. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, laced with an unfamiliar hesitance.

"I have… fallen in love with the woman I thought you to be."

His head hung low and the words felt heavier than they should have, like some unintended confession. (Had he looked you in the eye, he would’ve seen that you too shared his complexion of embarrassment.) A ridiculous notion, really, considering he was not confessing to you. And yet, standing there—his face burning, his pride sinking—he could not deny that it felt like he was.

Daeron Targaryen had never once needed to vie for a woman's attention. It was given freely, eagerly. He had accepted it with ease, with appreciation.

But now? Now, standing before a stranger, burdened by his own foolish mistake, he found himself truly understanding—perhaps for the first time—the women who had confessed their affections to him before.

Because gods be good, he could not imagine being in their place and actually being rejected by a person you truly feel for.

"Oh. Oh dear."

Your voice carried a mixture of disbelief and amusement, and before Daeron could muster a response, you laughed.

Not a nervous chuckle, not a scoff—but a genuine, incredulous giggle.

His mortification deepened. He had been prepared for anger, even for tears, but this? This was somehow worse.

"You can’t just go around kidnapping women you’ve fallen in love with," you teased, shaking your head. "Much less a woman you don’t even seem to really know."

Daeron clenched his jaw, willing his face to cool. "I was under the impression she would come willingly," he defended, though even to his own ears, it sounded weak.

Your brows lifted, amusement still dancing in your eyes. "Willingly? Well, you’ve certainly taken a bold approach."

He sighed, dragging a hand down his face before pinching the bridge of his nose. "I will return you," he muttered.

You tilted your head, a knowing smirk tugging at your lips. "Oh? No more kidnapping in the name of love?"

Daeron groaned. "Must you phrase it like that?"

You grinned. "I must."

He turned away, muttering a prayer to whatever gods might spare him further embarrassment. But as he moved toward his horse, he hesitated, glancing back at you.

"You are… different," he admitted, frowning slightly. "Are you certain you are not her?"

The mirth in your expression faded just a little, replaced by something unreadable. "Quite certain, but I am deeply flattered.”

And yet—Daeron wasn’t.

He needed to be sure. Just a little longer.

"To express my apologies," he began, trying to keep his voice even, "may I treat you to a meal?"

Gods, this was humiliating. What if you said no? He might actually die from the shame of it. He prayed, just this once, that the gods would grant him mercy.

You blinked up at him before shrugging. "I could eat."

Oh, glory to the gods.

But that feeling returned—that nagging sense of wrongness. No lady, whether highborn or low, had ever responded to a Targaryen prince in such a way. Even common folk, at the mere sight of his white hair, would straighten their posture, soften their words, try just a little harder to present themselves well.

But you? You were… comfortable.

Daeron fell into step beside you, his horse trailing behind, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He watched the way you moved—confident, despite the faint flush still lingering on your face. You did not carry yourself like a woman taken by fear, nor a woman eager to please.

No, there was something familiar in the way you walked, the way you spoke.

But why?

"Tell me," he ventured, studying you carefully, "where is it that you call home?"

You didn’t hesitate.

"Everywhere and nowhere."

Daeron faltered mid-step. His brows knit together as he turned to look at you fully. That was not an answer most would give. Not a lady of court, nor a common woman, nor even a sellsword passing through.

It was an answer that meant nothing and everything.

"Everywhere and nowhere?" he repeated, skeptical. "That is hardly an answer at all."

You glanced at him, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Yet it is the only one I have."

There it was again—that wrongness. Or was it rightness? He could not tell.

Aemond had spoken of you as if you were something unnatural. He had expected… well, he wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it certainly hadn’t been this.

"You are a peculiar woman," Daeron muttered, more to himself than to you.

"And you are a prince who kidnaps women to confess his love," you shot back, smirking.

“It was a mistake.” Daeron urged like a little boy insisting he didn’t take an extra sweet even if the evidence was on his face.

“Still I do not think the woman who you speak of would take kindly to it.” Finally, you both reached a stand and Daeron handed his horse off while his hood remained on. Scandal would follow if they saw him with a commonborn. 

"Of course," Daeron replied smoothly, though his steps slowed as they passed a stand selling cakes. He glanced at you. "Would you like one?"

"What is it?" you asked, eyeing the display. Obviously they were cakes, but…Daeron digresses.

He blinked. "Cakes."

"Ah. What kind?"

How was he supposed to know? He had never eaten here. He gestured toward the selection instead. "Which would you prefer?"

"Carrot."

Daeron nearly recoiled. Carrot? Who in their right mind ate… carrot cake? What even was carrot cake? It sounded horrid. Strange. You were strange. You had to be her, yet you insisted otherwise.

"The vegetable? I doubt they make such a thing."

"A shame. Pumpkin?"

"Hmm…" He glanced at the vendor. "I think not."

"Then I don't know," you mused.

"Honey cakes? Or perhaps apples?"

"Oh, I’ve had honey cakes before. They’re alright. But I haven’t tried apples." Daeron liked apple cakes. Better than honey in his opinion. 

Daeron nodded, turning to the vendor. "Apple, then."

“What if I don’t like it?”

“Then we’ll return, and I will buy you a honey cake,” Daeron replied easily. Not that it will come to that. Anyone who didn’t like apple cakes was untrustworthy.

The vendor handed him the pastry, warm and fragrant with cinnamon, and he passed it to you. He watched as you took a cautious bite, your expression unreadable at first. Then, after a moment, you hummed thoughtfully.

“Well?”

Daeron watched you shrug. “They’re alright, I’ve had better.” From who? The royal cook? Daeron took a bite from his own. He continued to watch you. There was no way you weren’t her. Daeron was sure of it, but how would he get the answers from you? 

“Offer her water from a vendor. She’ll decline it. Then offer her meats, she’ll decline that as well.”

Right. 

“Would you like some water?” He turned towards you watching your lips twitch ever so slightly. 

“No.” One down. Daeron walked slowly trying to spot a meat vendor. 

“How about a meat pie then, I doubt you only eat cakes.”

“No thank you. I don’t eat meat.” Daeron eyed you from the side. 

Daeron’s grip tightened slightly around his own pastry. Two for two. His brother’s instructions had been precise, and you had followed the script perfectly—almost too perfectly. If you were playing a game, you were damn good at it.

“You don’t eat meat?” he asked, feigning casual interest.

You shook your head, wiping your fingers clean. “No.”

“Why?”

You blinked at him, as if the question had caught you off guard. “I just don’t.”

A simple answer. A practiced one. Daeron kept his expression even as he nodded.

“Strange,” he mused. “Most people don’t get the choice.”

“Well, I do.”

There it was again—that ease, that confidence. You didn’t speak like someone struggling through the world. You spoke like someone above it.

He hummed, as if satisfied with your answer, but his mind was already elsewhere. This wasn’t just a coincidence. 

He had you. What a sneaky girl. You put Daeron through hell thinking he had taken the wrong girl. (Though…there is a small part that will admit this was fun, if only a little. So…Daeron supposed he could see the slight allure.)

Aemond had been right.

Now he just had to bring you to him.

Daeron kept walking, his steps even, making steady progress toward the Dragonpit. He cast you a sideways glance, his voice light as he asked, “Have you ever seen a dragon?”

You nodded, hands folded before you. “I have. Wondrous creatures.”

He hummed. “How many?”

You hesitated for the briefest moment, as if calculating your answer. “A couple… in the sky. Maybe three.”

“Have you ever met any of the riders?” he pressed, watching you closely.

“No.” The answer came too quickly, too easily.

Daeron tilted his head, pretending not to notice. “What do you think about the royal family?”

“I’ve heard many things.”

“Such as?”

You exhaled, your gaze drifting forward. “The next queen seems promising. The king, even in his old age, makes way for progress. The princes of the realm are each as handsome as they are strong.”

Daeron bit back a smirk. If only his nephew had heard that.

“And the lone princess?” he asked.

“She is kind,” you answered simply.

“Prince Aegon?”

“Adventurous,” you said, lips twitching in amusement.

That was one way to put it. How kind you were with words.

“Prince Jacaerys?” Daeron kept shooting questions.

“Kind.” And you responded just as fast.

“Prince Lucerys?”

“Determined.”

“Prince Joffrey?”

“Small.”

Daeron chuckled under his breath. Then, ever so casually, he asked, “Prince Aemond?”

You hesitated. It was slight, barely noticeable, but he caught it—the way your fingers curled tighter around the folds of your sleeves, the way your gaze flickered for just a moment.

Then you smiled, tilting your head as if considering your words carefully. “Fierce.”

Daeron grinned. He had you now.

At last, the two of you reached the Dragonpit. You slowed your pace, glancing toward the great stone structure before turning back to him.

“Listen,” you said breezily, “I’d love to stay, but I have to go. Good luck finding this woman of yours.” You took a step back, then added with a playful tilt of your head, “Though, allow me to graciously offer some advice—don’t kidnap her.”

Daeron exhaled through his nose, half amused, half exasperated. Gods.

He watched as you turned to leave, your steps unhurried, as if you hadn’t a single care in the world.

Then, just before you could disappear, he called your name.

You stopped.

Slowly, you turned back to him, a knowing smile curving your lips. “You got me,” you admitted, nodding as if to concede. Then, with a glint of mischief in your eyes, you added, “So close.”

“You did fool me, in the beginning,” Daeron admitted, a small smile tugging at his lips as he called for Tessarion. The dragon responded swiftly, emerging with a graceful yet powerful stride. “It was good,” he added, conceding that you had put on quite the performance.

But then he watched as you dropped the act almost instantly. No startled gasp, no wide-eyed wonder at the sight of his dragon. That, more than anything, assured him—he had been right about you all along.

His gaze remained fixed on you as Tessarion lowered herself, ready to be mounted. He needed to secure you properly; she was barely large enough for him, let alone the both of you. But before he could move, you spoke, voice laced with amusement.

“So, you’re in love with me?”

Daeron’s breath hitched. Heat flared in his cheeks as he instinctively shut his eyes, mortified. “That’s not—”

By the time he opened them, you were already running.

Tessarion reacted before he could even issue a command, leaping forward as flames erupted from her maw, blocking your escape. Your scream cut through the air as you stumbled back, falling hard onto the stone floor.

“I wouldn’t suggest running,” Daeron said, his tone calm but firm.

“Yeah, no shit,” you shot back, breathless from your near escape.

“Listen,” you continued, voice edged with frustration. “I have no idea why you want me, but I don’t know you, and frankly, I am so done with men right now.”

Daeron sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I’m not—” He exhaled, composing himself before meeting your gaze. “I’m not interested. My brother has requested you.”

He watched as your shoulders dropped ever so slightly, the fight in your eyes dimming just a fraction. Something in him wavered. Was his brother forcing you? No. Aemond wouldn’t do that.

…Would he?

It had been oh so long since he’d last seen his older brother. Four years was a lifetime, and time had a way of changing even the best of men.

Daeron clenched his fists at his sides, resisting the urge to sigh as he stepped closer. Your eyes, glossy with unshed tears, met his, wide and uncertain. You looked like you were about to cry again.

He exhaled slowly. Gods.

“Listen…” His voice softened. “If you truly do not wish to see my brother, I will not force you.”

Blood was blood, but Daeron had been raised with honor. His uncle had made sure of that. Whatever Aemond’s reasons were, Daeron would not be the kind of man to drag a woman against her will.

For a moment, you only stared at him, then quickly shook your head, swiping at your eyes before the tears could fall.

“No, I’ll go,” you murmured, voice steadier than he expected.

Note: extra long for y'all 🙏

Previous I Next I Masterlist

To be added to Tag list: !(•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑/Gen Masterlist

[k-s-morgan]

I in no way mean to be disrespectful, I hope you and your family are doing well and I’m so sorry for the recent attacks. I’m just ignorant and want to know what would happen if Ukraine surrendered to Russia?

I hope you are safe from bombing and air raids 🙏🙏

Hi! Thank you <3 And don't worry, that's a good question.

What I'm 100% sure would happen in case of Ukraine's surrender, even under the most optimistic scenario:

We'd have to give up the entire country, not just a part of it. Russia always comes back for more. It's been following the same pattern with different countries forever. With Ukraine, it got a pretty decent chunk back in 2014. That land continued to belong to Ukraine on paper only - in reality, it was fully under Russian control, and no one really fought for it any longer. Was Russia satisfied with it? No. It kept preparing and then attacked to overtake even more land. It will never have enough, so to give up now means to acknowledge that the entire Ukraine will cease to exist as a country, whether right away or after Russia starts another war against us.

Ukrainian language, culture, and heritage would be destroyed completely in the coming years. Our history - and the history of the world children are taught - will be re-written. There is a reason why the majority of countries that were a part of USSR speak primarily Russian. Russia keeps carefully erasing other languages and culture, it's been doing it for ages. It's doing it right now on the occupied territories.

Pro-Ukrainian activists and people of note would be persecuted, kidnapped, tortured, and killed. This is also a pattern, it happens everywhere Russia invades. I know many examples personally.

We'd be gradually cut off of the outside world. Like, Russia has banned major fanfiction sites; it's trying to block YouTube and other platforms. The transformation into a semblance of North Korea would be inevitable.

Ukrainians would be treated as third-rate non-humans on their own territory. Again, it's been happening everywhere Russia barges into.

Ukraine would be used as a military base to attack other countries, and Ukrainians would be forced to become Russian soldiers.

As for the rest, it could go in several ways. Maybe Russia would want to show how 'amazing' it is, so it'd turn Kyiv into a second Moscow, creating different well-paid positions and opportunities to suck up to Kyiv residents and to prove its hypocritical benevolence.

On the other hand, it could just as well turn the entire country into a concentration and extermination camp. Russia has been torturing, raping, degrading, and murdering our people everywhere. Stealing their homes, kidnapping children, etc. and etc. I have a huge number of friends, people I know, or their friends who shared their stories, and each of them has been absolutely horrific.

My Mom's colleague, for example, used to live near Bachmut. When Russians came in, they immediately began to hunt down anyone related to the police and the military and killing them or actually demanding ransom for them. They kidnapped this colleague's friends, a married couple, kept them in a dog's kennel, pissed on them, beat them up, and raped the wife repeatedly. At that point, the colleague managed to flee the area, and she has no idea as to what happened to them afterward.

This could very well be the fate of our country in case of our surrender since the world obviously doesn't care and wouldn't bat an eye at the millions suffering and dying, kind of like it's happening now.

So surrendering is dangerous because we might cease to exist, but perhaps we are just prolonging the inevitable. A tiny country with a pathetic level of support cannot win against a giant that has a ton of everything and whose allies keep sending it even more weapons of destruction. Oh, and let's not forget how Russia keeps producing more and more weapons because the US and EU keep selling it the parts it needs for missiles and other stuff, and how Ukraine, after seemingly getting help from these US and EU, is forbidden to use it to strike Russia back.

It's all a joke to everyone but us, so I honestly don't envision a positive outcome at all. In the end, as long as our heroes are determined to defend Ukraine, we'll keep trying to hold on. The future will show what it'll lead us to.

[enkas-illusion]

One of Your Guys

One of Your Guys - Part 1/3

Fandom / Pairing: Jujutsu Kaisen / Choso x f!reader

Rating: NSFW/Explicit - MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Content Warning: Fluff, kissing, language, hurt/comfort, slight make out

Chapter Summary: You rant to your friend Choso about your crush and things take an unexpected turn when he confesses something that catches you off guard.

Author's Note: Hello, this is my first attempt at a short story. All characters are in their mid 20s. This is a pure cheesy, sappy, in-your-feelings vibe condensed into a 3-part story. If you enjoy it, feel free to like, reblog or comment; I’d love to know your thoughts. Thank you for reading! 

~ Eren's Birdie

Song Dedication: One Of Your Girls by Troye Sivan

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

“I really hate to be that person but… I told you so.” 

You look at your friend with narrowed eyes, fighting the urge to roll them at him. If you knew you were in for a talking-to when you called Choso over to rant about the shit-show that you call your love life, you would’ve reconsidered it.

His face shows no sympathy for his poor heartbroken friend as he leans against your kitchen counter with his hands crossed at his chest. And rightly so, why would he anyway? Afterall, he’d told you to confess your feelings to your crush before it was too late and now here you are, admitting that ‘too late’ had arrived sooner than you’d expected.

“I know but I was scared of ruining our friendship, okay?” You sigh as your shoulders slump down. He simply shrugs at you as he walks towards the microwave when it beeps. His back is turned to you and a few seconds pass as you observe him following the usual routine.

You wonder whether making hot chocolate can be fixed into one's muscle memory. In that moment, you believe it might as well be the case for Choso as he takes the hot milk out, pulling the spoon out of the drawer while simultaneously grabbing the cocoa container from the shelf above him.

You want to laugh at how ridiculous it all seems. It’s not just the ritual of making hot chocolate, but the ranting sessions along with it that have turned into a daily occurance. How many times have you made your poor friend listen to you crib about your unrequited, unnoticed love for your best friend, Satoru?

In your defence, Choso was the one who’d initially annoyed you to death to get the info out of you. The genius that he is, Choso had figured out that you liked Satoru based on the way you interacted with the latter at a common friend’s house party. If someone were to ask Choso, he would tell them that your eyes would quite literally turn into heart shapes whenever Satoru talked to you.

“I’m sure you’d understand how I’m feeling if you were in my shoes.” you add as he stirs the spoon in the mug. He stills for a split second before continuing the movement. 

“Chosoooo say somethin-” you trail off when he turns around to look at you as if he’s fed up with your bullshit.

He walks towards you and hands you one of the mugs before making his way to the living room. You mutter a small ‘thank you’ as you follow behind him. When you’re settled on the sofa, you sit with your legs folded on the seat to face him as he leans back on the opposite end.

As he takes a few sips of his hot chocolate, he can see your brain working overtime to come up with a summary to explain all that you’re currently feeling. He almost finds your struggle to speak up adorable, when usually you always have 10 things to say and then some more.

“Fine, tell me exactly what he said.” Choso breaks the silence to give you an opening.

Your eyes soften with relief at his statement as you take a sip from your mug, “So… yesterday Satoru had invited me to a common friend’s house party but I had declined since I wanted to sleep the weekend away. And when I woke up in the morning, I opened Instagram to scroll a bit as usual and saw Satoru had added to his close friends’ story. I figured it’d be the usual party snaps… I was already feeling the fomo of not going so I clicked on it right away… and what do you know??? THE FIRST FUCKING PHOTO is of this pretty girl on his lap and he’s kissing her cheek. I swear it felt like my heart had dropped to my stomach.” you pause to take a few sips.

“Wait so based on a single snap, you assumed he’s dating her?” Choso frowns, visibly confused.

“No, of course not! Since Satoru often does get touchy like that with me as well, I did not want to assume so I replied to the story. I said something on the lines of ‘congrats on getting the girl big man, don’t forget about me though ahahaha.’”

This time you pause to observe Choso’s expressions and he’s visibly cringing hard. “Don’t say it… I’m aware how pathetic it is.” you pout as you fidget with a thread that’s sticking out of the sofa pillow. 

Choso swats your hand away to stop your fidgeting before he gently squeezes one of your feet with his free hand that isn’t holding his mug. “Poor baby,” he teases as he rubs circles over your skin, “Go on, I promise I won’t tease you.”

“Well, he read that within seconds and I got a call from him. He sounded a bit reserved at first as he broke the news to me… apparently, they’d been talking to each other for about a month… I had no idea,” you take a deep breath as it pains you to say the next sentence, “Last night, Satoru kissed her and confessed his feelings. Turns out she feels the same way for him so now they’re together. I said congratulations and cut the call… he sounded so happy.”

You turn your face to avoid Choso’s gaze, trying hard not to let the tears slip from your eyes. He moves closer to you as he places both of your mugs on the coffee table. He pulls you by your wrists, guiding your arms around his waist as his own wrap around your shoulders. As your face rests on his chest, you start sobbing silently.

“Shhh, it’s okay, it’ll pass.” he tries to console you, brushing his fingers through your hair.

“What if I don’t want it to pass? I should be happy that the man I consider to be my best friend has found such a perfect girl for himself, but here I am, wishing it were me instead. Am I a bad friend for feeling that way?” you look up at him, still teary eyed.

“No, you’re not a bad friend. Your emotions are all over the place because something unexpected has happened. You weren’t anticipating this so you’re hurt and it’s okay to feel sad. You’re here crying in front of me instead of trying to sabotage his relationship or whatever… that is proof enough that you’d rather deal with the hurt than hurt other people.” you sigh as you listen to your friend’s soothing words. 

You rest your head on his shoulder as you close your eyes. Choso rubs your back gently before adding, “You’d only be a bad friend if you refuse to wipe your tears and snot off my t-shirt later. I’m not even kidding, I want this shit washed with that soft fabric conditioner you have, all crisp and ironed to perfection!”

You slap him where your hands were resting on his lower back, causing him to let out a tiny wail. It causes you to laugh for the first time after having been sad all day long.

Choso moves away, breaking the hug to create some space between as he hands your not-so-hot chocolate back to you. His knuckles rub your cheek to wipe the wet trail that had been left behind by your tears. He opens the palm of his hand to rest it against your cheek gently.

“I know you may not feel like it now, but you’re going to be fine.” he smiles as he reassures you.

You place your hand on top of his as you lean further into his touch, finding it a little too comforting. In an attempt to take the focus away from your problems, you ask him, “Have you ever liked someone who didn’t like you back?”

“Hmm…you.” he nods. You smack his hand away as you sit up straight.

“Choso! Be serious! You never tell me anything about your love life! You’re always joking around.” you complain.

“That’s because there’s nothing there to tell! I tell you about all the other aspects of my life cause they’re much more entertaining than my love life.” he answers with a tone of sincerity. You pout, not convinced.

He rolls his eyes at your persistence and adds, “Well what do you want to hear about? Would you rather have me talk about all the Tinder dates I fuck and never see again?”

You scrunch your face at the crudeness of his words, “Nope.”

“My point exactly… anyway do you want to watch something?” he asks as he grabs the remote. You nod as you both gulp down the remaining of your drinks. You get up and take the mugs to the kitchen to wash them while Choso scrolls away on Netflix.

When you return to sit next to him, his arm grabs your waist to pull you in closer to cuddle as he presses play. You rest your head on his shoulder as it begins. When you realise what he’s playing, you tilt your head up to look at him. “Really? Bridgerton?”

“Yeah… and season 2 cause it’s the better one. We literally have the whole evening to binge” he states, unprovoked by your almost condescending tone. You decide not to tease him about it. 

Before you realise it, hours pass by and you’ve binged half of the show. As the characters were introduced, Choso filled you in on the details and it almost felt like you hadn’t missed season 1 at all. There was additional unnecessary commentary that came along with his explanation of plot points, but you weren’t complaining.

Spending time with your friend like this, where the heartache you felt this morning seemed dull in comparison to laughing at his lame jokes, is exactly what you needed to relax. You let the chatter in your brain melt away and instead focus your awareness on the present moment – a task that had almost felt impossible before you’d asked Choso to come over in the afternoon. 

Cuddling so close to him, you notice the smell of his perfume is a lot stronger. You breathe in his scent, a smoky wooden smell with just a tiny hint of something sweet to it. It’s a distinctly familiar scent you’ve grown accustomed to ever since the two of you began cuddling together during your frequent movie nights. The dynamic you shared with Choso was similar to your relationship with Satoru, minus the romantic feelings you had for the latter. 

Choso’s right arm rested around your waist while the other rubbed lazy circles on your knee, whereas your right hand was resting on his chest with your torso leaning into his side. And while there was an unspoken agreement that even cuddling with Choso was platonic; your flatmate, Mia, was certain that it was only a matter of time before something would happen between the two of you.

You’re grateful she’s not at home for the weekend to tease you about tonight. If she saw the two of you right now, the teasing you’d have to endure would be insufferable. You smile to yourself when you think about it.

When you get to the scene where Anthony goes feral over Kate’s scent, you joke about how you feel the same way about Choso’s perfume.

“You like my perfume?” he asks, surprised, making sure he heard you right.

“Always have.” you admit, “I know it’s oud, but what’s the sweet floral scent with it?”

“Jasmine.”

“Oh… I like it. It’s perfect, not too sweet, not too harsh.” you say, trying not to be too obvious as you try to sniff at his t-shirt. Before you get a chance to do so, he leans back and shifts his torso to lean in closer to your neck instead. 

“Are you wearing any right now? I never really noticed your scent.” he speaks softly and you can feel his breath on the side of your neck. You pull back instantly, feeling flustered and hot. You blink a few times before you shake your head side to side. He chuckles as he goes back to his original position, his focus shifting back to the TV. 

Is he seriously oblivious to how close you two just were or does it simply not faze him at all? 

You mentally slap yourself for misinterpreting his seemingly innocent actions. He leans back comfortably with one hand on top of the headrest and you shift back into his embrace. A few minutes pass before his hand behind you moves closer to caress your neck, you feel goosebumps rise on your lower spine as you move away from his touch.

“What?” he asks, confused.

Either this man is an idiot, or he’s fucking with you to rile you up. 

He pauses the show to hear what you have to say. “Don’t do that. It feels… ticklish.” you choose your words wisely. 

“Well, it wasn’t my intent- aww, are you ticklish?” he inquires mischievously as he raises an eyebrow. Before you can answer, he grabs one of your feet as he roughly yanks it, making your back fall flat on the sofa. You let out a shriek as he moves on top of you and cages you between his arms, ready to tickle you. 

You start yelling at him to stop, laughing hysterically as he tickles you. You try pushing him away but fail to do so as his muscular figure leans even closer to yours. You have tears in your eyes from laughing and after a while, you’re basically begging him to stop.

When he finally stops, he looks at you with a smug smile of victory on his face as your laughter slowly dies down. There’s a moment of silence when your eyes meet and you get a strange feeling in your stomach. Maybe butterflies, but possibly anxiety for what your instinct tells you is about to happen.

You notice Choso’s gaze move down to your lips and you mimic him. He involuntarily licks his lips as your breath hitches in your chest. He lowers his head till your faces are just inches away from each other and he gently nudges your nose with his. 

His left hand moves up to the side of your neck and he caresses your jaw with his thumb. You lift your head up at the same time when he leans down and your lips meet. His lips feel plump and wet as you close your eyes. 

Who kissed who first? You wonder but all of your thoughts keep getting lost before they have a chance to rise to the surface. The only thing occupying your mind is the way his lips feel on yours, your skin burning where he’s touching you.

His right hand grips your hip to push it down further into the cushions of the sofa. His hand on your neck moves down to your throat as he chokes you slightly, as if to test the waters. He smiles into the kiss when he hears you moan.

He takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth. The way his tongue moves has you entranced. His movements feel languid, yet they contain enough force to convey an intense passion. 

Your hands move of their own accord as they make their way to hug his shoulders. He breaks the kiss as his lips leave a trail of quick pecks down your neck. Your head tilts back to give him better access. He sucks on the spot just below your ear and your palms bundle up his t-shirt, creasing the fabric. 

You moan louder than you’d intended to when he bites the spot and his fingers dig into the meat of your thigh. You feel the heat rise to your cheeks as he licks a strip up along the front of your neck. He hooks your leg that he’s holding around his lower back and presses his hips down to grind against yours.

“Fuck… Choso-,” you say, out of breath. You can feel how hard he is through his sweatpants. He lifts his head up and his hair is all messed up, the smaller strands have escaped the bounds of his hair tie and frame his face in a way you can only describe as delicious. He kisses you on the mouth once again and you have to close your eyes shut to regain your composure. 

As much as you don’t want him to stop, you know better than to let the situation escalate even further. Your hands move to his chest and you firmly place them there but don’t push him away. 

Fuck. About time you tell him to stop.

You move your head to the side as you try speaking softly, “Chos-”, but he grabs your face to turn it back to him and bites your lower lip, continuing the kiss. You’re pretty sure he can feel your wetness as he grinds his hips, pressing against you. You groan at how good it feels.

You kiss him back, pulling him impossibly closer by his t-shirt. He pulls your bottom lip with his teeth again before releasing it. “Fuck… baby, you feel so good,” he groans as his hand pulls your t-shirt down and his face moves to your collarbone to leave another hickey. 

“Ahhh… Choso, please,” you moan at his touch. He comes back up again as he stares down at your neck, proud of the light mark he knows is going to turn dark purple later. He kisses you on the lips once again.

Before your desire wins over the rational part of your brain, you press your hands firmly to his chest. He leans back a bit as he understands what you mean. He reluctantly moves away from your face but his hands still hold you in place. His eyes look hazy and full of lust. By the way he looks at you, you’re certain yours don’t look any different either.

So much for not wanting to fuck up another friendship.

“We can’t...” you mumble, but clear your throat to speak up clearly, “Choso, we can’t do this.”

“Why not?” he retorts softly, his thumb moving across your bottom lip. You sigh as you grab his wrist to remove his hand. He moves his hand through his hair to push back the stray strands as he sits back up to create space between you two.

For a split-second, you find yourself missing his warmth before you sit up straight to look at him. You envelop his hand into yours and you hold it like that as he waits for you to speak up.

“This feels strange… I don’t want to make you feel as if I’m just using your body to get over Satoru. It already feels like I’m gonna lose him as my best friend, I don’t want to lose you too…” you trail off as you lower your head with shame. 

“What if I didn't mind you using me to get over your stupid crush?” he replies. It was the last thing you’d expected him to say. Your eyes widen in surprise as you look up at him.

“I think it’s pretty evident that I have a thing for you,” he continues as he looks down at his crotch. Your eyes follow his and you can see the imprint of his hard on over his sweatpants. You look away quickly, not wanting to ogle at the sight.

“It’s just your dick talking…” you almost whisper, not wanting him to hear your accusatory tone. He pulls his hand out of your grasp before running his fingers through his hair once again in frustration. 

You know you hit a nerve when he groans slightly as he speaks up, “Far from it… I’ve liked you for a while now. But you’re so blinded by your crush for that blue-eyed snowflake fuck that you can’t see anyone else. Least someone who can treat you far better than he does. Anyone can tell that you have a crush on him… Satoru knows, your eyes tell, he just conveniently ignores it. I’m not sure why you’re so crazy over him but it hurts me more than I'd like to admit when all you care about is Satoru this, Satoru that. Fuck Satoru! What the fuck is it going to take for you to finally see me?”

You’re speechless. Your brain feels like it has stopped computing altogether. 

What the fuck?

Even if you want to say something, you fall short of the right words. Your lips part to speak but close again. Choso notices this and his jaw tightens. He mumbles a ‘be right back’ as he gets up abruptly and makes his way towards the washroom. 

You’re still sitting in your place when he returns after a few minutes. The edge of his hairline is wet but he’s dried his face. As if washing his face had washed away his agitated state of mind, he looks more composed now.

“Choso..” you get up quickly and walk to him.

“It’s getting late, I better leave. I’m sorry.” he interrupts you. He turns away from you and walks towards the apartment door. You follow behind him quickly as you call out his name again. He knows how much you hate leaving things hanging in a limbo till the next meeting.

He turns around and cups your face with both his hands. They’re cold now. His eyes meet yours as he speaks, “It’s okay… I shouldn’t have sprung that on you like that. You’re going through your own shit. I shouldn’t add more onto it.”

He smiles and leans down to kiss your forehead. You try speaking up but he interrupts you once again. He does not want to give you an opening. He wants to leave things in a limbo tonight. He wants to remember the way your lips felt and not let it be overshadowed by your rejection that came after.

“We’re okay,” he presses and you know he’s not going to listen to you tonight. “Goodnight.”

You put your hands on top of his to hold them in place when you sense him pulling them away. He moves them away regardless and instead squeezes both of your hands. His touch feels so different from how it was just a few minutes ago and you want to cry.

You can’t help but feel as if you’ve ruined your friendship and you feel him slipping away. Maybe you’re being a bit dramatic but he’s being so formal and indifferent that it almost makes you feel sick.

“Hey,” he stops your train of thought, “I’ll see you later, okay?”

No, please stay. You want to say but you don’t dare to. You can’t… not with everything that just happened.

“Goodnight.” you force a smile at him and he squeezes your hands once more before leaving.

You stand there, staring at your closed door for a good few minutes before you turn the TV off completely and retire to your bedroom. Every single scenario and all the endless outcomes play in your head but above everything else, Choso’s confession of his feelings for you plays in your head on loop like a broken record.

You’re still unsure of how you feel about it as you fall asleep an hour later, still thinking about him. You hope in desperation that come morning, you’ll be wiser at deciphering the mess of your emotions a bit better.

MDNI banner: @benkeibear

[undertale-fic-librarby]

Introduction Post

Howdy, & welcome to this blog! Here you can find different fanfic recommendations that I have read, people have asked for, or that others have recommended!

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[vitsa-didicoy]

Good evening, I was wondering if you had any good sources for people trying to learn/reconnect to Romani culture? I’ve been trying to learn more lately as my great grandmother left Europe during ww2 and was only allowed to keep her new children (in our current country, the one she fled to) if she didn’t tech them her language, religion or anything really (same with her new husband who was a refugee from another country). Wouldn’t even tell grandma what country she was from to narrow it down, but we recently found out about her eldest kid in Denmark. Would you know of any reputable resources I could access?? There’s a lot of bull shit floating around the internet and I’d hate to be misinformed

I'll start this by apologizing ahead of time for the length, as there is so much information that I feel is important when you are wanting to reconnect with Romani culture. Also, I'm not an expert and a didicoy myself. I do not have Romanipen and do not speak for all Romani. I am just someone who wants to help Roma and didicoy alike with their struggles.

First thing to understand is that Roma are not a monolith (obviously) and that our culture, religious practices, food, clothing, music, art, etc. all varies from vitsa to vitsa and even family to family. There are similarities of course, but never assume that just because one vitsa does one thing that means that its universal. A lot of gadje that try and write Romani characters get this wrong.

Some of our biggest similarities, though, are what keep us together across vitsas, especially our language, our oppression, and our Romanipen. Romanipen is a serious thing, often dictating whether you're "truly" Romani or a gadjo. Whether or not someone has Romanipen is based on whether they speak Romani Chib, were raised in a Romani community, follow Romani laws and traditions, know Romani history and oppression, etc. Because of the importance of Romanipen, some vitsas do not consider didicoy (Roma who were raised in gadjekane society and do not have Romanipen) as Roma and consider them to be gadje. This does not mean didicoy can never be accepted back, but it does mean that there is a lot of work that goes in to reconnecting with the culture.

So, where can you start? In my opinion the easiest way to start learning is through Florian Tacorian. He's Kalderash Romani and he talks about Romani culture, language, traditions, and oppression, including rating characters that represent Romani people in fiction. He's very digestible for gadje and didicoy to learn from. His YouTube channel is found here:

Once you feel comfortable with the info you learn from him, you can delve deeper by reading books about the Romani experience. Many Roma have written their experiences and history into published works (I'll link a list later in the post), but one that I've personally read from is Ian Hancock. He's Romanichal from Britain and he now teaches linguistics and other subjects at the University of Texas in Austin, TX.

Ian Hancock's works:

I suggest: We Are the Romani People and Pariah Syndrome

And here's a compiled list of Romani authors if ever you want to extend your knowledge to other experiences:

Furthermore, I truly believe that advocating for Romani Rights and learning from current events is half of learning about Roma as a whole. Our oppression is on-going with public opinion of Roma being wholly ignorant at best and vehemently hateful at worst. Reconnecting should also be spearheaded by a desire to uplift Romani voices and to advocate for equal rights. To be more educated on current Romani events, the European Roma Rights Centre is the best place for it.

European Roma Rights Centre:

Next, the most desired part of reconnecting I'd say, is learning Romani Chib. The reason you may not see easily accessible lessons for Romani Chib is because it is closed, meaning only Roma are allowed to learn it. This doesn't mean lessons for didicoy don't exist and there are resources available to learn Romani Chib. Personally, I'm learning American Kalderash from Ronald Lee's books. Even though I'm not Kalderash (at least to my current knowledge), it is still a useful dialect to learn, especially if you live in North America and want to converse with other American/Canadian Roma.

Keep this in mind, pretty much each vitsa has its own unique dialect and, based on the region, each dialect may have different loan words from the country that that vitsa resides in. Ronald Lee will not teach you how to speak every dialect, but, if you get the ground work in and talk to more and more people, you may be at least able to understand what someone from a different vitsa is saying using context clues and thus build your own vocabulary.

Link to Learn Romani by Ronald Lee:

Link to it's sister book, Romani Dictionary (English - Kalderash) by Ronald Lee:

Lastly for this section, community is a huge thing for Roma, it's the biggest thing that has kept us alive through being exiled, persecuted, enslaved, and assimilated completely in the over 1,000 years we've been out of India. It's also something that many didicoy have a big problem with, considering the points above on how hard it is for didicoy to be accepted by Roma. It's not impossible, nor is it hopeless however.

Some Roma will take pity on you because you didn't choose to be raised a gadjo, some Roma will see you as an aspect of racism and be defensive, some won't care and treat you on the basis of your character instead, and some will just ignore you. Again, Romani people are not a monolith and 10-12 million minds all with different lives will have incredibly varied opinions.

It is key to keep this mind and most importantly, to be neutral about this internally. You did not choose for your ancestors to undergo persecution, you did not choose to be raised in the dark about your heritage, and you did not choose to be born with mixed blood.

The best you can do when approaching the community is to be respectful, but engaged. As a didicoy you both can't be entitled to practice every aspect of the culture, but you also can't be too afraid to try what you're allowed to. If you are unsure of your place, ask. If you have a question about a practice, ask. If you are interested in aiding and actually being a cog in the community, you can also just ask. "No" is not a bad word and understanding why you're rejected if and when you are is a good mindset to have when you're trying to build trust in the community, too. On the flip side, if you are presented an opportunity to practice within the culture, take it. If there are Romani events in your area with an open invitation, visit and actually experience first-hand. Talk to people, tell them your intention and if you are genuine, you'll get farther than you might think.

As for online communities, I suggest starting with r/Romani on Reddit. There are a lot of posts from didicoy asking about where to start, like you. Read the comments on those posts and you'll see a lot of advice from Roma with all different experiences. And don't gravitate towards the advice that makes you feel good, just the advice that makes logical sense to you.

r/Romani:

Again I'm sorry that this is not only so long, but also that it took so long to get out. When answering these questions, I try to help with any aspect that I can, but I still want people to engage with the community themselves. I wish you the best of luck and I hope that you find the answers you've been looking for.

We are all in this together. Te aves baxtalo 💙❤️💚

[quonah4dead]

Whiskey Shakes: Part 2

Word count: ~4.2k

Rating: Teen for language, alcohol use, mention of sexual topics

Pairing: Nellis

Characters: Ellis, Keith

Previous “chapters”: Closets… WS: Prologue WS: Part 1

Source material: Primum non Nocere by Ladyred-ms

Description: Part 2 of 3. The lads continue talking, Ellis talks about some of his and Nick's past dates! And Keith is himself.

Rubbing his thumbs on the half-empty foam cup in his lap, Ellis turned his face away again. Pensiveness touched his brow, but his eyes held a kind of determination, made fuzzy by booze. His jaw twitched open. His tongue darted over his lower lip.

“First date, huh?” He took in a sluggish deep breath, and sighed, letting the air noisily flap his lips. Perhaps if Ellis had been sober, every word he tried to speak would have been caught somewhere behind his teeth, regardless of whether or not he actually wanted to talk. As it was, the world sloshed around like a thin syrup when he rocked his head from side to side, and his tongue seemed loosened enough to work, albeit slowly.

“We, uh. He took me to a… Pizza place. Up that’a’ways, a bit,” he started, flopping a hand in the direction he thought was north-ish. Rolling his neck around, he searched for the next thing to say, and found that there wasn’t really much that needed saying. The realization came as a huff of air from his mouth, and a wry feeling just barely twitched one corner of his mouth upward. “Nothin’ really happened. Not interestin’ like your shit, anyway, heh.” 

Skip the car bj, skip over the car bj. 

“Ah- We just kinda… Talked. About stuff. It was real nice, gettin’ to learn some stuff about ‘im. Gettin’ to know him better. Um…” He pushed a shoulder into the couch cushion behind him, letting his head nestle against the plush, stuffed fabric. It was cozy, and soothing. Pleasant tingles danced across his scalp as the pressure shifted the curls underneath his cap. He sighed, savoring the feeling, and a drowsy weariness added itself to his reticence.

Caving into the insecurity that still had a tight hold on his chest, Ellis found himself glancing over to where Keith was situated on the other end of the couch. His friend was looking at him in the way one would watch a mildly interesting movie. Attentive, but not intensely focused - there was a distance to his expression that Ellis had difficulty interpreting. Was it boredom? Apathy? The booze? Was it simply the fact that Ellis continued to keep him waiting?

The accident-prone man was idly rolling the base of his milkshake around on the arm of the couch and picking at fabric pills with his other hand, blindly flicking them away when one tore off. One of his eyebrows slowly drifted upward above slightly-lidded eyes.

Ellis followed the compulsion to avert his gaze once more. He also felt compelled to continue.

“I was… So fuckin’ scared, man… God, I was so nervous. I hadn’t been on a real date in a long-ass time, and definitely not with…” Someone I already cared about? Someone who… actually might stick around? Or like me back? Every approach he took to finishing that sentence ended up sounding some degree of pathetic, so he gave up on it. “I dunno… I just really really wanted it to go well.”

“A - and it did, y’know?” Looking vaguely up at the ceiling, a loose shrug drew his shoulders upward. “It… It actually went real well. He…” A gentle laugh escaped him, then, and the mild disbelief that had been pinching his brows just a moment before melted. Warm affection pulled at his lips and tried to soften his eyes, but it could not do so fully. Sorrowful longing oozed its way up from his gut, and dampened the happiness that would have shone on his face otherwise.

“He could tell I was nervous. Did a kinda shit job’uh hidin’ it, honestly, but uh… He was real nice… And patient, with me…”

Dizzying shadows cast by stippling on the ceiling coaxed his eyes into losing their focus, staring somewhere far past the solid surface. A memory wanted to rise up in him - he felt it trying - but he had lost what little momentum he’d forced himself to accrue. Sitting there, having fallen silent yet again while attempting to recall stories that he simultaneously cherished and could not bear, he kind of just felt lame.

Nevertheless, that memory pushed at his consciousness just enough to put a curve on his lips, twitching upward without his permission. It persisted there, in spite of all the other emotional gunk that was gathered in his chest, eventually culminating in a quiet huff of air out his nose that might have been the ghost of a chuckle.

Hardly a moment after, a terrible squeak pierced the air nearby. Ellis whipped his head around to look, and saw his friend looking at him with an expression that was… somehow still difficult to parse. The end of the thick plastic straw was in Keith’s mouth, gnawed into a pulverized mess while Ellis was looking away. He was still actively chewing on it, and when Ellis silently stared a bit too long, he jerked his neck and made another two awful sounds, plastic sliding against rough-cut plastic in a painful skrrrk-skrrrk.

Keith slowly, deliberately dragged the straw against the opening of the milkshake lid again, narrowing his eyes in a way that read as threatening.

Ellis sighed, and rubbed a palm against the back of his neck.

And then he capitulated - both to his friend and to himself.

“Um… It’s… A little silly, but… He, uh - he… Kept yammerin’ on about all the different kinds’a pizza. And how all’uv’em were shit except the kind he liked, heh.” The joy that had only danced at his lips before was now reaching his eyes as he allowed himself to recall the memory in earnest. “I think he just kept on for my sake, honestly.”

He was quite certain that was the case, in fact, though an open admission of that felt more than a little daunting at the moment.

“He likes the, uh, the big, flat kind,” Ellis explained, gesturing awkwardly with the milkshake still in hand, making a big, vaguely triangular shape in the air. He spared a glance over toward Keith, avoiding eye contact while darting over the form of his friend nearby.

The man had bitten the flattened straw’s end open again to slurp some melty shake through. When Ellis allowed himself a cheeky little smile and said, “You should hear whut he said about deep dish,” a tempered disdain twisted at the man’s mouth. It only made his tentative grin widen. “Could never have a pizza party with you two together, though, that’s for sure, hah. Y’all’d be at each others’ throats. Two stubborn sons’a bitches…”

Tilting his head back and closing his eyes, the fantasy that Ellis had been inhibiting rose up to fill his mind, freed by alcohol.

He saw it clearly - his two favorite guys bickering over their food. Keith would be bounding around in agitation, limbs going every which way as he defended the honor of his sauce-laden favorite. Maybe he’d shake a chair, or start hopping around in a ‘friendly’ aggression, hooting out peeved half-laughs that were tempered by the value Keith placed in his relationship with the Northerner.

Nick would probably start off trying to be cool and composed, rebutting anything Keith said with something resembling an argument. Keith would inevitably press one of his buttons, though. Nick would hear something that’d pull his thin lips back to bare gritted teeth, eyes narrowed, gesturing in sharp, fiery movements that would snap along the crisp material of his dress shirt. Maybe a dark lock or two would jostle loose from its gel, if Ellis was lucky. Nick was alarmingly handsome when he was a little disheveled.

Awareness of his surroundings, of his situation, vanished as he lost himself to the fantasy. There was nothing except the coveted image of domesticity. He felt nothing but the sensation of the bickering in his mom’s kitchen.

It seemed so real, then, Ellis and his mom laughing at the spectacle, uninhibited by the foul influence of reality. Nick showing his personality, his real personality, sharp and interesting and delightful in a prickly-pear way that never shone out from under his professional veneer - only allowed to be seen when he and Ellis were alone.

Ellis wanted everyone to see him, to delight in the man the way he himself did. And in the warm glow of incandescent bulbs, scattered softly by decades-old glass shades stained yellow-brown from age, he had it.

It was perfect.

It also hurt.

The sandy buzz of Keith’s low tenor hit his awareness slowly. For a moment, it was simply incorporated into the fading scene that had lulled Ellis into that pleasant and painful place. Something in his mind recognized that it was an external input - one that he cared about hearing. And so slowly, as he was torn from the scene he'd invented, he managed to pull his head upright. The world swayed around him when he blinked in the direction of the noise.

Keith might have felt bad for interrupting whatever had made Ellis float off with that little smile on his face, if he hadn’t also seen the man’s chin start to wobble. As it was, he wanted to hear more, needed to know more about the guy who was sooooo special that his absence damaged Ellis so severely. And, not to be rude or anything, but one nice pizza date really didn’t cut it, in Keith’s mind.

Only when Ellis seemed attentive, blue eyes only slightly hazy and confused, did Keith repeat himself.

“Where else did’juh go?” When there was no hint of comprehension in the expression that met him, he clarified, “For dates.”

“Oh. Um…” Ellis turned his attention to his milkshake, seeming surprised and disappointed when a hollow blurbling sound indicated how little fluid remained. Sighing, he dumped the rest directly into his mouth, placed the cup on the coffee table, and pulled an old throw blanket into his lap. His tone was casual, distant, and thoughtful when he began.

“Well, we went to Tybee once. He ain’t never been before, if you can believe it. Been here for years, but ain’t bothered seein’ the island. We walked around, had some food… I got cotton candy and made him try pralines. Managed to get to the candy kitchen right when they were pourin’ out some peanut brittle, too, so I got him tuh try that fresh’n’warm for the first time.”

A hissed breath of envious approval snaked out from behind Keith’s teeth, but Ellis didn’t seem to notice.

“We hit up a nice bar, too. I ain’t been tuh the one we went in, we just went ‘cause he thought it looked nice. Turns out he’s crazy good at pool.” Vague astonishment passed over Ellis’ face, as if he couldn’t believe the memory despite being there for it. “Like– man, I don’t think I ever seen someone trounce a table like that. ‘N’ he was all, throwin’ sly little smiles at me over his shoulder when no one was lookin’. Cocky bastard…”

Ellis had sunk into the couch and wrinkled his nose like he tasted something sour. As he pouted, Keith swore he saw the pink flush, put on his friend’s face by alcohol, creep outward to envelop the brunet’s neck and ears. A hand pulled down across the brunet’s cheek, and he cleared his throat.

“Ohhh, whut else… We went to a couple nice restaurants, nothin’ any’uv us would go to,” he casually explained, waving a hand around as if to encompass their two tight-knit families, or perhaps the entire community. “Showed him the, uh… He didn’t actually wanna bushwhack to our fishin’ spot - no surprise, kinda knew he wouldn’t - so I just showed ‘im the spot where we park tuh get there. Just sat there on muh truck bed’n’chatted. Till the skeeters found us, at least.”

Now that starkly seized Keith’s attention. The fishing spot was special. Knowledge of its location was something reserved only for their combined family, and that exclusivity had been vehemently upheld by both Keith and Ellis in equal measure. When Keith had mused on taking one of his longest-running girlfriends there, Ellis had hemmed and hawed. He only granted Keith his blessing after he was assured that this girl was special, and worth it, and would treat the spot with the proper respect it was due.

Honestly, acknowledging her importance to him via The Spot had kind of spooked him off of the whole relationship. Commitment was scary.

It didn’t matter that the fishing spot was inactive, more often than not. It wasn’t about the fishing. It was about it being theirs. No other non-family had ever been allowed into that place.

That muddy riverbend was practically sanctified ground. For Ellis to have taken his boy toy there, even just to the place where they would park and unload their fishing gear… Well. That took the mystery man far beyond ‘boy toy,’ he reckoned.

Who the hell is this guy…

Ellis shrugged to himself and smiled, oblivious to the intensity that had taken root in gold-flecked eyes. “I had a good time, anyway.”

Suddenly wringing the blanked in white-knuckled hands, his expression plummeted.

“That was… Real recent, actually… Not long after, we uh…” Ellis trailed off with a tense breath.

When Ellis’ chin began wobbling and his throat visibly flexed, Keith understood. As much as it pained Ellis to recall, it also hurt Keith to see, beyond the irritation rising as the blond man processed his exclusion from the whole thing. Especially in light of what that trip had to have meant about the magnitude of his friend’s affection for the unnamed man, compassion pinched blond brows together. Keith shifted his socked foot to rest gently on his friend’s thigh, curling toes to emulate a steadying, reassuring grip.

Taking in a shuddering lungful of air, the brunet rested his hand on Keith’s ankle, rubbing a thumb there to stabilize himself. When Ellis puffed out his next words, it was clear he was grasping for composure and for a different memory. He hadn't looked at Keith’s expression, and that was probably a good thing.

“I took ‘im to the restaurant– the fuckin’-- Jamaican one, just outside’uh–” he frantically snapped his fingers and waved a hand around in Keith’s direction. “Dammit, why can’t I… Keith, c’mon, you know the, the-”

“Hunter?” Keith supplied.

Ellis perked up and pointed in energetic confirmation, trailing off into amused embarrassment at himself. “Yes! That’s– Hunter! Yes! The one outside Hunter! Gawd. Hah, can’t believe I couldn’t- hoo, boy!” Under his baseball cap, a hand scratched at brunet curls self-consciously.

“So- so I told him, right, ‘cause it can get real messy, y’know? I told him tuh not wear any nice clothes - the man wears dressy shit like, all the time, man. Real sharp-lookin’, but not what’cha wanna wear tuh eat shit whut that place got, right? So I told him to dress casual, somethin’ he’d be fine gettin’ meat juice on’n’whutnot.”

The hand that wasn’t on Keith’s ankle was now flying around in gestures. Ellis had launched into the new story, accelerating as he drove on with an enthusiasm that seemed halfway forced. The presence of any genuine enthusiasm at all, though, was kind of a relief to see.

“Well, I just wore, like, my reg’lar work clothes, a’course. But this guy-” Ellis giggled, suddenly “- he shows up in a fuckin’ - Okay, so it was dressin’ down fer him, right? But he still wore a nice, like, heavy button-down thing, flannel-like, but it was nicer’n’whut we got, had some embroidery on it, with some classy-lookin’ jeans and I just–” Smiling to himself, he scoffed, and then looked directly at Keith with a blurry wonder.

“Keith, his dressin’ down is my dressin’ up. Ain’t that nuts? He wore nice long sleeves tuh eat jerk chicken.” The brunet palmed his face and closed his eyes and, after squeaking out an enraptured giggle, muttered mostly to himself, absolutely dripping with infatuation, “Gawd, he’s so cute… Prissy lil’ city boy…”

… Flabbergasted. Keith was absolutely flabbergasted. His jaw hung slack, lips loosely parted and turned down. Tiny muscle twitches flickered across his face chaotically as he stared holes into the side of his friend’s face.

He had never seen Ellis wear that expression, or speak in that tone, or… Behave that way. He had never seen Ellis look… Undeniably, all-consumingly, irrevocably lovestruck. He’d never really seen the guy have a crush, either, but this was… Well.

In his astonishment, Keith reflexively breathed out an accusatory, “Gayyyy…” and he couldn’t even blame the alcohol. He probably would’ve blurted it out sober, too, but he’d managed to keep it so quiet that Ellis didn’t seem to notice. Probably would’ve gone horribly if he’d been any louder. As it was, Keith’s brain had time to chug and sputter its way into a different response while Ellis was busy being… Like that.

“... You were datin’ a city boy?”

Blue eyes swiveled to meet Keith’s in surprise, like Ellis had forgotten the other man was there. “Ah - Yeah, I, uh. I’m just as surprised as you, man.” The grin Ellis wore was sheepish, but still delighted, a hand dragging heavily on the back of his neck. His voice started out at a normal tone, but gradually pitched up at the end as emotions tightened his throat. “I didn’t expect ‘im tuh go fer a guy like me, neither, but, uh… Y’know. He did. He… He really did…”

Blond eyebrows suddenly scrunched downward in a harsh pinch, nostrils pulling upward, dragging a lip in the same direction to bare front teeth. There was an implication in the tone, there, and it was one that immediately brought Keith’s temper to bear in the wake of an initial shock of confusion. That is not what he meant when he asked his question. A single thought took to Keith’s mind, and it fell out of his mouth uninhibited with immense vitriol.

“The fuck’s that supposed tuh mean?” It wasn’t a question. It was a demand - a challenge. One charged with fire.

Defensive uncertainty met him from across the couch. The other man had jumped in his seat, flinched away, looking both hurt and lost. “Huh…?”

Aggression had suffused him, and he had neither the wherewithal nor the will to check it.  His knuckles were white as he clawed at the upholstery, and heat bloomed across his face. “‘Wouldn’t go fer a guy like you,’ what the fuck does that mean?” When Ellis just sat there with his alcohol flush, looking shy and stricken, Keith tacked on a barked, “Huh?? I’m waitin’!”

Ellis was clearly lost. He was floundering and stuttering, failing to come up with a response to Keith’s sudden hostility. To be fair, the outburst had come from nowhere, and its intensity could have been alarming to anyone. But also, Keith was Keith. He was a headstrong motherfucker, and he didn’t much feel like being “fair” when his best buddy had implied something so personally offensive to his sensibilities.

“W-well, I dunno, I… I never really, uh… It’s just - I’m, y’know - ” he gestured weakly up and down along his person, voice dipping low with reverence. “And he’s… Sooo classy…”

That was not good enough. Keith’s shoulders squared further. He leaned forward, and jerked his chin upward to glare down his nose at his friend.

“So? So what if he’s ‘classy’? Whut’s that matter?”

Ellis began rigidly curling in on himself as his own shoulders began rising up to his ears. Swaying slightly, he pulled the blanket in his lap ever higher, as if it could shield him.

“It’s just… Y’know… I’m… not, ‘n’... We can get up tuh some dumb shit sometimes, ‘n’ I didn’t… Know if he’d think less’uv me for it, is all… I didn’t know if he thought I was… Stupid’r’whatever…”

Tension spasmed across Keith’s face. His mouth was primed to spit out more rage, but he was too angry and too tipsy for the proper neurons to generate words. The fact that he was panting and his nostrils were flaring didn’t really register, nor did God grant him the wisdom to stop when he ‘decided’ to wield Ellis’ sentiment against someone he wouldn’t disparage.

“You think I’m stupid, then?”

“Whuh-??” Ellis whipped his head around to lock eyes with Keith, shocked for a moment, but angry now, jaw rigidly falling open. “Oh, screw you, man, you know I don’t think yer stupid! Don’t pull that shit! You know that’s not what I meant! It’s just, some people might think that’n’I didn’t want him to! That’s it! Whatever you thought I was sayin’, it ain’t like that.”

Soft folds of fabric were pulled taut in his grasp. He glared down at the blanket instead of looking at his friend, and instead of timidness or uncertainty in his posture, his shoulders raised like a hewn stone fortification. His anger was frigid, not fiery, and its presence felt wrong.

Keith sucked in a breath to retort, to carry on the dispute he started, but Ellis beat him to the next move.

“And he ain’t like that, either.”

The firm disengagement disoriented Keith into a stall. Ellis had said it with a kind of harsh finality, wrought iron bars brought to a slamming close between them. Keith’s natural instinct was to grab them and shake them, howling challenges to the sky like a madman until he got somewhere.

Keith hadn’t thought Ellis would just… Shut down like that. Granted, he hadn’t thought at all before saying what he had said, but that was usually how he operated, and the point still stood. He had expected Ellis to fight back. They would argue, sure, but the expectation (as far as any expectation existed) was that Ellis would eventually acknowledge the idiocy of his statement and brush off the feelings that made him say it. That was how that was supposed to go.

This confused him, and in his confusion he could only sit there rigidly in his corner of the couch, watching the dark look on his unmoving friend’s face.

Hell, even just a dismissive eyeroll and a scoff would’ve been workable.

He did not like how this made him feel.

It made him feel guilty, but that was stupid because he didn’t do anything wrong. Ellis had said some dumb shit, and Keith challenged him on it. Rightfully so! The combined feelings of self-assured vindication and uncomfortable culpability churned violently within him, boulders spinning in his gut and lodging themselves in his heart valves.

Why did he feel so damn guilty all of a sudden?

He hated the feeling because, despite everything, he could not soothe himself out of it.

One minute turned into a handful, turned into two handfuls as neither man engaged with the other. Ellis continued to stare off with low eyelids and lower brows, unblinking, sulking in a direction that was noticeably away from the man across from him.

Bending under the weight of his feeling of fault, Keith’s spine gradually curved forward over time, eventually causing his neck to dip low between his still-tense shoulders. His jaw was still clenched, and his free hand was still gripping at the couch. Over those several minutes of silence, as his eyes slowly drifted downward to follow his hanging head toward the ground, he caught sight of the styrofoam cup in his hand, squished out of form by the force of his temper.

It was cheap, white junk with a shitty plastic lid and some hasty scrawling on the side. Mostly drained of its contents, an unappetizing slurry of ice cream and peanut butter chunks swished around at the bottom.

The words formed slowly, came out softly, but they fell out of his mouth, nonetheless.

“D’you want the rest’uh my shake…?”

There was a weighty delay between his question and Ellis reacting. The brunet’s knees shifted under his biceps, which were currently hugging the man into a tight ball. Curled in on himself just a little bit more than he was before, eyebrows just a little more furrowed, he did not respond, nor did he look at Keith.

Keith’s stomach sunk, and the nauseated sensation bubbling there wasn’t just from booze or greasy fast food.

They sat in silence some more, long enough for Keith’s mouth to get restless and the pressure in his chest to drive action.

“Whut else did’juh guys do?”

Had he been more present, he would have hated how small his voice sounded.

“C’mon, man, keep talkin’.”

He was staring straight into his friend’s averted eyes. A mournful sigh escaped him as he slouched forward farther.

“Keep talkin’, please…?”

The bare beginnings of a hairline fracture formed in the mortar of his friend’s stone wall, Keith could see it in the squint of his eyes and the shift of his brow. It did not soothe him. It just made him feel like grasping harder. Hanging his head and shaking it, Keith’s voice settled low and remorseful in his chest before he returned his gaze to the other man.

“We’re already in this deep, brother, misewell keep on.”

Another minute. Another two.

Nothing.

Keith let his head hit the cushion behind him. Grimacing, he drove the heel of his palm into his eye socket and kept it there. This fucking suuuuuuuuuucked.

God fuckin’ dammit, Keith, you stupid, stupid fuckup.

He wasn’t even sure what he did wrong. It just - whatever ‘it’ even was - felt like his fault.

[punkpoemprose]

Anna Arendelle and the Extraordinary Coat Room Meet Cute- A Kristanna Oneshot

Universe: Modern AU/ Socialite AU Rating: T Length: 2418 Words A/N: A classic meet cute because I haven't written one in a HOT second. Loosely based on the song Drinking Song for the Socially Anxious by the Amazing Devil.

“You’re… uh, on my coat.”

The final indignity. This will be the end of me, dead of embarrassment in the coatroom at a party I’ve tried to escape twice.

“Oh,” Anna replied with a shrug, trying to shake off both the thought and the awkwardness of the entire situation, “You know, sometimes it’s just nice being in someone else’s coat.”

The tall, unreasonably attractive blonde man before her quirked an eyebrow and she realized that if she wasn’t yet in cardiac arrest or in a state of spontaneous human combustion, it was, in fact, impossible to die of embarrassment.

If it were, I’d have been dead on arrival.

She didn’t know why she’d agreed to come to the party in the first place. It was a great opportunity for networking for her family’s charity and she normally loved socializing, but she had fully known, somewhere in the back of her mind, that Hans would be there. Of course, he would be, he was a fixture at major social events, high end restaurants, and sundry “hoity toity” settings in Arendelle city. No one knew, of course, that he wasn’t the wealthy eligible bachelor he passed himself off as, no, that was something that Anna alone seemed to have intimate knowledge of alone.

“Which is, of course, a very normal and reasonable thing to say and do,” she added after a moment of silence.

To her immense relief, the man before her didn’t seem to be backing away slowly or pulling a cell phone out of his pocket to call 9-1-1 on the clearly disturbed young woman withholding his coat from him. Rather, he actually appeared to be calm, maybe even entertained.

“Of course,” he nodded, his voice carrying with it a note of amusement, “I can’t say I’ve tried it myself, but anything has to be better than being out there.”

At just that moment, Anna noticed a well-tailored suit, purchased on her dime, and a smarmy smile approaching the side of the room where the coatroom door was. She could only see him through a small gap between the entryway and the large stranger’s side, but she would know that jerk anywhere.

“Close the door.”

The man gave her a curious glance, still not offended, but clearly taking his time in deciding whether it were in his best interest to be in an enclosed space with her.

“Quickly!”

She swore she could smell Hans’s overbearing, stupid floral cologne from where she sat on the small settee, but she knew that it was probably just her mind playing tricks on her.

“Please.”

That did the trick, and the man, with a glance over his shoulder, closed the door behind him and leaned back into it, providing extra security that it would not be pushed open again until he moved.

Anna breathed out a sigh of relief and felt, for a moment, that she was going to maybe make it through the night after all, even if she was going to spend it in the coat closet avoiding detection by her terrible ex-boyfriend.

“So,” the man said, making Anna realize that he, at her behest, had trapped them in a small space together, “I don’t know whether to ask about the coat thing or the hiding thing or if they’re both none of my business.”

If she would normally be afraid of being trapped with such an immense man, she wasn’t now. The blonde before her seemed to be doing everything he could to make himself seem less intimidating while still leaning his body weight into the door. She noticed his body language, leaning back to make himself appear shorter, his pose otherwise open, casual. He was speaking slowly, calmly, and it was very clear to Anna that the man before her had some practice in trying to minimize his physical presence in a space. She was getting better and better by the day at reading people, both for her own safety, and to better glean which people in a room would be most receptive to hearing about the Arendelle Angels, a no kill shelter she was currently on the board of trustees for.

“I suppose the coat, at least, is your business given it is evidently yours.”

With that admission, she did shift down the settee, removing her bottom from his jacket. He made no immediate move to retrieve it and she wondered if he was just that intent on guarding the door for her, or if he was worried that she’d bite.

“It’s sort of boring though, I just sat on it by mistake when I came in and I am really bad at answering questions on the fly so sometimes I say things that are strange or too much.”

That, in and of itself, was probably “too much” of an admission to a total stranger.

Every nonprofit should want you to oversee their fundraising, you’re crushing this normal and charming thing.

He nodded, like she’d said something sage, and then continued to stand in front of the door, not saying anything at all and continuing to stand in the least intimidating way a man of his stature could muster. He was acting as if he had every intention to stand there for the rest of the evening, party and world beyond the door be damned.

“The hiding thing is a little more fraught,” she added, just to fill the quiet. She’d never been great at quiet.

He nodded again, and she assumed that it was not a surprise to him.

Hiding in closets at parties is not normal behavior, something more complex going on only makes sense.

She sometimes wished that her thoughts would be a little less pragmatic.

“The long and short of it is that my ex is out there, and he’s an asshat, and I was trying to make it to the front door, coat be damned, but if I’d headed for the exit, he would have seen me.”

Kristoff nodded, as if her behavior made perfect sense.

“And you didn’t want him to see you looking so nice at a party after dumping him because you’re just kind like that.”

For the first time since she walked into the party, for the first time in a month maybe, her laughter was genuine.

“I mean,” she said through chuckles that dislodged the anxious tears she’d been so carefully holding in place, “you had the me dumping him part down, but I am not that charitable, at least not to him of all people. No, I just didn’t want to see him and hear whatever asinine comment he’d have already locked and loaded for me.”

She wasn’t certain whether he’d meant to actually compliment her, or whether he was just trying to make light of the situation, but she thought that his respectful twice over of her body from across the small room might tell her more than she was letting herself hear. If nothing else he had made her laugh and she could appreciate that.

“Good thing you dumped him then,” he replied, “and that does explain the coat closet. Have you been in here long?”

Anna shrugged, “Twenty minutes, maybe? I feel a little bad about it. I was in the middle of talking about a rescue lab-pit with a hedge fund manager that is our host’s cousin and I think he was interested in adopting and maybe also sponsoring some of the other animals.”

“You work for a rescue? Which one?”

She was grateful for the changing direction of the conversation. Something in his eye seemed to light up when she mentioned the rescue. Clearly he was an animal lover, those with an ambivalence or dislike for pets always seemed to regard her conversations about the rescue like those Sarah McLachlan ASPCA advertisements that gave everyone a close approximation to Catholic guilt regardless of religious background or lack thereof.

“Well work for is a little bit of a misnomer, I don’t get paid, but I’m in charge of fundraising for Arendelle Angels.”

“That’s amazing, do you have a dog?”

Dog guy, not surprising.

“No, I love them, but I’m only equipped for a cat at the moment.”

He smiled at that, “I work training service dogs, but cats can be really great emotional support animals. My dog thinks he’s a lap cat sometimes, I swear he even tries to purr.”

She laughed again and thought about filling this guy in on besting his record setting win at “most genuine laughter out of Anna Arendelle in a month”, but instead she made herself more comfortable in her sitting position and jumped into continuing the conversation.

“Lapdog?”

The man groaned in mock wistfulness, “120lb Irish Wolfhound.”

Anna snorted with laughter. Another new record.

***

Kristoff.

Her coat room companion was named Kristoff, and he had, rather than leaving as he’d originally intended, decided to spend the evening with her in a coat closet.

He'd even been brave enough to sneak out, not once, but twice, to sneak them both glasses of wine and snacks from the outside world. She'd spilled her guts about Hans after the first glass and he'd been respectful and kind in his responses, including in his offer to leave the room and knock him onto his ass.

She'd said no, mostly because it would mean that their time together would come to an end.

“What are you planning on doing after this,” he asked.

“Well I was going to go home and show my cat some memes. I think he likes the colors on the screen, but I like to think that he actually gets the humor because he's awesome like me.”

He laughed at that and her heart raced. Every time she'd managed to get a laugh out of him she'd felt like she won the lottery. She was frankly a little upset that his asking combined with the sheer amount of people who have come and gone from the cost room, giving them strange looks, meant that the night was almost over.

“I was hoping you'd want to maybe stay a while, meet Sven, finish your conversation with Stone, but I understand, Olaf sounds like an extremely entertaining cat.”

“Stay? Do you mean… head to your place?”

She did want that frankly but she wasn't sure whether it would be a great idea given she had to be up so early the next morning and she had no idea of where he lived. Hell, she knew that he was an introvert leaning ambivert with an emotional support dog weighing just a little less than she did, but she didn't even know his last name. It was funny what had and hadn't been addressed.

“Well I mean technically it's right here. Not this room, this is just my mom's overflow closet, but I do have a room here still, so while it’s not my house, it’s certainly a place I can invite you to stay at.”

Anna was confused.

“I thought this was Cliff and Bulda’s house?”

Cliff and Bulda were a somewhat well off couple whose families had been big in mining some generations back, but who were, themselves, important donors to a variety of animal rights and green charities in the community. They and their extended families seemed to be involved in just about every nonprofit and realm of business that one could think of. Kristoff, frankly, had their spirit but looked nothing like the dark haired older couple.

“It is, he’s my dad. I was adopted, if that explains anything. If you’re worried about it, I can go get my mom to confirm. Or we can both walk out of here now if you want. I had a cousin escort your ex off property the first time I ducked out for wine. I didn’t tell anyone anything you told me, but no one really was asking why I wanted him to go, apparently half the assemblage thinks that he’s an asshole who is no longer tolerable since his girlfriend left him.”

He looked a bit contrite after the admission, and took her shocked silence for judgment. 

“Sorry I didn’t say something sooner, I knew that I should have told you as soon as I got back, but I was feeling a little selfish and I wanted to keep talking with you.”

“You’re forgiven.”

She hadn’t needed to think about it. She knew that Cliff had a son, he often talked about his boy and how proud he was of him while they talked shop about donations and animal sponsoring for the rescue, that he was Kristoff made her already feel that her comfort and trust with the man was well placed. Frankly he hadn’t lied to her, he’d omitted, but given that he’d had Hans escorted out of the party and had continued to help her through her nervousness for the rest of the night had earned him her pardon for not mentioning that the object of her ire had been gone for an hour at most.

Kristoff’s expression went quickly from remorse, to surprise, to gratitude, and Anna liked watching the way the journey played out over his handsome features. She watched the crinkle in his brow give way to softness and his lips go from tight to smiling. 

“Just let me know straight away next time,” she added, “I’ll probably stay in the coat room with you anyway.”

He chuckled, and offered her his hand, which she took with a smile.

“I can and will promise you that.”

“Can you promise me a meeting with Sven, you speak very highly of him and I’m excited to meet such an excellent boy?”

Kristoff’s expression softened further at her request and she already knew that Kristoff was her new favorite person to see at any party.

“I can, his schedule is usually pretty packed but he happens to owe me  a favor so I will make sure he can pencil you in tonight. Maybe after you finish talking with Stone? He’s going to be heading for home in a bit and he’s already got some dogs on your website he’d like to sponsor after he adopts Axel.”

Anna grinned in response, appreciative that her night was not just a success for the rescue, but also for her meager social life. 

“That,” she said, letting Kristoff pull her off the couch and to his side with a freshly earned familiarity, “Sounds like an excellent deal.”

Kristoff’s smile said everything she needed to know. He felt exactly the same.   

[dragongodshomebrewhoard]

This one is a bit strong so if used I recommend that there be some sort of added responsibility or some other caveat to using it. An example could be them being a hunted person.



Homebrew Race: The Revenant Strain

"Forged in war, tempered in blood, unbroken in the dark."

Once, they were human. Now, they are something more—something crafted. The Revenant Strain are the product of brutal experimentation, genetic modification, and relentless conditioning, molded to be the ultimate soldiers. Designed to survive against overwhelming odds, their bodies and minds are sharper, faster, and deadlier than any ordinary human. Whether they were created in hidden laboratories, through infernal sorcery, or as a desperate last-ditch effort to forge warriors against the apocalypse, the Revenants stand as living weapons, caught between the fate that made them and the choices they now make for themselves.

Revenant Strain Traits

Your Revenant Strain character has the following racial traits.

Ability Score Increase.

Your Constitution score increases by 2, and you may choose either Strength or Dexterity to increase by 1.

Age.

Revenants mature at the same rate as humans but have significantly extended lifespans, often living up to 200 years due to their enhanced biology.

Alignment.

Designed for war and survival, Revenants often lean toward pragmatic alignments such as Lawful Neutral or Chaotic Neutral. However, their independence allows for a broad spectrum of moral choices.

Size.

Revenants retain human proportions, standing between 5’7” and 7 feet tall. Your size is Medium.

Speed.

Your base walking speed is 35 feet.

Darkvision.

Your enhanced physiology has adapted to operate in the dark. You have superior Darkvision out to a range of 90 feet. You can see in dim light as if it were bright light and in darkness as if it were dim light. Unlike normal Darkvision, you can discern color in darkness, though everything appears slightly desaturated.

Combat Hardened.

You gain proficiency in the Perception and Athletics skills.

Adrenal Surge.

Your body is built for high-performance survival. As a bonus action, you can trigger a surge of adrenaline, pushing your body beyond its normal limits. Until the start of your next turn, you gain the following benefits:

You have advantage on Dexterity saving throws.

Your speed increases by 10 feet.

You gain temporary hit points equal to your level + your Constitution modifier.

You can use this trait a number of times equal to your proficiency bonus. You regain all expended uses when you finish a long rest.

Warrior’s Conditioning.

Your body is highly resistant to exhaustion and physical strain.

You require only 4 hours of sleep to gain the benefits of a long rest.

You have resistance to poison damage and advantage on saving throws against being poisoned.

Hyper-Reflexes.

Your heightened reflexes allow you to act faster than most. When rolling for initiative, you can roll 1d4 and add the result to your initiative roll.

Languages.

You can speak, read, and write Common and one additional language of your choice (often Infernal, Draconic, or Elvish, depending on their origin).

[assassinnumber9]

Assassin's Spy x Family Fanfic Masterpost Ver. 1

I wanted to make a list of all of my fanfics for anyone interesting in reading them. They range from tearjerking to fluffy to hot to chaotic. I try to write a bit of everything. This post will be updated through new posts as I write more and more, because as mentioned in my Drag AU post I have a lot of ideas that I've started and/or have planned.

But anyway, here's my list! I appreciate any and all support! It really helps me keep motivated!

Eternity is One Hell of A Long Time

Rating: E for strong language, violence, adult humor, and sexual content (any such content will be sectioned off into their own chapters and marked since the descriptions of the action are not central to the story)

Description: A Demon!Twilight x DemonicAssassin!Yor fic with a mixture of fluff, romance, humor, action, a bit of horror and a whole lot of chaos! This will be my long series I will be working on for TwiYor! I have a few others planned but nothing as long and lore heavy as this one.

Ao3 Summary:

Cool air breezed through his gold locks like wind through a field of tall wheat - so cold his feet and legs began to tingle, left ring finger seemingly being gently squeezed as if a ring was wrapping snug around it. He could almost feel the initial frosty bite of gold first hitting skin, causing him to press his thumb slightly against where a ring would potentially - no, did - lay. The solid mineral shaped perfectly to adhere to the base of the digit - an impeccably suitable fit. … Wait. Twilight lifted his hand to look at it, to be sure it wasn’t true, glancing to ensure his advisor wasn’t watching beforehand. And lo and behold, there it sat. A thick, solid gold band. Is this a wedding ring?

In which, Yor needs a date to a party and somehow manages to summon the strongest demon in hell...and also bind him to her for eternity.

How does one accidentally bind themselves to a demon for eternity?

Pairings: TwiYor, Pairings to be added

Chapters: 1/?

Flowing Now As a Song

Rating: G

Description: A bittersweet fic where Loid Forger visits Kielberg to speak to his mother.

Ao3 Summary:

The train station where he got off was mostly empty, but he assumed it was likely a lot better than what it was. This station was the closest one to where the bombings dropped all those years ago, closest to Kielberg. And if he had learned anything from his years of spying and war and psychiatry, it was that people tended to stay away from tragedy as if it were the plague, whether or not they had personal ties to that tragedy mattered not. It was all the same in the end. A tragedy was a tragedy.

However, it was when people faced those tragedies were they finally able to learn. It was when people faced those tragedies were they finally able to grow.

And for him, it was finally time to face the ones he had pushed away for over two decades.

Thus, the former spy made his way to find a cab, barely managing to push down the violent pressure of emotions boiling in his chest.

He had to talk to her at least once - just one time would be enough - as Loid Forger and no one else.

Pairings: Mentioned TwiYor, Mentioned Yuri x Chloe (Changed from Yuri x Fiona originally)

Chapters: 1/1

Loid Forger is NOT A Cuddler

Rating: T for mild suggestive themes

Description: A fluffy, tooth rotting fic about how Loid Forger is not a cuddler and the reactions from his numerous victims.

Ao3 Summary:

Let the record show that Loid Forger is NOT a cuddler.

But, he's also a liar.

5 times Loid Forger got caught being a cuddler and denied it, and the 1 time he finally admits it.

Pairings: TwiYor

Chapters: 5/6

Obsessions

Rating: E

Description/Ao3 Summary: A series of ficlets of explicit TwiYor scenarios.

Pairings: TwiYor

Chapters: 1/?

What You Do To Me

Rating: E for smut

Description: A smutty fanfic where Loid fails to stop the situation.

Ao3 Summary:

This was bad.

This was fucking bad.

Then, why the hell did it feel so fucking good?

Twilight couldn’t stop. Why couldn’t he stop? He had done things most would call impossible, accomplished missions that had had less than a thousandth of a percent chance of succeeding. So out of all the things he could do in this damned world, why couldn’t he stop this?

Pairings: TwiYor

Chapters: 1/1

You Truly Are My Vice

Rating: E for smut

Description: A smutty sequel to What You Do To Me where Yor is the one to fail to stop the situation.

Ao3 Summary:

What was she thinking?

What the fuck was she thinking?!

She was sleeping with the enemy, right? That’s what she was doing?

Shopkeeper was going to kill her.

If Twilight wasn't going to kill her first.

Pairings: TwiYor

Chapters: 1/1

[ragana62]

FAQ/About Me

Who TF Are You?

I'm Ragana, nice to meet you! She/They. Multifandom, multishipping, multimedium creative. I make art and write fics and make playlists.

Other random facts about me include that I have an absolutely massive cat, I'm originally from Latvia and as such am ESL and happy to translate fics into other languages (I speak/read/write several) upon request as I have time, and I play several instruments when I'm not doing this variety of creativity.

Rules of Engagement?

Not everything I do is 18+ but there is some 18+ stuff in my art and writing. I am also a fairly sweary person. Blame the punk bands I played in for years. Please use discretion, I am very intentional about my tags and content warnings so people can self-moderate.

We follow the classic three rules of fandom here. DLDR, SALS, YKINMK. Not everything is for everyone, and nobody is saying it has to be, but we live and let live. As above, I'm fairly intentional and as thorough as I can be about tags, here and especially on AO3, so hopefully self-moderation is easy, but if it isn't for you, I'm too old and chronically ill to drag myself into unnecessary drama over fandom fun.

There's a tag system now, I'm working on going back to clean up old posts and tag them accordingly. Main tags are below.

Fan Art? That’s RaganaDrawsThings.

Fics? That’s RaganaWritesThings.

Headcanon posts/other random rants? That’s RaganaThinksThings.

Ask Games/New Fic Votes/other audience participation stuff? That’s RaganaAsksThings.

Fic/Show/Music/Etc. Recs? That’s RaganaLikesThings.

Adult Content (Including Violence/Smut/things that would get a movie rated R)? That's BigKidsOnly.

I also tag fandom/pairings consistently using the standard tags if you're here for something in particular.

Fandoms?

I write for a bunch and am always adding more, whether upon request or based on what I'm feeling inspired by.

Current Works are in: Harry Potter, House of the Dragon, Agatha All Along, Fate: The Winx Saga, Rosaline, Avatar: The Last Airbender, The Hunger Games, and Doctor Odyssey.

There are coming works planned for Marvel.

Favorite Pairings and Characters

There's a handy dandy (and rather pretty) Canva with everything sorted by fandom. It's linked above.

Current OTPs in no particular order include Hermione x Kingsley, Twinsmione, Rhaenys x Corlys, Farah x Saul, Rosaline x Dario, Beetee x Wiress, and Agatha x Rio.

When do you post new things?

There used to be a schedule, for all of a few weeks. It didn't work for me. So now I post when makes me happy. If there's something you're waiting on, feel free to reach out, my inbox is always open for questions/requests/chatting/throwing headcanons at me to rant about/etc.

AO3 LINK

[donmorphy12]

Men's Tailored Suits: Why Don Morphy is the Go-To Brand for Precision and Power Dressing

In the world of men’s fashion, few pieces hold the same status as men's tailored suits. It’s not about luxury, it’s about purpose. At Don Morphy, we’ve helped over 10,000 men upgrade their presence with suits that fit right, feel right, and make a difference. From Fortune 500 executives to NBA athletes, our approach to tailoring is rooted in precision, not pretense. This post unpacks how a Don Morphy tailored suit works harder for you, with real data and real results..

Problem: Off-the-Rack Doesn’t Cut It Anymore

If you’ve ever bought a suit off the rack, you’ve likely experienced one (or all) of these issues:

Shoulders too wide

Sleeves too long

Waist is too loose or too tight

Pants that need hemming before you even wear them

This is more than just an inconvenience. According to a 2023 style survey by Menswear Report, 73% of men say they feel less confident in poorly fitting suits. That means nearly 3 out of 4 men are spending money on clothing that doesn’t serve them.

And in professional environments, that’s a problem. Fit impacts how others perceive you. In business settings, visual cues like sharp clothing account for up to 55% of first impressions, as found in a behavioral study published by Psychology Today.

Agitation: Poor Fit Affects More Than Appearance

The impact of a bad suit goes beyond looking unkempt. It can affect posture, comfort, and even body language. Take it from one of our clients, an investment banker in New York, who came to us after years of settling for generic fits. He said:

“I didn’t realize how much slouching I was doing until I wore a suit that aligned with my actual frame.”

Tailoring is not just an aesthetic upgrade. It’s functional. A proper fit allows better movement, better airflow, and greater comfort for long hours in the office or at events.

In a recent client performance study, Don Morphy tracked confidence ratings (self-reported) before and after custom fittings. The results?

83% reported better posture

71% said they felt more confident walking into meetings

64% closed more deals after their first fitting (based on follow-up data from clients in sales roles)

Solution: Don Morphy Data-Driven Tailoring Process

We don’t deal in guesswork. Our process is backed by measurement, expertise, and an understanding of the human form. Whether you walk into Don Morphy or shop mens suits online with us virtually, here’s what happens:

Measurement-Based Design: We take over 30 precise measurements using both traditional and 3D scanning techniques. No assumptions. No generic sizing.

Style Consultation: Based on your industry, use case, and personal preferences, we help craft a design that supports your lifestyle, whether you’re presenting to shareholders or speaking on stage.

Fabric Selection: You choose from over 2,000 premium fabric options sourced from reputable mills in Italy and the UK. But we guide you based on climate, durability needs, and purpose.

Tailoring & Adjustments: Within 4-6 weeks, your suit is handcrafted and delivered. Need tweaks? We include post-fitting adjustments to ensure it’s exactly right.

This structured approach is why we’ve earned awards like Fashion Group International’s Rising Star Award and built a client list that includes Emmitt Smith, Dwight Howard, and NFL executives.

Case Study: Confidence in Action

Let’s talk numbers. One of our case studies involved a tech entrepreneur preparing for a funding pitch. He needed a professional image upgrade, so we tailored three suits based on his schedule,investor meetings, public speaking, and networking events.

Outcomes within 90 days:

Raised  in seed funding

Featured in Forbes 30 Under 30

Landed two strategic partnerships following pitch events

When asked what changed, he said:

“Before Don Morphy, I wore the same black suit everywhere. Now, each suit has a role,just like I do. That shift changed how people viewed me, and how I viewed myself.”

Why Don Morphy Over Others?

We’re not just tailors,we’re partners in your presence. Unlike mass-market brands, we customize every detail, down to the thread. Here’s what sets us apart:Plus, we serve clients in 12+ countries, offering remote fittings and door-to-door delivery,making quality tailoring truly global. Final Thoughts: More Than a Suit

A tailored suit isn’t a luxury anymore, it’s a necessity in competitive spaces. Whether you’re closing deals, making pitches, or standing at the altar, the right fit sends the right message.

Don Morphy suits aren’t about flash, they’re about function, precision, and personal success. They’re worn by men who want to lead, not follow.

So the next time you reach for something to wear to an important event, ask yourself: Is this suit helping me win?

If the answer’s no, we’re here to change that.

[webeyecraft]

Why Every Modern Business Needs a Powerful Website in 2025

The world has gone digital — and if your business isn’t fully online yet, you’re missing out on massive growth opportunities. In today’s market, having a powerful, professionally designed website is no longer a nice-to-have. It’s a non-negotiable asset for success.

Whether you're a local business in Kerala or a startup aiming for a global audience, your website is your 24/7 sales machine, customer service hub, and digital storefront. That’s why choosing the right development partner matters—and that’s exactly where WebEyeCraft delivers.

Why a Website Is More Important Than Ever in 2025

1. First Impressions Are Digital

Your website is often the first thing people see about your brand. Within seconds, they decide whether to trust you — or click away. A poor design, slow load speed, or confusing navigation can cost you sales.

A professional web development team like WebEyeCraft ensures that your website looks great, loads fast, and keeps visitors engaged from the first click.

2. Everyone Is on Mobile

In 2025, over 70% of internet traffic comes from mobile devices. If your site isn’t optimized for smartphones and tablets, you're losing valuable leads and customers every day.

WebEyeCraft specializes in mobile-first, responsive web design, ensuring a seamless experience on all screen sizes.

3.  SEO Matters More Than Ever

What good is a website if nobody can find it?

Search Engine Optimization (SEO) is crucial for getting your site seen on Google and other search engines. WebEyeCraft builds websites with built-in SEO foundations: clean code, fast loading, proper structure, and keyword optimization—all designed to help you rank higher and attract organic traffic.

4.  Functionality = Better Business

Modern websites are more than just pages—they’re interactive platforms that:

Capture leads

Accept payments

Manage bookings

Offer customer support

Automate marketing tasks

With custom development by WebEyeCraft, your site can include all the features your business needs—no fluff, no unnecessary plugins, just pure performance.

5.  Tailored to Your Industry & Audience

Your website should speak your brand language. WebEyeCraft doesn’t use generic templates—instead, they take time to understand your business, target audience, and industry to build something uniquely yours.

Whether you’re in e-commerce, education, real estate, or professional services, WebEyeCraft creates websites that resonate with the right people.

What Makes WebEyeCraft the Right Choice?

WebEyeCraft is a digital agency based in Kerala, India, with a strong reputation for building custom, SEO-optimized, high-conversion websites. Their work is fast, reliable, and rooted in smart digital strategy.

Here’s what they offer:

✅ Custom Website Development

Built from scratch for performance, design, and growth

Technologies: WordPress, HTML/CSS, React, Next.js, and more

Fully responsive & cross-device tested

✅ E-Commerce Development

WooCommerce, Shopify, and custom solutions

Smooth user journeys and optimized checkout flows

Secure payment integrations

✅ UI/UX Design

Intuitive navigation

Clean interfaces

Focus on conversions and usability

✅ On-Page SEO Integration

Meta tags, alt texts, H1-H6 structure

Optimized image sizes and page speed

Keyword-friendly URLs and content structure

✅ Speed & Performance Optimization

Fast loading times

Clean, minimal code

Optimized databases and lightweight plugins

Real Impact, Real Results

Many WebEyeCraft clients have seen significant improvements in:

Search rankings

Website traffic

Conversion rates

Lead generation

Brand trust and authority

Here’s what a few of them say:

“We went from a slow, outdated site to a sleek, modern one—and the difference in engagement is amazing.” – Nida T., Real Estate Consultant

“WebEyeCraft took the time to understand my business and built a site that truly reflects my brand. I couldn’t be happier.” – Ramesh K., E-commerce entrepreneur

Who Should Work with WebEyeCraft?

 Startups needing their first online presence

 Local businesses in Kerala want to go digital  

Growing brands looking to scale with tech

 Entrepreneurs with unique ideas or SaaS products   

Marketing agencies need white-label development support

If you're serious about building a strong foundation online, WebEyeCraft is your go-to partner.

[neonluardon]

Emotion – The Fuel of Reason

Interlude

One of the most common questions we hear in classrooms is “Why?”

So many people wonder where and when they will use all that information in their lives, excluding exams. This question that keeps repeating itself might sound like an excuse students came up with to claim the system isn’t worthy of their attention.

But a “reason” is literally what determines something’s worth, and whether or not it deserves attention. At some point, even value and hardship lose their meanings; but the reason always stays the same. The universe can consist of dirt, and we will still need it for its reason, not its value.

Speaking of the universe, there isn’t a single reason for us to keep living, is there? I mean, existence is nice and all, but what exactly is the reason? Let’s put religious approaches and personal comments aside, what makes life so exciting and disappointing? How can the very same thoughts change perspectives and comments based on the emotions we look through?

Just what are emotions?

Dynamics of Emotions

Each time I hear people praise others for being dull and emotionally lacking, I hear my bones break. Because this is not how humans, or any creature with a developed consciousness, are supposed to live. Before we move on to what each emotion does and why they are so valuable, let’s try to understand the concept of emotion in general.

“Emotions are intense and subjective feelings that arise in the inner world of the individual and that emerge in the face of events and situations.”

The two valuable traits of emotions are:

1- Fast information transmission

2- Motivation (reason)

1- Fast Information Transmission

Before starting this part, it is important to note that there is no such thing as “bad emotion”. Each emotion has a reason, a purpose, and a duty. What makes them extreme is what we decide to do with them or the state of our mental health.

The ability of fast information transmission can mean multiple things, but in general, it attracts attention to the fact that emotional cues and senses work faster than logical thinking and deciding. This incredible speed and the tendency to react instantly is a primal part of our brain programmed to survive.

The amygdala, a part of the brain involved in processing emotions, is highly responsive to emotional stimuli. It enables the "fast-tracking" of emotional information, often bypassing more deliberate cognitive processes. This is why you might jump at a sudden sound before realizing it’s harmless.

According to the Somatic Marker Hypothesis proposed by neuroscientist Antonio Damasio, emotional reactions (like gut feeling) guide quick decision-making by marking certain choices with bodily sensations tied to past experiences. It is valuable to note that these “past experiences” don’t simply mean what we know about that specific situation, but our overall approach to life and the unknown itself.

And as for why emotions are essential mechanisms that can determine our survival rate, these are two cardinal reasons.

Evolutionary Purpose: Emotions evolved to enhance survival. Rapid recognition of threats or opportunities (e.g., a predator or a mate) increases chances of survival and reproduction.

Nonverbal Communication: Facial expressions, tone of voice, and body language convey emotions faster than words, making them essential for quick social exchanges. This might seem like a trivial trait to some, but as social beings heavily dependent on societal structures, the ability to react fast and effectively shapes us and those around us.

The brain and cognition are incredible parts of us, without them, we wouldn’t even be able to question what emotions are and what to do with them. But without emotions, (both with their contribution to survival and also motivation) there would be no point in questioning them.

Logic and emotion are distinct yet interdependent entities that complement each other. The corruption or imbalance of one can lead to the dysfunction of the other. It is unwise to elevate one while disregarding the other, as both serve critical roles. Emotions act as rapid processors, reaching conclusions in situations where logical deliberation might be too slow. This speed reduces the brain’s cognitive load, freeing resources to focus on deeper cognition, complex problem-solving, and memory consolidation.

Let’s demonstrate how this works on something else we already know: Computers!

Emotions as the GPU:

Just as a GPU processes large amounts of visual data rapidly and efficiently, emotions handle the "fast processing" of environmental and social cues.

GPUs excel at parallel processing, which is similar to how emotions can quickly evaluate multiple factors (e.g., tone, facial expressions, or environmental danger) without needing logical deliberation.

Logic as the CPU:

Logic performs more deliberate, linear, and complex calculations, akin to how a CPU handles detailed computations that require precision and time.

The CPU works best when not bogged down by tasks that a GPU could handle faster—just as logic is more effective when emotions manage immediate reactions.

Cognitive Load as RAM:

RAM is the temporary workspace for processing data, much like working memory in the brain.

When emotions quickly "filter out" or manage simpler tasks (like immediate threat detection or mood regulation), it reduces the load on RAM, allowing the CPU (logic) to focus on higher-order tasks like learning, problem-solving, and creativity.

When a GPU and CPU work in harmony, they optimize performance. Similarly, when emotions and logic cooperate, they enable efficient decision-making and adaptive behavior.

This is one of the reasons why it is very unwise to trait emotions unnecessarily. It is like breaking down the components of your computer on purpose, and then wondering why it no longer works properly.

If you notice signs of slowing down, corruption, and worsened performance on your devices; you are quick to act and admit there is a problem. Considering brains are biological computers, one shouldn’t blame oneself for failing and instead try to solve the problem.

It might be hard, but help is always there, in case you need to hear this; I know you are stronger than you can ever think.

Moving on from computers, there comes the second trait that separates us from computers and fuels every single thing we do during our lifetime. Reason.

2- Motivation (Reason)

We all know smoking is bad for our health. Believe me, smokers hear that almost constantly—whether it’s from the disapproving looks of strangers, the disappointed remarks from loved ones, or the stark warnings plastered on cigarette packages. Smokers are not uninformed; they’re acutely aware of the damage. They live in it, they can actively experience their bodies withering away.

So, why don’t they quit? Why do we, myself included, knowingly harm ourselves? As a former non-smoker who used to wonder the same thing, I’ve come to realize that emotions are at the core of this behavior.

Here’s the truth: we act when we feel the “need” outweighs the “cost”. Think of it like buying an expensive computer—it may cost a lot, but if the benefits (efficiency, productivity, possibilities) seem worth the price, you’ll make the purchase and willfully “suffer” the consequence as you believe the result is worth it.

Smoking follows a similar emotional logic. It offers temporary relief—relaxation, escapism, or comfort in routine—in exchange for a portion of your health. It works like a Faustian Bargain, really. This emotional "reward" feels immediate and tangible. On the other hand, quitting smoking promises better health, but this potential feels distant, abstract, and often overshadowed by the emotional weight of what you’d be giving up.

The scales don’t work in our favor. Until the emotional value of quitting outweighs the comfort and familiarity of smoking, the logical knowledge that 'smoking is harmful' will rarely drive change. That’s the power emotions have in shaping our decisions—they’re not just motivators; they’re the hidden hands tilting the scales of action.

But while emotions can keep someone smoking or prevent them from even considering quitting, they can also be the very reasons to stop. Let’s look at the scale again.

Take “Benjamin,” for example. He’s thinking about quitting smoking. Let’s help him tip the balance.

First, let’s start with logical reasons:

Cigarettes are expensive! He could save his money instead.

Cigarettes are harmful to his health.

They make his breath stink.

Cigarettes can kill him.

There—we’ve given him several valid points. But wait... the scale barely budged! Why? Benjamin agrees with everything we said, yet it doesn’t seem to motivate him enough.

The problem is, that we’ve only provided logical reasons. Where are the emotional motivators? Why should Benjamin care about saving money if it’s already being spent on something he finds comforting? Why should he want a perfectly healthy body if he’s content with his current state? Who cares about bad breath? And why would he prioritize living longer if life already feels unremarkable?

Now, let’s add emotional weight to these reasons:

He should save money because… he’d love to buy a figure collection of his favorite game characters. Or maybe he dreams of updating his wardrobe and starting the new year with a fresh, stylish aesthetic.

He should keep his health optimal because… the world is full of wonders waiting to be explored. Touristic sites and natural beauty demand physical endurance, and he’d want to hike, climb, and wander without limitation.

He should worry about his breath because… he’d like to make new friends or deepen connections with his current circle. First impressions matter, and even the way he smells could shape how others perceive him.

He should want to live longer because… he has dreams to chase. Whether it’s starting a family, traveling the world, or pursuing hobbies, he needs time to see those dreams come to life.

And there’s more that emerge from emotional reasons:

He feels a pang of shame every time his loved ones give him those disapproving, belittling looks. Quitting could free him from that constant humiliation.

He could boost his chances for new job opportunities—many companies prefer non-smokers, and sometimes it’s the little things that set candidates apart.

If he has children one day, he’d want to set a good example. How can he discourage them from smoking if he’s doing it himself? What if they start smoking because of him?

His mother would be overjoyed if he quit—he’d love to make her proud.

And his cat? He could afford better food for his furry companion. Seeing his cat happy would bring him joy, too.

Now, look at the scale! By anchoring logical reasons in an emotional context, we’ve made real progress. Benjamin can see not just what he’s giving up, but also what he stands to gain—and that’s where true motivation comes from. This is his “motivation”.

Benjamin’s story doesn’t just highlight how emotions can motivate action—it also shows how they shape the way we interact with information itself. The reasons for quitting smoking didn’t change; they were always there, logical and undeniable. What changed was the lens through which Benjamin viewed them, colored by emotional relevance.

The Photo Filter Analogy by Aleyn Rhine

Emotions act like filters, determining what we focus on, how we interpret it, and what weight we assign to it. This is why the very same piece of information can feel urgent and compelling to one person, yet trivial or irrelevant to another.

Take the phrase “No one cares.” For someone feeling melancholic, it might reinforce feelings of isolation and insignificance: “I’m alone in this world.” But for someone in a state of happiness, the same thought might evoke a sense of liberation: “I’m free to live how I want, without judgment!” The information hasn’t changed—the emotional lens has.

Similarly, consider a photograph. The exact same scene can evoke wildly different emotions depending on the tone of the lens used to capture it. A sepia tone might make it nostalgic, while a cool blue filter might give it a somber, tranquil vibe. Emotions function in much the same way, coloring the “snapshot” of a situation in our minds.

In Benjamin’s case, logical reasons like "cigarettes are expensive" or "smoking is harmful" didn’t carry much weight until they were framed in a way that resonated emotionally. Once the scale was tipped with feelings of pride, joy, and ambition, those same facts became more meaningful and actionable.

This emotional filtering applies to almost every thought or piece of information we encounter. Our emotions don’t just shape how we feel—they shape how we think, react, and decide. They prioritize certain details while discarding others, amplifying some messages while muting others.

Imagine waking up to a cloudy sky. To someone feeling content, the clouds might feel cozy, even inspiring—perfect for staying in with a cup of tea or curling up with a book. To someone already feeling anxious or down, those same clouds might seem oppressive, a reminder of gloom and isolation.

This is why emotions are so integral to how we process information—they create a personalized lens through which every experience is filtered. A single statement, a single scene, or even a single decision can take on vastly different meanings depending on the emotional "tone" applied to it.

By understanding this emotional filtering, we can begin to take control of our lenses. Just as a photographer chooses the filter that best enhances their vision, we can actively seek out emotional perspectives that empower rather than hinder us.

Returning to Benjamin, his journey reminds us that the key to transformation isn’t just in providing new information—it’s in reframing the way we feel about it. When logic and emotion work together, the impossible can suddenly seem achievable.

From there, we can look at our own lives: Are we interpreting the "cloudy skies" of our challenges with an emotional filter that blocks the sunlight? Or can we shift our perspective, finding opportunities and hope even in gray moments?

Skulls and skeletons, elegant and beautiful symbols of death; they represent the birth of my hope.

Thanks for reading :) - Aleyn Rhine, 2024

Note: The Photo Filter Analogy is my own interpretation of how emotions act as lenses, shaping the way we perceive and interpret information. While the analogy itself is unique to my work, it builds on established psychological principles that highlight the influence of emotions on cognition and perception. Researchers like Leonard Mlodinow (Emotional: How Feelings Shape Our Thinking) and studies in affective neuroscience provide evidence that emotions shape our thoughts and reactions, much like how different camera filters alter the tone of a photograph.

Sources:

The Three Filters of Consciousness | Psychology Today

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[androphagy]

i think its really interesting how intersexism and misogyny and transmisogyny can all intersect and how many people refuse to acknowledge the fact that these forms of bigotry and oppression DO intersect and that your gender, while affecting HOW you experience oppression, doesnt exempt you from it. transfems experience transmisogyny at a rate different than transmascs, and acknowledging that shouldnt make you feel like you have to be on the defensive. but i feel that its okay for transmascs to also acknowledge the transmisogyny they face as well, without being shouted down that they dont experience any form of bigotry based on gender identity. the two can coexist, and i feel that you should be able to speak on transmisogyny, and misogyny, without having to constantly apologize or diminish yourself. the language around the gender spectrum (and the bigotry that comes with deviation from “standard” gender expression) shouldnt be segregated based on determinative gender identity and “oppressor bias” - it should be available to all people regardless of what each person individually thinks. to deny any one person the language to describe their experiences with bigotry is to essentially silence them from speaking ON bigotry. if youre a transfem thats experienced misogyny pre and post transition, then you should be able to speak on misogyny and describe it in the terms you want to! if youre a transmasc who has experienced it, you should be able to as well! and that goes doubly for the intersection between transphobia and misogyny (transmisogyny) and the queer infighting that people do over “who faces what” discrimination does nothing but detract and distract from discussions of bigotry and how its affected the queer community.

all thats to say that as an intersex transsexual man whose experienced transmisogyny, misogyny, and intersexism both pre and post transition… its important to me to be able to speak about my experiences. i should be able to describe the experience of when i had to quit multiple jobs due to being grilled about my genitalia, the fear and revulsion (including attempting to get me branded as sexually dangerous) i was treated with once discovered to be trans, and the many other aggressions ive experienced that are based in transmisogyny as transmisogyny, i should be able to speak about the experience of being put on medication to treat depression (that i had already been shown to have dangerous side effects as a result of taking it) and birth control rather than being provided with any form of care or information for my intersexuality and describe the intersexism ive faced as intersexism…... all while still respecting and uplifting other voices (whether transfem or transmasc) and their experiences.

tldr; the queer infighting has got to stop. the policing of language has to stop. we, as a community, need to uplift trans voices and stop punching down on transmascs who speak on their experiences, and stop harassing transfems for daring to speak at all.

i agree with what you're saying overall. i think contention is a natural part of any community simply due to the fact that individuals are going to have issues with each other; no community is going to be a homogenous sunshine-and-rainbows force that can always agree on what do to or what's okay/good/right depending on the situation. in fact, i think it's a good thing that people have differences and argue about things. it prevents things from becoming an echo chamber, internalizing a bad set of ideals, and going down a path of harm that fucks everyone over in the end.

intersex issues are something i have personal experience with but not in the body i inhabit. your perspective is an interesting one and an important one as well; i'd hope that anyone who reads this sees what you have to say and it expands their worldview a little more. your experiences with transphobia and misogyny absolutely stand for themselves, but i will add that if i didn't know you were a trans man or trans woman i would assume you were a trans woman simply because it's more common for those on the transfeminine axis to be postured as dangerous for their existence. that doesn't make my set of beliefs right, however; just as you've had your experiences, the differences between ours make up those gaps at which devolve into the "queer infighting" you referred to at the end of your message.

i believe you're correct in saying that we need to focus on uplifting voices as a whole. i like what you said at the end, though -- "stop punching down on transmascs who speak on their experiences, and stop harassing transfems for daring to speak at all." the acknowledgement that the simple existence of a transfem's issues opens her up to harassment is the core thing here. transphobia ridicules everyone who tries and speak about their experiences with bigotry. transmisogyny ridicules and silences people who experience it from speaking at all.

[quietwings-fics]

I settle for a ghost

Rating: General Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Fandom: Supernatural Ship: Castiel/Raphael Additional Tags: Raphael Lives (Supernatural), Season/Series 07, Angst, Ambiguous Relationships, Aftermath, Post-Arc: Godstiel | Castiel With Purgatory Soul Power (Supernatural), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Raphael Needs a Hug (Supernatural), Angelcest (Supernatural) Wordcount: 1,325 Summary:

Raphael stays with Castiel after he absorbs Sam’s Cage trauma. Someone has to, and whether they like it or not, they’re alive and available.

The bed at the hospital is only built for one person.

It’s such a small detail to focus on, but for the past few months, Raphael has slept with Castiel next to them, back to back like they were expecting an attack even while they were unconscious. Now, Castiel has a bed that only he fits in, and Raphael does not sleep.

It was a bad day. They pass their hand over Castiel’s forehead and feel the tremble that upsets his vessel, the sweat cooling on his brow. He doesn’t scream, but he hasn’t, not for some time. He stews in silence. He tells Raphael what he sees or hears, though sometimes all he gives them is a description of the room itself, like he’s not sure if even that’s real and he needs them to confirm it. He trusts them to help him construct his reality. 

Raphael is a doctor who is more used to losing patients than to saving them. A mechanic who never manages to iron out the last few problems before the car swerves off the road. An archangel who could not hold Heaven together.

They are not someone Castiel should put his faith in. They haven’t earned it, but they are here. That’s more than can be said for a lot of beings, including his beloved Winchesters. Raphael stayed. 

It’s what they know.

Castiel’s hand shoots up and grabs their wrist. They still, the tips of their fingers just barely behind his hairline. He squeezes their wrist, once, twice, and his eyes open. His breathing is disordered. He’s not looking at them.

He called them Lucifer twice, once afraid and once exhausted. Then, later, Anna, three times. Balthazar, five. Uriel, eight. He always figures out that they aren’t his ghosts in the end and apologizes.

“Raphael,” he calls them tonight, or not exactly because his vessel’s vocal cords strain into Enochian. He only dips from their holy tongue to speak to their demonic guard dog, since she doesn’t understand the language and reacts to the sound of it like the grinding of metal. With Raphael, he remains an angel. It’s almost like he’s making up for the months they spent thinking they were humans. Every conversation they had circling things they couldn’t remember and didn’t have the words for. 

In a kinder world, they would have had more time to remain in ignorant bliss, but this is the way of things. Knowledge destroys. It casts them out. It locks them up.

The walls aren’t really the thing keeping Castiel in here.

“You would have made a better God than me,” Castiel says. Raphael’s mouth twists, and they aren’t sure if it’s disgust or humility.

“Or made the same mistakes.” Castiel tilts his head to look at them. He does not look at the eyes of vessels anymore. He forgets that human courtesy. He peers at souls with open curiosity. The center of Raphael’s grace sits at the base of their throat. Without thinking, their other hand follows his gaze to touch the divot of their collarbone, blocked by the high-necked sweater they’re wearing. They still feel cold, even now that they know there is something holy burning within them. 

“No, you would have been a better God,” he repeats himself. “You would have controlled the leviathans, and you would have… You would have created an end that justified the means.” He squeezes their wrist again. “Paradise.” It's been a very long time since they let themselves think of that. Long before Heaven's civil war even started, with doubts borne by Michael's failure to secure Dean's consent. 

“As many angels would have ended up dead.” Raphael may be blunt about their own failings here and not face judgment. The two of them are a pair of collapsed lungs. What stones does Castiel have to throw that wouldn’t shatter his house first?

“But the rest…” Castiel’s gaze drifts and snaps back. “You would all be happy.” He’s not including himself in that category. Raphael notices and does not argue for their ability to show mercy. “You would have accomplished something.” That lingers under all of Castiel’s guilt, empowers it, because for all that he feels he failed, he’s upset by the fact that even his failure hasn’t gotten them anywhere. No one’s death won him anything, not even his own. He’s still alone, and none of their siblings ever came any closer to understanding freedom. 

Except one, and they don’t want the knowledge. It tastes like burnt coffee, and Raphael doesn’t pull that from any vessel’s memory. They have held a mug in their hands, let the liquid roll over their tastebuds, swallowed it down despite the grimace on their face. They remember Castiel smiling at them as he accepted that he shouldn’t touch the coffee machine anymore. Only, he still answered to a false name then, identity wholly unmade into someone who could love Raphael, who could be treated as an equal and a companion in turn.

“We’d be at peace,” Raphael says and tries not to let Castiel hear the bitterness in their voice.

”What did it look like?” Castiel asks, and then he changes it, so minutely that it shouldn’t matter, but it does. “For you, what did Paradise look like?”

There are a lot of answers that Raphael could give him. If he were not Castiel, if he were still the stranger who shared a life with them, they would tell him everything.

But he is Castiel. They’re not allowed to forget that again.

”I don’t know,” they lie. “All that mattered was getting there.” Castiel tenses under them suddenly, eyes flicking away. His grip crushes. “What?”

”Wounds,” he says, quickly, points at a bare wall. He looks back at them. Raphael stares long and hard at where he pointed so that he knows they take the truth they give him seriously. It’s only a wall.

”No,” they tell him, “don’t look at that. You aren’t seeing it right.” Castiel’s relieved. He relaxes again.

”What were we talking about?” he grasps for the topic.

”Paradise.”

”Yes.” Castiel breathes in, eyes shutting, and he smiles. When he opens his eyes again, it’s like he’s forgotten the momentary disruption completely. “Can I guess what it would be like? You can tell me how wrong I get it.” Raphael lets their fingers drift through his hair again, simple preening that calms them.

”There’s no harm in it.” Or plenty, but it’s the wrong place, wrong time, wrong angel, for any of Castiel’s words to have an effect. Castiel thinks. His voice buzzes at the back of his throat, a single note lost from its chord.

”A coral reef,” he settles on, “where everyone has their niche and their role to play, and they help something beautiful grow around them. And it’s alive. All of it is alive.” Castiel has not let go of their wrist this whole time. He was a clingy fledgling, too. Of course Raphael remembers. They remember watching over all of their little siblings, the role that should have been shared between them and Gabriel eventually falling onto only their shoulders.

(Because who could ask Michael to raise more little brothers. Who could ask him to lend Raphael a hand. Who could ask him to shoulder more than he would have to in the future. Who could ask him to be there in the present.)

Castiel is one of the few left who can still cling to them and the one they should yank their wrist from and abandon.

“Was I close?” Castiel asks. He trusts them.

Raphael passes their fingers through his hair again.

Death was peaceful. They don’t know who brought them back. Only that it wasn’t their Father. A different God, perhaps, one who knew how to feel regret, dragged them out of the only rest they’d ever known to drink bad coffee with him.

“Yes,” they lie, “that sounds beautiful. That would be Paradise.”

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