#because he loves the rain as much as i do

[goldsainz]

❝ SO LONG, MONACO ❞

MASTERLIST!

pairing . . . charles leclerc x reader

◦∘｡ﾟ. warnings . . . use of y/n (once, i think), cursing, a whole load of angst, charles is an asshole, rushed ending, barely proofread.

◦∘｡ﾟ. summary . . . you love monaco, but it has run its course just like your relationship has.

◦∘｡ﾟ. note . . . i am obsessed with ttpd, i don’t care what anyone has to say, it was a masterpiece and i will not take criticism about it. this is based on so long, london i really recommend listening to this while reading, or just listening to it in general if you need a good cry. i have been writing this for months now, so i hope you guys like it and please dont mind the ending it was the best i could do 😔💙

[ word count: 3,4k ]

You walked through the streets of Monaco, mystified by how bright the city looked even in the night. The street lights were enchanting to witness, and the chatter of people made you appreciate the small country even more. So private, yet so lively, like a hidden spot you had loved so much you just had to make it your home. 

The walk to Charles’ apartment is more calming than expected, you’ve come to terms with the fact that you’ve been pulling at a thread that is almost undone. No matter how hard you tried, there was no use in pulling him tighter when he had already pulled out of the relationship.

You were, in all honesty, tired. 

You swore your back almost hurt from all the efforts you made to keep him with you. It’s like you both had settled for conformity, for the monotony of not bothering to do anything. You were together for the sole sake of how harder it would be to separate, but not because of the love you had for the other, simply because of the aftermath of breaking up after 6 years of relationship. Moving out, telling your friends and family, the whole world scrutinizing what went down when really nothing had gone down. There was nothing that could go down, to begin with. 

Your relationship had become more of a commodity, one that was draining you while your boyfriend continued his life like nothing was going on. Maybe that was your problem, you simply cared too much. 

And so you stopped trying to make him laugh. Stopped making those small efforts that had amounted to hundreds of gestures that went unnoticed by him. Maybe you were selfish for that, for wanting his undivided attention to things that weren’t that great. After all, he had his own things to wallow over, things that were simply greater than you.

You tried to blame Ferrari. Ferrari that always was the topic of conversation. “Can you believe they made pit so late?” Yes, I can. “Do you think I’m putting to much faith in the team?” Yes, you are. You don’t tell Charles all the things you should, you share his sadness and give him a shoulder to cry on, just to receive that small amount of affection. 

His sadness gives you the taste of what once was and now isn’t. You can’t find in yourself to blame him for becoming dependent on Ferrari, because haven’t you become the same way for him?

It isn’t long before your walk is over, and you have to face the moment you want to dread, but instead there is relief that surges in your heart. A feeling you resent but equally embrace. 

You step into the elevator, pressing the button for his apartment that you wonder when you decided to let everything go on for as long as it did. That is something you incriminate Charles for. Did he really think you’d be willing to stand in the rain for him forever? Eternally condemned to wallow his sadness, were you supposed to be sad for as long as he was? And for a while you did, you shared his sadness but you didn’t have much more in you to give him. There was only so much pity you could feel, so much empathy you were willing to subject yourself to. 

The elevator rings, a sign that you should get off and take whatever is yours and get away from Monaco.

You put the key in the keyhole, and enter what once was your home and now looks almost like a staged apartment, ready to be shown off and sold to the highest bidder. It feels eerie, what once was so familiar is now a distant memory you’re ready to get over.

Most of the boxes are all closed and ready to be sent away, with a few things left in shelves and drawers. You remember calling your family and asking if you could stay with them a few days, you felt ashamed at how you left everything behind just to come back to it so unexpectedly. 

“Chérie, you don’t have to leave. I can stay with Joris until you find your own place.” no more ma chérie, just chérie. It seemed you’d both unconsciously already made the graves for your relationship. 

“This is your place, Charles. I’m not going to kick you out of it.” you smoothly respond, trying to focus on taking whatever is left on the shelf by the TV. 

Your hand brushes against an old photo of the two of you. His hands around your waist, you looking up at him with a huge smile on your face, with Monaco as the landscape behind you. 

“This was our place, I don’t even—” he stops himself, like it pains him to say whatever is on his mind, resigned he sighs and changes his answer, “I might have to sell this, it’s too big for just me anyway.” 

The implication of his words would have sent you down a spiral a few months ago, now you don’t even reminisce on the what-if.

“Either way, I’ve already arranged a place to stay. I really don’t want to inconvenience you, this is your home not mine.” you say, and you watch as his jaw clenches and his eyes dim, but it is too late now to go back. You’re both too far gone. 

“Okay, then.” he sighs, and although you’ve made peace with the end of your relationship you want him to fight for you. It is his nonchalant way of going about life that makes you mad, and what sealed the fate of whatever remains of your relationship were left.

You’ve fought so hard and for so long, you want to make him feel what you felt. Retribution comes to you in his resignation, and yet it is simply not enough for your greedy, broken heart.

It pisses you off how so much of your youth he got to witness, how he got all the special moments of your life and now you cannot even recognise the girl you once were. All those dreams, all that naïveté, has long since died and is now buried in Monaco.

“It’s late and I’m really tired, so tomorrow morning I’ll have them pick up and ship off my things.” 

“Where are you staying?” he tries to be casual, tries to hide the desperation in his voice, but fails to do so because you know him too well. He fears you know him better than anyone ever has. 

“A hotel nearby,” you easily answer, 

Don’t let me go.

A beat passes, he opens his mouth and closes it shortly after, like he’s not sure what to say or how to act.

Please, don’t let me go. 

“Do you need me to take you there?”

“No, I’m okay, it’s a short walk from here.”

And so you put away the few things you were holding, brushing past him like he’s a stranger in the street. You’ve seemingly packed up your whole life in a few boxes, and you feel oddly calm about it. Hopeful about the future, all resentment you could have has turned into motivation. 

You seal the last open box, and it’s like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. There are no scores to settle, no need for revenge, this chapter of your life has been sealed and you are ready to continue with whatever the story of your life has prepared for you.

“Text me when you get to the hotel, yes?” you pause at his words, and a part of you wants to curse him out for being the way he is, because despite everything he is a kind man. You just wish he could've been as kind to the old you as he is to the current you. And you wonder why you're given all this kindness, when you have both your feet out the door and every single remainder of your love has been tucked away. It is not fair, but nothing really is when it comes to love.

“Sure,” you say as you nod, a small smile gracing your face, though you're sure it looks close to a grimace. 

You walk out of the apartment, leaving your copy of the keys on the table next to the door. As it closes, you let out a sigh and go out the same you came in, calm and collected. With the broken, bloody pieces of your heart in his hands and you with the same blue heart of his you know so well.

You don’t text Charles when you make it to the hotel. 

You twist and turn in your bedsheets, not being able to sleep once again. You can't remember the last time you had a good night's sleep. And so you do what you've been doing for months, you go over every step and stone of your relationship.

Although sleep doesn’t consume you, the memories do. Those unforgiving, wretched memories about the downfall of your relationship. As you lie awake, the weight of your thoughts presses down on you, each recollection sharper and more painful than the last. 

You reminisce on the brighter days, filled with laughter and pure love, where every touch was like electricity on your skin and every word a promise of a future together. You recall all those moments you fought to make him laugh, to bring back the warmth that had once been effortless. But those bright memories are quickly overshadowed by the darker ones— the fights that grew more frequent, the silences that stretched longer, the love that slowly turned to resentment. 

Every detail is vivid in your mind— he look in his eyes as he drifted away, the chill that settled in your bones each night he didn't fall asleep beside you. You replay the conversations, the accusations, the desperate attempts to salvage whatever was left. But despite your efforts, the spirit of the relationship was long gone, leaving behind a shell of what once was.

As the memories flood back, you feel the anger and sadness welling up inside you. You gave so much of yourself, your youth, your energy, only to be left with the empty shell of a broken dream. You think about how he swore that he loved you, yet the proof was never there. 

You recall that last fight, by then the stitches of your relationship had come undone, the fabric of your shared experience torn beyond repair. There was nothing left to cling onto, nothing more than your delusion and the memories you held close to your heart. 

“Mon amour, why did you stay awake? You know how long I take at the factory.” he whispers, almost cooing at you but also filled with exhaustion. Like you being awake is another burden you're placing on him, now that he has to deal with your awakened mind. 

“Couldn’t fall asleep, I guess.” you answer, playing with the ends of your hair, not daring to look at him. 

You watch as he places his stuff on the ground, taking off his shirt and entering the bathroom to wash his face and prepare for sleep. It is quite a shame you have no intentions of sleeping, or to let the misery you're living through go on.

“I’ll join you in just a moment,” he calls out from the bathroom, his voice muffled from the ajar door between you.

“Okay,” is all you come up with, all you can muster to respond.

The silence in the apartment grew heavy. The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed to echo through the room, each second stretching out into eternity. 

As you listened to the sound of water running, you traced patterns on the bedsheets with trembling hands. You couldn’t shake the feeling of suffocation, of being trapped in a life that wasn’t quite yours. The dreams you once nurtured seemed distant, obscured by the everyday struggles and compromises.

When Charles emerged from the bathroom, the lines of fatigue etched deeper into his face. His eyes met yours briefly before he turned away, pulling a worn t-shirt and slipping under the covers beside her. You could feel the warmth radiating from his body, yet you could see the coldness that he seemed to reserve especially for you. He made no effort to kiss you, to hold you, those miniscule actions were like finding gold nowadays.

It was now or never, you had decided. You had gained courage all day to finally speak your mind, the least he could do is listen and try to fight for you. For the remains of your love that hadn’t yet dusted away.

“You know,” you begin tentatively, your voice almost shaky with emotion, “it feels like we’re drifting apart. I miss us, Charles.”

He turned to you sharply, eyes flashing with something like shock and annoyance. “I’m tired, Y/N. Can’t we talk about this tomorrow?”

“But we never talk about it!” you exclaimed, frustration boiling over. “Every day, it’s the same thing. You come home late, exhausted, and we pretend everything’s okay. But it's not okay! It hasn’t been for a long time, and I need more than this.”

He sighs heavily, rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. “I’m doing the best I can.”

“Sure you are,” you retort back, voice tinged with bitterness. You knew he would dismiss your feelings, but it still stung.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m always second, Charles.” you retort, “I stay awake each night wondering if you still care, if there is even some part of you that misses me like I miss you.”

“You always find something to complain about, don’t you?” he turns to you with his eyes narrowed, “You know how much I’m dealing with Ferrari, I thought you’d have some empathy for me, at least.”

“I’m not complaining, Charles. I’m trying to talk to you!” your frustration has now reached its peak, “I miss us. I miss the days when we actually talked, when you actually listened.”

“I’m exhausted,” he says, ignoring your words once more. “Do you think this lifestyle pays for itself? Because, news flash, it doesn’t. You signed up for this, don’t put this on me now.”

“Do you even hear yourself?” you ask, resigned to your situation and the emotions that have overtaken you, “You're never here, Charles. I feel like I’m living with a stranger instead of the man I fell in love with.”

“Well, maybe if you didn't make everything so difficult,” he snapped, his patience wearing thin. He doesn't dare to look at you, he can't bear to see the expression on your face.

You feel tears stinging in your eyes, a mix of anger and hurt washing over you. “I’m not making things difficult. I’m asking for us to work on our relationship, to make time for each other.”

“I don’t have time,” Charles shot back, his voice cold and distant. “This is the life we have now. Deal with it.”

“Is this really what you want?” you demand, your voice rising. “A relationship where we just coexist, where we’re barely holding on?”

He turns away from you again, his silence cuts deeper than any words ever could. You feel the despair, the realizations sinking in that your relationship might be beyond repair.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you whisper, voice cracking with emotion.

“Then what do you expect me to do?” he retorted, his frustration matching yours.

“I expect you to fight for us, Charles!” you exclaimed, a tear slipping down your cheek. “I expect you to care enough to try.”

He doesn’t respond, the silence a stark reminder of how far you had both drifted apart. You wiped your tears away, feeling the weight of your crumbling relationship pressing down on your chest.

“If you can’t even talk to me, then maybe we’re already done.” you say quietly, the finality of your words hanging in the air.

He doesn’t protest, doesn’t reach out to you. You turned away from him, curling up on your side of the bed, feeling the emptiness of your once vibrant love surrounding you. As you stared into the darkness, you wondered if you had reached the end, if this was all the closure you would get.

As you laid there, enveloped in the silence that now seemed thicker than ever, you realised that something inside you had shifted irreversibly. The pain of his indifference cut deep, but so did the clarity that you couldn’t continue living forever like this, forever under the blue of his days.

The weight of unspoken words hung heavy in the air, you couldn’t bear it any longer. With a shaky breath, you gathered your resolve and spoke softly into the darkness, voice trembling with both sadness and determination.

“I think… I need some time,” you began, your words tentative yet resolute. “Time to figure out what I want and what’s best for me.”

He turned to you then, his eyes reflecting a mixture of surprise and resignation. “What are you saying?”

You struggled to find the right words. “I’m saying… I’m saying that I’m done, Charles. I can’t keep pretending that everything is okay when it’s not. I deserve more than this.” 

His expression hardened, a flicker of frustrations crossing his face. “So that’s it? You’re just giving up?”

“I’m not giving up,” you shot back, “I’ve been fighting for us for so long, but you… you're not even here, I can’t keep begging for your attention, for your love.”

Charles doesn't respond immediately, his silence echoing loudly in the room. You felt a wave of sorrow wash over you as you realized that your love had turned into a battlefield of neglect and misunderstanding.

“I thought we could fix this,” he finally murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Maybe we could have,” your heart breaks with every word you utter. “But it’s too late now, I’m exhausted, Charles. I’m exhausted from trying to pretend like you care and for trying to fix something beyond repair.”

He sits up at your words, finally looking at you, the weight of your failed relationship heavy in his eyes. “I’m sorry, mon ange. I never meant for it to end like this.”

“Neither did I,” you replied softly, “But I can’t keep living like this. I deserve happiness. We both do.” he reached out to touch your hand, but you gently pulled away, the gesture feeling hollow now.

You sat there in silence, you knew that walking away would be the hardest thing you had ever done, but you also knew it was the only way forward.

Without another word, you stood up from the bed. Looking at him, the man you loved with all your heart but who had drifted away from you.

“I’m sleeping on the couch,” you tell Charles, and he doesn’t fight you, just wordlessly nods and longingly looks at you as you step away and into your living room.

You stood at the window of the hotel room, staring out at the city that had been your home for so long. The cobblestone streets, the azure waters, and the gentle hum of luxury. This place, once your sanctuary, now felt like a prison of memories that had soured with time. A reminder of a love that couldn't withstand the weight of reality.

Outside, the familiar sights and sounds of Monaco stirred memories that tugged at your heart— lazy afternoons by the beach, candlelit dinners overlooking the harbour, stolen kisses beneath the starlit sky.

But today, as the plane ticket lay on the table beside your suitcase, you knew it was time to leave Monaco behind. Despite the love you once felt for this place, you couldn’t ignore the ache in your chest, the realisation that your time here had run its course.

As you walked out of the hotel and down the winding cobblestone streets towards the waiting car you had called, you allowed a tear to trickle down your cheek because despite everything you really fucking loved Monaco. For so, so long.

But you’ll find somewhere new.

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Young Gods (Aemond Targaryen x Reader) 

Summary: History has a way of repeating itself. Much like another pair before you, Aemond and you make each other worse. 

Requested: Yup. Hades!Aemond with a not so literal twist. Strong!Reader. Requests still open!

Warnings: Dark fic? Rape is mentioned a lot. People in their underwear, non-consensual touching and nudity. Beheading. Kidnapping, duh. Plenty of self harm threats. Detailed TW after the whole work. 

STORM’S END IS cold. As you dismount, the wind snaps your braid back, forcing you to grab it with one hand. You are careful to fix the flower shaped pins attached there. They were a terrible choice for today, as was your dress. It’s made of a fine red linen, bodice shaped like leaves hugging your body.

You favor botanical patterns, but it seems this keep is not the place for it. Sensing your distress, your dragon whines. 

“Everything it’s alright, girl.” You shush her, affectionately. She is a lovely dragon, although on the small side. The guards don’t seem very impressed with her, and it vexes you. She may not be what people think of when they picture a dragon, but she had been with you since you were only a couple of days old.  

Her youthfulness is seen by many as a hindrance, but not to you. Just as your brother’s dragons, your Green Lady is a daughter to Syrax. She had hatched when you were a babe, and shared your craddle until she got too big and needed to be moved to the dragonpit. The bond you shared was stronger than what older dragons could ever hope to have with second or third riders. 

Perhaps because of your derisive thoughts about older dragons, there is a sudden, loud screech. Vhagar. Of course. That was why the guards were so unimpressed with your dragon.  You chuckle, out of sheer frustration. What else could go wrong today? 

The tensions in your family had always been more on the male side. Both Helaena and you had been left out of it, both deemed too queer to truly engage in clever quips and insulting toasts. Your uncle, in particular, had never paid much attention to you. 

There had been some japes about your bastardy, but Aemond had been more focused on Luke and Jace. He preferred to single them out, take his frustrations out through humiliating your siblings. 

Some of it, you guessed, had to do with the loss of his eye. Luke had taken it from him, after all. But a secret, resentful part of you thought it had to do with the fact they were men. 

Thank the Gods your mother had sent Luke to deal with the Arryns. You shuddered to think the face Aemond would make when he saw you, but had you been Luke, you feared that he would have snapped. He would probably have ended up doing something unforgivable. 

You tell one of the guards your name. “I bring a message to Lord Borros from the Queen.” 

The man looks at you, pity in his eyes. He knows as well as you that your mission is doomed from the start. If you had beaten Aemond there, if you had something more substantial to offer…

Thunder cracks. Rain seems about to start. You square your shoulders, and smile at him. 

“… Daughter of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.” It chafes, that the knight doesn’t refer to your mother by her proper title. You bet that when he announced Aemond, they named him brother to the King. 

When you enter the hall, your eyes do not linger on any decorations or the people there. Your eyes scan over them, searching for a tall figure, dressed in all black. Aemond is looming to the side of Lord Borros’ throne. Next to him, stands a girl with a no nonsense expression, dressed in Baratheon's colors. 

“Lord Borros.” You address the man on the throne. He is big and broad, with a long beard. He is also wearing a tremendous scowl. You give him your sweetest smile. “I brought you a message from my mother, the Queen.” 

“Yet earlier this day, I received an envoy from the King.” The man gestures at Aemond, tone dripping with condescension. “Which is it? King or Queen? The House of the Dragon does not seem to know who rules it.”

Some of the guards present and the Baratheon girl laugh. You keep your expression pleasant, unaffected by the mockery. Having grown as an unusual child, you are used to it. It had endeared you to your aunt, but unlike her, you were adept enough with social cues to know you were being laughed at. 

I’ll tell you a secret: Humiliation still tastes the same, even when you are expecting it. 

“What is your mother’s message?” Borros asks, when it is clear you will not react. You step closer and hand him the letter. “Where is the bloody maester?” 

You watch as the maester reads the letter aloud, whispering into his lord’s ear. You don’t notice how Aemond steps closer. 

“Remind me of my father’s oath. Bah.” Borros scoffs. Despite knowing your mission had been doomed from the start, you still feel disappointed. As silly as it sounded, you had been harboring a secret hope that he would change his mind. “King Aegon at least came with an offer: My swords and banners for a marriage pact.” 

“If I do as your mother bids… Which one of my daughters will you wed, girl?” He mocks, and you see red. You wish to tear him to pieces, this smug man, Daemon, Jace. It comes down to that, once again. The fact that you are not a man. 

Your mother had yet to name her heir. She always excused herself by saying her throne was not yet secure, the succession issue would be settled in time. But you knew her true thoughts. Her sweet girl, she called you. The strange firstborn, who liked flowers and dressing up as a forest nymph. The one that was not fit to rule. 

There is no succession issue, you wanted to scream, sometimes, as you watched Daemon pat your twin in the back, give him secret smiles. He assumed he was to be King. The bond they had was one you envied, sometimes. Daemon had never looked at you as a daughter, having two of them already. But Jace was his first son. 

It wasn’t fair. You had come out of the womb first, wailing, before even Jacaerys was pushed out. Your mother was doing to you what her own father had done to her, refusing to recognize her as heir. But unlike what had happened to her, you doubted she would change her mind. 

“I would wed one of your sons, my lord.” You say, smoothly. The anger, the fire and blood that make you a dragon, threatens to burst through. “But I do not know if I am free to marry, for my twin brother heads North to offer my hand to Lord Stark.” 

Offer. As if it were not yours to give. You are not sure of how you will lay with a man when you despise them this much. The mere thought revolts you, tales of the birthing bed and the consummation making rage bubble up under your skin. You wish you had been born a man. 

Your brother rides North with tales of your beauty and fertility, the same you must have inherited from your mother. As if you were a breeding bitch, of impeccable stock, to produce more pups for the northern wolf. They do not see you as a person, so why should you see them like one, too?

“So you come with empty hands. Go home, girl. Go back to playing with your flower crowns and dolls.” It stings. A hand goes to your dark hair, held back in a braid adorned by marigold pins. You feel like such a silly little girl, and you hate him for it. “Tell your mother that the Lord of Storm’s End is not some dog that she can whistle up at need to set against her foes.” 

You smile at him, coldly. You give him a curtsy, back ramrod straight, jaw hurting from clenching your teeth so hard. If you were a man, you would be allowed to be incensed at the insults being thrown your way.  Hell, if you weren’t, they would call you craven. But as a woman, if you show your anger, you will be called hysterical. 

“I shall take your answer to the Queen, my lord.” 

You begin to exit the hall, hands tightly clenched into fists. 

“Wait… my Lady Strong.” 

You recognize that voice. You would know it anywhere. Despite it, you keep walking. Aemond moves to intersect your path, bodily placing himself between the entrance and you. 

“Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?”

You stare at him, eyes full of hatred. You wish you were wittier, that you could give him a scathing quip about using your proper title and being half cunt, as Daemon says. But you are not. Instead, you try to evade him, but he steps into your path again, smug little smirk on his face and hands clasped behind his back. The picture of confidence. 

“I will not fight you. I come as a messenger, not a warrior.” You say, voice firm. Despite it, your hand lowers to the folds of your dress. Against your thigh, you carry a dagger. A last resort, and a precaution, Daemon had said, when giving it to you. Men were cruel to beautiful maidens all the time. His eyes had lingered a tad too long when you strapped it to your leg. More than what a father’s should.

Despite your unfortunate coloring, you still were Rhaenyra’s daughter through and through. The similarities weren’t in the bone structure, but in much subtler details. The tilt of your head when you laughed. The way you walked. How your cheeks dimpled. Enough that men noticed. 

“A fight would be little challenge.” Aemond mocks, hand coming to grasp at your jaw. Something odd crosses his eye. Almost… Wishful. It scares you. You jerk out of his grip so fast your cheeks ache. “No. You love your brother, don’t you? Luke.” 

You stare at him, unmoved. Aemond stares back. His gaze feels full of disdain to you, as it draws a path from your light red skirt, to the crown of flowers in your hair. He makes you feel small and trapped, and you hate it. You are not less because your father is not Laenor Velaryon, you remind yourself. 

“I want you to put out your eye, as payment for mine. One would serve. I would not blind you. Mm. Plan to make it a gift to my mother.” His eye looks crazed, face dangerously close to yours. His expression is close to the lust you have seen in Daemon’s eyes, and it terrifies you. Because Aemond doesn’t admire your resemblance to his wife. His lust is for blood. 

“No.” 

“Then you are craven as well as a traitor.” And he lunges at you again, and you can’t help it, really. You shriek, rushing towards the doors and avoiding him as best as you can. 

“Not here!” Borros interferes, for the first time. He sounds worried. You would be, too, if you saw a man stalking behind a woman in the way Aemond is going after you. Your heart is in your throat, you fear it might leap out if you speak. 

“Give me your eye, or I will take it, bastard!” And this time, he does grab you. Your hands go to cover your eyes, and you keep screaming, shrill and high, terrified. 

“Not in my hall!” And there are hands tugging at you, tugging at your dress, getting Aemond away. You open your eyes to see Borros’ knights dragging him away. “The girl came as an envoy, and I will not have bloodshed beneath my roof. Escort the Princess to her dragon.” 

You can’t believe you are still alive. Aemond looks enraged, body positioned forward as if to lunge again. He struggles against the grip the guards have on him. There are at least four holding him down. He is a man possessed. 

You do not hesitate. You hike up your skirts and run. 

BY THE TIME Aemond leaves Lord Baratheon’s hall, it has already started raining. The guards release him only after you are out of sight, but rage still flows through his arteries, warming his blood. 

His face feels hot. He is no doubt blushing. Aemond is unsure if it is from fury or shame. Holding you against him, soft skin yielding like butter under his fingers, smelling of flowers, he had gotten struck by a memory. That smell… 

You had been a girl. No older than eight. You had sat in the gardens, surrounded by flowers, their perfume lingering in your hair and skin. Searching for fairies, you had explained, with the most serious face. Helaena was searching with you, giggling in excitement. The two of you had invited him to join, but Aemond had refused, citing fairies didn’t exist.

For a moment, he felt as the rude nine years old he had been, sneering down on silly girls who smelled like flowers. The memory had hit him with the force of a war hammer, dragging him out of his thoughts of getting his revenge on your siblings through you. 

He had been jerked out of it when you had started screaming your lungs out. It was not that you dared be sweet, with your flowers and childish dresses. Nor that you had grown into an objectively pretty woman. It was that you had dared push him off you when he had only wanted to gaze upon your eyes, that you had made his stomach swoop with uncomfortable feelings, that he found you so damn irresistible. 

Some fools in the realm called you the prettiest maiden in Westeros. Once, he had thought them exaggerated tales, to please your whore of a mother. Aemond despised agreeing with the masses, and yet, he now had to admit there was a certain truth to it. 

His grandfather was right. Bastards were treacherous creatures, made only out of lust. There had to be some sorcery at play. Aemond was sure of it, and he was going to end you for daring to use your tricks on him.  

“My Prince, are you sure you must leave?” His betrothed gives him her best cow eyes. Aemond is sure they are supposed to be seductive, but he is too annoyed to care. Besides, she seems as daft as they come, and conniving too. Nothing more dangerous than an ambitious fool.  “The weather is so terrible, and all of that with that wretched girl…” 

“Dragons care not for rain.” He answers, striding towards Vhagar regardless. Hearing you being called a wretched girl only serves to rile him up more. It was not Floris’ place to criticize you, she was forgetting her position. A whore and a sorceress you might be, but you were half Targaryen. This one was plain whore. “And mind your tongue, less you bite it and poison yourself.” 

Vhagar was agitated when he mounted her. Seeing your dragon had excited her, perhaps. It encouraged her to fly faster, more daringly than usual. It meant Aemond caught up with you in no time. 

He sees your back first. Your braid is whipping against the wind, most flowers gone. The few that remain look askew. Your red dress is absolutely drenched, clinging to the curves and dips on your body in an indecent manner. It makes his blood boil. You must have worn it to attract attention. Harlot. 

Your smaller dragon is having trouble keeping up with the weather. The wind hits against her wings, and she doesn’t have the experience Vhagar has when flying in adverse conditions. Your voice is carried by the wind, sharp commands in High Valyrian, ordering to fly lower, avoid the clouds. The poor thing tries, but not even your attempts at helping her are making a difference. 

“Riiñaa…” Aemond taunts, trying to reach you. At first, you don’t hear, his voice covered by the noise of wind and rain. “Riña!”

You jump on your dragon’s back. Unlike him and his siblings, you don’t ride chained to the saddle. You look back at him, brown eyes panicked. The rain sliding down your cheeks looks eerily like tears. 

“Adere.” You order your dragon. But Aemond will not allow you to escape that easily. Not when he has you so close. He orders the same to Vhagar. 

“Jemēla gēlȳni enkā!” He shouts at you. A debt. For the eye your brothers had taken, and the trick you had played on him mere minutes ago. 

“I don’t owe you anything!” 

It’s all a blur when he later reflects on it. Some things happen too fast to be stopped, and you can only watch in horror as time seems to pause before the disaster happens. 

Vhagar screeches, excited by the thrill of the chase. Her jaws snap towards your dragon. 

“No… No…  No! Vhagar, serve me! Serve me, Vhagar!” 

But she ignores his commands. No matter how hard he tugs on the reins, Vhagar won’t budge. It is both the foreboding crackling of distant thunder, and the desperation he feels at being powerless, what makes him reach forward, and grab your arm, tightly. 

Your dragon ducks. One second you are sitting in the saddle and the next you are not. Aemond can’t feel his hands. You are screaming so loud his ears ring, and Vhagar is roaring again. There is a sickening crunch, your green dragon roaring in utter rage. You cling to his arms, grip slippery and cold, rain still pouring over the both of you. 

He pulls up, as his shoulders crack in protest. Were it not for the fact that he is chained to his saddle, you might take him with you in your fall into the abyss. Your nails dig into his skin, painfully. You are howling like you are the one being murdered, but you climb, bravely placing a foot on Vhagar’s scales and helping Aemond get you in the space between the saddle and Vhagar, in front of him. 

You start to wail. 

“No, no, no!”

Aemond doesn’t dare look. His own hands are shaking. But as you start to try to throw him off Vhagar, slapping him everywhere you can reach, he has to. He needs to know. 

Your dragon is covered in blood. It is sprayed along her belly and wings, as if Vhagar had not only bitten her, but also shook her as a dog with a bone. Her front paw is missing, and she howls in agony with every turn. But she has the same bravery as you do, and she is trying to defend her rider, about to slam against Vhagar in a suicide mission. 

“Call her off!” Aemond orders you. “Call her off, she is going to die.” 

He knows how painful the loss of an eye is. He cannot imagine losing a limb. But the great beast, your Green Lady, as you call her, is still fighting. Her devotion must be stronger than the pain she is suffering. She doesn’t seem to care that Vhagar is much bigger and could eat her whole. 

Vhagar licks her chops. Aemond shouts something. He is not even sure what is coming out of his mouth any longer, but you sob, and peer to the side. 

You had not noticed she was still alive. You howl. Your dragon responds to your cry, roaring at Vhagar. 

Aemond looks at your face. He sees the calculation in your eyes, deciding if to call your dragon off or not, if it is worth the risk. If you could jump from the saddle, from Aemond’s front and into your own mount. It’s risky. 

“Lykirī!” You finally scream, and he nearly sags in relief. Your dragon obeys much better than Vhagar, stopping on her tracks. She hovers by, as if unsure why she should not try to kill the threat that took her human and her paw. 

Things are about to get nasty. He can tell. No matter how tame she is, she is still a beast, and the urge to protect and fight will surpass her training. 

“We need to land, now.” Aemond orders, and without waiting for your permission, nudges Vhagar into dropping.  But your dragon gets in the way once more, set on headbutting Vhagar. Aemond has to do a swerve to the side to avoid his dragon eating the damn thing. 

You say nothing. Your whole body is tense, anticipating the opportunity for a rescue. Your hands let go of Vhagar and instead, start to reach forward. 

Aemond snarls. He grabs at your braid and tugs back, sharply. 

“Don’t you dare!” 

“Lykirī.” You shout. Aemond’s mind is racing. What to do now? He almost killed you, he thinks, and cannot help himself. He laughs, and laughs, and laughs, until you are flinching in his grip. 

Seven Hells, what is he supposed to do? He can’t land. Bringing whatever is going on between your two dragons to land is risky. If allowed, Vhagar would eat yours whole. And that is not considering they might as well take to the skies on their own and leave you stranded. There is nothing for miles, not even a Keep. 

You have family in the Vale. He could fly there and… What would he even say? I accidentally almost killed my niece? Your kinsmen would slaughter him.

There are a few heath leaves in your hair, pink and glorious against the dark backdrop of your braid. Solitude, Aemond thinks. Are you as lonely as him, or do you simply like pink? 

The memory comes back, unprompted. You, laughing in the gardens, smelling like flowers. A crown of marigolds in your hair, running among the tulips barefoot, sun kissing your skin. Searching for fairies. 

He has never gotten anything pretty for himself. But maybe… He touches a pink petal, watching how the rain clings to it. It’s almost like dew. 

Your mother had sent you away on your own. She didn’t value as she did your siblings, clearly. For any princess, no matter how loyal her dragon, should travel with her guards. 

He had wanted your eye. But it would be too cruel, wouldn’t it? To scar such a beautiful face. If he took something else instead… 

No one would notice. No one had to know if he just…

“Where are we going? You said we were going to land.” You ask, turning to look over your shoulder. The tilt of your head is enchanting, and he finds himself fascinated by it. 

You huff, annoyed by his lack of response. He observes how your brows pinch together, and thinks of the debt your family owes him. His eye. The eye of a prince for the maidenhead of a bastard girl. It wouldn’t even scar you forever, even when it would forever haunt you. It seemed like a fair exchange. 

“To the Vale.” Aemond lies, as smoothly as he can. “You have family there, and can no longer be my problem.” 

You keep an alert position, but you relax against him. You are too trusting for your own good. It is precisely why a woman, you, shouldn’t inherit the Iron Throne. 

When the two of you fly past the Vale, you do not notice at first. Your eyes are trained on your dragon, dutifully flying at Vhagar’s right, slightly behind. Just unreachable enough for you to jump on her, but also just unreachable enough for Vhagar to bite. Freedom in exchange for safety. 

You have not said a word during the whole journey. Perhaps you fancy yourself irritated at him. 

“Prince Aemond!” You scream, once you notice the terrain under you is no longer the green hills the Vale is known for. “What…?” 

“I lied. We are going to the Red Keep.” 

You call your Green Lady to you, high and panicked. Aemond grabs your braid, making a fist close to your skull and forcing you to arch your back. You yelp in pain. 

“Don’t you dare! Tell her to fly behind Vhagar. One wrong move on your part and your dragon dies.” Aemond warns. You get the same calculating look in your eyes, lowering them to the clouds under you. The fall would be fatal. 

“I will never forgive this.” It comes out from behind clenched teeth. Your back is still arched, Aemond’s grip still strong. He tugs a little more, if only to see you take it, pretty little body making a perfect bow. 

He thinks of his rage, and how he is starved for death and blood. He thinks of himself as Vhagar, biting down on your paw and shaking his head until his own mouth is covered by blood. Of your dark hair spread over white sheets, a halo. Of a boy’s dark hair, and a knife. The stench of blood, your wet body, your smile, the sinful urges. 

Maidenheads were just blood, too. 

YOU CAN HEAR your dragon screeching as the dragonkeepers drag her away. They prod at her, as she cries her distress, mirroring your own. Just as Syrax cries when your mother is in the birthing bed, your Green Lady cries with your despair. You scream, trying to get to her, and Aemond’s hands tug at your dress, your thighs, anything he can reach to keep you. 

When he tires of you, he throws you over his shoulder, hands digging into your thighs so hard it hurts. You are sure that there will be bruises left in the aftermath of his grip.

You do not stop screaming. All the way to the entrance of the keep, you scream for help. Every servant you see is one you ask to help you, the same for the guards. But while some of them pause in their duties to stare, Aemond doesn’t. 

He strides confidently, despite being in wet clothes and with a woman hanging upside down in his arms. You get glimpses of the Red Keep as you pass, tapestries and dragon motifs gone and replaced by the Seven Pointed Star. Gone are the crimson and black banners your grandfather had favored, replaced by green ones. The call to war is not missed on you. 

You are familiar enough with the layout of the building to know that the room you are shoved in is his. The door slams after you, Aemond not even caring to check if you landed on your feet.  You don’t waste your time looking around, choosing instead to try to force the door open. 

“Let me out!” 

No one answers. You scream and scream, but no one comes. You are unable to tell if Aemond has walked away or is still in the hallway. After a while, you begin to hear hurried footsteps. 

“Was that…?” The usurper dares ask. 

“That’s Rhaenyra’s heir! You will undo everything this family has…” Alicent. At least she is being reasonable, you suppose. Perhaps she will convince them of sending you back. 

“I have gained us a hostage, you mean.” You can almost picture Aemond’s haughty expression. His tone is cold, as if he finds Alicent’s concerns dumb. 

“Your grandfather..!” 

“…Just because you are not ruthless enough to do what…” 

A slap, hard. Aegon laughs, a bit hysterical. You wonder what Aemond had been suggesting, what Alicent had seen in his eyes to prompt the slap. 

“Do not take that tone with me. Dishonor the girl, Aemond and the Seven help you..!” 

Dishonor. Oh. Did she think the two of you were involved? You frown. You don’t like this. Anxiety begins to pool in your stomach, a sense of dread so strong it makes you feel dizzy. 

“One would think, with how often you called her mother whore…” Aemond argues. Instead of making you bristle, though, it only heightens your uneasiness. You are more focused on his tone than his words, and he sounds wrong. Like he had sounded when he was laughing after Vhagar bit your dragon. 

“A highborn woman can be two things: A maiden or a mother.” Alicent cuts him again, and the feeling of wrongness intensifies. Unable to see them, you feel like you are missing half the conversation, but your gut tells you it is bad. 

“Are you suggesting..?” Aegon sounds as confused and horrified as you feel.

“No! You will not use rape to terrorize our enemies.” 

Rape. Rape. You feel as if you are underwater. Everything sounds muffled, except from the thump of blood in your ears. You can’t breathe. In your mind, rape is not something that happens to Princesses like you. It’s something you read about in your history books, something that happens to servants or lowborn women. 

No one would dare touch you, you had thought once. For you were a good maiden, one that didn’t dress too provocatively and who was kind to everyone around her. But most importantly, your mother was going to be Queen. No one would touch you. They couldn’t. 

Men’s lustful glances were nothing new to you. As a princess, you were a coveted prize. You knew they lusted after your blood, the Valyrian children and the dragons you could provide. But never had you caught one lusting after your body. You still dressed like a girl, running around Dragonstone with flowers tangled in your hair and no shoes. 

If any man had looked, Daemon disposed of them. And while the glances your stepfather gave you were charged, you never thought he would act on them. 

“… The bannermen will think us fools!” 

Men who raped women weren’t princes. They were commoners, soldiers drunk on power, dirty beggars who pounced on strangers in alleyways. Drunkards in taverns, that smelled like piss. If there were any lords that partook in those horrid acts, you always thought they were cruel ones, like the Boltons, and always on serving girls. 

You had never felt unsafe near Aemond. He was a prince, he was part of your family. It had never occurred to you that you could be stripped naked and forced to share his bed, not even imprisoned as you are. 

You imagine him, ordering one of the guards to remove your clothes. You imagine yourself, naked, trying to preserve your modesty, and being beaten for it. Aemond’s hands, touching you, forcing your legs apart, hitting you when you do not comply. Your uncle, your uncle who preferred books to people, who was always so quiet, being no different from those terrible men at all. 

It's impossible, you think. He is only doing it to rile up his mother, to seem more manly in front of his brother. He has always felt the need to compensate for something. Yes, Aemond is incapable of it. 

Your entrails turn to ice. If it is so impossible, you think, why does it scare you so much? Why are your palms sweating, why are there acrid tears burning through your cheekbones, leaving a scorched path down to your jaw? 

Where is this fear coming from?

“I could send her back, broken. As a warning.” Aemond taunts. You feel like a giant fist is squeezing your heart, until it turns into a bloodied pulp. You taste the blood on your throat. 

Who is this man, that has taken you from a safe world and dragged you into this hell? This man, who talks of breaking you, of sending you back dishonored and beaten. You do not recognize Aemond. Not even after all the years of taunts and resentment you would have expected anything like this. 

Like a prey animal, you freeze next to the door, hands wringing together anxiously. 

“A lesson.” Another voice joins. Otto Hightower. “But there are more efficient ways to bring down our foes. No. You will take her to wife. Rhaenyra will have to be Queen, of course, but then it shall be her turn…” 

It all turns into static in your ears after that. You probably won’t be raped today, but you might still be. Who knows if Aemond will give up his plan because his mother and grandfather say so? Once, when you thought you knew him, you would have thought you were safe. He would never dare disobey them. But he would never dare suggest raping a woman either, right?

“… Running to a brothel no doubt. Essos, was it?” 

You no longer care about the conversation, but you guess they are speaking of Aegon. It is a mystery how he will fit in their plans. Be it as it may, you don’t intend to find up.  You grab your dagger, and sit on the bed. 

When Aemond enters, this is what he finds. 

You, still wet, dripping water into his bed. Hand holding a dagger to your own throat. 

“Take one step further, I dare you.” You whisper, eyes cold. 

Aemond’s expression darkens. He stands straighter, looking every inch the warrior. His eye moves from your dagger, to your eyes, then back at the dagger.  

“I could take that from you in a moment.” 

“I swear to you, if you step any closer, I will slit my throat and bleed to death right here in your bed.” You tilt your chin up, letting the cold kiss of the blade caress your skin. 

You had heard once of a culture where women would jump into fire pits when their men were defeated in battle, to avoid being dishonored by the conquering armies. It’s not a bad way to die, you think. Sounds less painful than the horrors that await you in this bed. You, too, would prefer death to being brutalized. 

“You are nothing more than a little girl playing pretend.” 

“This is not a game to me.” Aemond steps closer, and you make a slashing motion with the dagger. Blood starts to pool at the cut you make, barely deep enough to leave a mark. You lift the dagger again, set in your grim choice. Death before dishonor. Death before betraying your Queen and becoming a pawn in the Greens desperate bid for power. 

“Wait!” He cries out, eye wide with anger and fear. You imagine his heart must be thumping as loudly as yours was when you heard him proposing to break you as if you were an unwilling mare. “Stop! I will take the blade from you, you stupid…” 

“I’ll be dead before you reach me.” You taunt, with a vicious smile. It feels good, seeing him feel the terror you had felt mere moments before. The dagger rises again, your hand trembling slightly. 

It is not fear. Only an acute feeling of satisfaction, that feels close to sexual arousal, with how good it is. You are under control now. He has taken everything away from you, but he will never be able to take this. 

“You wouldn’t dare.” Aemond’s nostrils widen, face twisting into absolute rage. You had thought him a man possessed before, a devil wearing your uncle’s face. But now, he looks beastly, a bull ready to charge and ram anything on his path. You don’t waver. “You are a woman, and you only possess the amount of courage women have.” 

You think of your mother, who took six times to the birthing bed. You think of yourself, all the old hurts that made you who you are. The times you had felt less, the times you had felt scared. And you think of how good it will feel, how much it will scar him if you die in this very room. 

“Put me to the test, then. If you dare. You know nothing of courage, you might surprise yourself.” 

Aemond examines your face. You do not know what he finds there, but it must terrify him, for his hands raise in surrender. 

“Fine. You win. You win, my Princess.” He takes a step back, and then another. You do not lower the blade, still holding it against your throat. You fear he is about to trick you. 

His hand goes to his belt, where his own dagger hangs. Your body coils, ready to spring up into action, but Aemond merely takes the sheat off it and throws it at you. 

“You win. Keep that as your prize.” And he is turning on his heel, and leaving the room. Before he exits, he shouts at you. “I'll send for clothes and a bath, less you catch your death.” 

Without taking your eyes off the door, you lean down and pick up the sheat. You catch a glimpse of your reflection on the metal. For a second, you think you see a woman watching you back, eyes cold as obsidian and a crown of dead flowers in her head. Her hair is loose over her shoulders, chopped off roughly. But when you blink again, the familiar brown eyes you are used to stare back at you. Your braid is slowly coming undone. 

THE SCREAMS YOU let out as Ser Arryk holds you down are more than enough satisfaction for Aemond. He might not be able to break you fully yet, but it's more than enough of a substitute. He imagines what it will be like, chipping your resistance away little by little, and cannot stop the smirk spreading on his face. 

He might not be allowed to rape you, but no one said anything about breaking you. It was fine, really. Rape was nasty business, despite its effectiveness in breaking a person. Aemond could testify to that.

Your dagger had been taken from you early on by the Kingsguard, when you had tried to stab him for holding you down. This time, Aemond wasn’t going to repeat his mistake of allowing you to keep the dagger. 

He strips you down to your chemise, just for the sake of it. He takes a good look at your teats, barely covered by the wet cloth, and trusted outwards with the way Ser Arryk is holding you. At the way your poor little buds stand to attention, even if unwilling. At how the white chemise looks obscenely sheer, clinging to all the curves and dips of your body. 

“No, please. No. I rather die. Don’t… Don’t… No.” You start to cry when your dress is peeled away from you, terrified. Your eyes are wide as saucers. They glint with your tears, highlighting their offending color. Poor little bastard girl, thinking Aemond will get enjoyment out of your body. 

He might. Just not in the way you think. 

“You are pretty when you beg, riñitsos.” 

“Aemond, please. No. I am still a maiden, I can’t…” You choke on a sob, next words unintelligible. 

Ser Arryk looks vaguely uncomfortable. He averts his eyes from the scene unfolding in front of him and stares to the wall, past Aemond, and over your head. 

“They call you the most beautiful maiden in the Seven Kingdoms.” Aemond comments, idly. He unpins your braid, letting it fall down your back. With Ser Arryk behind you, and him pressing close on your front, there is nowhere for you to run. It’s delightful, the fear on your face. 

Unable to help himself, he pinches one of your breasts, making you yowl like a cat. 

“I like your teats best.” He leers, doing his best to imitate Aegon with the serving girls. It’s not that he is actually getting any sexual satisfaction out of this. This is about control and fear, and you have shown this is what you fear most.  It would be foolish not to take advantage of it. “Do you think they will call you the most beautiful woman, once I am done with you?” 

Ser Arryk looks at you with pity. He leans his head down, perhaps thinking he is being subtle. 

“At ease, Princess. You won’t be harmed.” He whispers. If Aemond had not lost his eye, he might not have heard him. But thanks to your beloved sibling, his hearing is more acute than a normal man’s. “Prince Aemond won’t disobey the Queen. He is only trying to frighten you.” 

Aemond smirks. He tugs at your hair. 

“I am not allowed to dishonor you, of course.” He smiles, pressing the dagger to the part of the braid that lays over your nape. You don’t notice, too busy hiccuping and recoiling in fear. “But I understand nothing done on the marriage bed is dishonorable. We might even call for a bedding, wouldn’t that be nice?” 

“I know no other queen but Rhaenyra Targaryen, queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Realm and Lady of the Seven Kingdoms. And she won’t allow her daughter to marry a craven cripple.” You stand up straighter as you speak, no matter that Ser Arryk is holding you. Your words are as much for the knight as they are for him. 

The urge to slap you, or stab you with the dagger is strong. For a terrifying moment, Aemond fears he might actually go through it, and ruin his grandsire’s plans. Impudent little bitch.

The dagger is so sharp it cuts through your braid in one pass. You howl when you hear something ripping, thinking it might be your chemise, by how you struggle. Aemond smugly presents it to you, some withering marigolds still weaved into the dark hair. 

“Something to send my dear sister.” He says, as he places the two long braids in a silk bag. You cry harder. Aemond wasn’t exposed to you much during your teenage years, but he remembered that as a little girl, your brown, glossy hair had been your pride and joy. A shameful proof of your bastardy, no doubt, but one that everyone complimented. 

You had taken to flaunting it, when older. Wearing flower crowns, and embellishments on it, keeping it long. A girl in the bloom of her maidenhood, more forest nymph than Targaryen Princess. 

And it was all gone. Packed neatly into a silk bag, along with your dagger and red dress. He hoped the old whore howled with the same agony when she opened it.

When Ser Arryk lets go of you, the first thing you do is reach up to feel your hair. A few locks fall from it still, chopped off badly. It is now about the same length as Aegon’s, cut in a way more suitable for men. Your hands are shaking. 

“I’ll never marry you.” You shout. Your eyes are hurt. It doesn’t feel good to be tricked, it seems. “I wish you were dead! I wish Luke had plunged the dagger deep, and cracked open your skull!” 

“You will.” Aemond answers, coldly. He hopes to hurt you as much as your words have hurt him. “For what is a girl to the Iron Throne?” 

He leaves you to your grieving. He would rather not admit it, but deprived of any blades, your words have still managed to cut him. You can be his mother’s problem from now on. 

The next two days are spent into lingering guilt and extraneous exercise. Every time Aemond’s thoughts go back to you, he spars with whoever is available. His whole body hurts by the end of it, and you still haunt him. He might have gone overboard, but he will never admit it out loud. 

There is a dark sense of satisfaction in his stomach. It slips past his guilt, sometimes. The terror on your eyes had been exquisite, worth every reprimand he had gotten afterwards. As he hurt you, putting the fear of the Seven in you, he imagined hurting your bastard of a sibling and finally felt peace. 

It’s best not to think of you. You bring up conflicting feelings and memories, the girl you once were, kind and sweet and the woman you now were, indifferent to him and easily frightened. The images superposed in his mind, betrayed eyes as he proclaimed he was going to dishonor you, crying at the funeral of Laena Velaryon, worried as Daemon whisked away with your mother, as Lucerys appeared covered in blood. 

It is easier to punish keep himself occupied in the training yard. He doesn’t think of you when he spars with the knights or when he swings his sword until his arms feel like they will fall off. Nor when he falls asleep out of sheer exhaustion, bruised black and blue.

Not until his mother comes looking for him. 

At first, he doesn’t notice her presence, busy hacking at straw figures until his arms ache. But she clears his throat many times, forcing him to turn. He does so while still holding the sword. 

His mother looks odd in the training grounds. She is small, almost dainty looking, a flame of green standing among the mud. Aemond approaches her in four short strides. 

“Mother. Is something the matter?” 

“The girl is sick.” She says, a troubled frown on her beautiful face. Aemond has always admired her grace and beauty, and even though life has been cruel to her, she has only cultivated it more. She is what she thinks all women should be, gracious and pious. If it had been up to him, he would have married someone like her, he thinks. Her only flaw is her sentimentality.

“Get her a Maester.” Aemond says, annoyed at being interrupted by something so trivial. You probably have a cold, foolish girl that you are, having insisted on staying in your wet clothes and refusing a hot bath. 

“I got her plenty. She nearly scratched the eyes off one, and when they tried to give her Milk of the Poppy…” His mother makes a pained face. Aemond doesn’t want to know. Truly, whatever you had done was probably willful and cruel. Gods, why did he have to marry you? You weren’t demure, you weren’t pious and you certainly weren’t gracious. “She is now refusing food.” 

“Let her starve off. When she is hungry enough, she will eat.” 

“The girl can’t die, Aemond.” His mother grabs his arm, brown eyes filled with mania.  “It would mean war. They say Rhaenyra has scoured the Seven Kingdoms each night on dragonback since she disappeared. She has only calmed after receiving the package, but negotiations are not going well.” 

He stays quiet. His mother glares. 

Aemond hates that his mother is still so attached to his sister, even after all the time that has gone by. He had never intended to be a part of this hare-brained scheme to save them all, much less her. He had not taken you because he had some great political ploy to put in place and needed you as his figurehead. 

Aemond had been thinking of something much more simple. Your family owed him a debt, and it was going to be paid in fire and blood. If he couldn’t have Lucerys’ eye, he would have yours. Or your maidenhead. Or any blood he could draw out of you, he wasn’t picky. 

If someone had asked him, he would have preferred Aegon as King. It was much simpler and the way things should be. 

“What am I supposed to do?” He asks after a while because he is sure you will not listen to him. 

“Convince her.” His mother orders, and Aemond sets down his sword and goes to your room. 

To get inside, he has to enlist two Kingsguard and a blacksmith. You have not spent your time free from his mother idle, it seems. Instead, you have moved a dresser or some sort of heavy furniture in front of the door. 

The blacksmith has to pop the hinges off the door, and only then, Aemond and the Kingsguard get to move the dresser and unblock the path inside. How you managed on your own, he has no idea. 

When he steps in, the smell of vomit and old sweat hits his nose. It’s revolting. There are several plates and cups upturned and laying in disarray over the rug, staining what once was pure white fur. A pomegranate, cut in half, has rolled to a corner. It is your favorite, but it lies untouched. 

Aemond’s annoyance spikes. He knows you are aware he has you situated on what were his personal chambers. The careless destruction you have left on your wake irks him. 

“Lady Strong.” He mocks. “Where are you?” 

His bed is unmade, missing the covers. Aemond checks inside the dresser that had taken three men to move and finds nothing. He then checks under the bed. Nothing either. 

It is only when he checks the bathing chamber that he finds you, sprawled on the floor. The covers are forming a cocoon around you, and your forehead is pressed tightly to the cold tiles. You only wear a sleeping shift. 

Your eyes are open and feverish, face sweaty and tinted red. You don’t seem to recognize him, but your head lifts slightly at the sound of the door opening. 

“Seven Hells.” 

The looking glass is smashed on the floor. You clutch a shard in your fist, tight enough to bleed as it digs into your skin. 

“I will not be drugged again.” You say, voice barely more than a rasp. “And I do not want a Maester.” 

“You are in no position to make demands.” 

“If you force me again to do something I do not want…” You trail off, clutching the shard more tightly. He should take it from you, but you look half mad already. If he hands you back to your mother like this, war will be inevitable. He doesn’t dare push you farther. 

“May I touch you?” Aemond asks, instead. 

“Since when do you ask for permission?” You lay your head down, once again pressing it to the tiles. 

“Come.” He grabs your arms, pulling you to your feet. Your skin is concerningly hot. Burning up, truly. “I’ll send for a lukewarm bath. And this time, you will take it.” 

You stagger. Your movements are sluggish, and your eyes are glassy. 

“I do not want anything from you.” But you lean on him, allowing Aemond to take you away from the broken shards on the floor. You are not wearing slippers or socks. 

“Let me get you a Maester.” Aemond offers, getting you to the bed. You land on it without any grace, and promptly begin to kick the covers away.

“I do not want a Maester. I want… My mother has a midwife.” It is as puzzling as it is unexpected. A midwife tending to a princess. His mother would have kittens.

“Are you pregnant?” You had thrown up, after all. The room smelled like bile, so much it was upsetting even Aemond’s stomach. He fought the urge to gag himself. 

“No. But she knows how to cure other ailments. Upset stomachs, colds.” 

“Do you feel nauseous?” 

You shake your head. Aemond’s grip on you tightens. 

“Don’t lie to me. It reeks of vomit here.” 

“Your mother put Milk of the Poppy in my food. I threw it up.” You deadpan. 

“You induced…?” Aemond is not sure which one is more interesting. His mother drugging you? Oh, you must have been throwing a spectacular tantrum. The fact that you were ruthless enough to force yourself to retch shouldn't be so surprising, though. You had been ruthless enough to threaten to kill yourself, twice. 

“Yes. And I won’t eat or drink anything else after that, you snake. Bitch. Alicent is… Daemon used a word…” You mumble to yourself. 

“What do you want me to do?” Aemond asks, frustrated. Why must women give him such grief? First Vhagar, with her willfulness and refusal to heed commands. Then his mother and her hare brained schemes to protect Rhaenyra. And now you. He must be cursed. 

You ignore him, eyelids growing heavy. 

“Cunt.” You say, after a while. You laugh. 

Aemond sighs. He sends for a lukewarm bath and some servants to tidy up the room. It will not be an easy night, it seems. 

“PRINCESS, PRINCE AEMOND is requesting entrance.” Ellia says, softly. You turn to look at her, from your place on the bed. You close the book on your lap.

The girl has been your constant companion ever since the incident. To ensure nothing untoward happens, said Aemond, and that you feel safe. She had kept watch over you as your fever broke, her hawk eyes following Aemond as he tended to you.

“Tell him I wish to bathe first.” You decide to test him, once again. Your uncle seems more in control of himself lately, but you still feel on edge around him. Aemond had shattered your trust in him and in men in general. 

You cannot bear to look at Ser Arryk. Your shame is too great. To think he had held you, and looked as Aemond…

No. You cannot think like that. Not with the news from Dragonstone. The negotiations are going better, it seems. Your mother has been considering leaving you here, from what Aemond says. 

Her betrayal hurts. You have always known Jacaerys was her favorite, but this is low, even for her. She is probably making more children with Daemon, trueborn and ready to contest your claim. Your suffering will mean nothing in the end, not even with Alicent’s plans. 

It is beyond cruel, to allow you to hope that you will get the Iron Throne. Not when she is throwing you to Aemond as a sacrifice. Is this what maidens in your tales had felt, when they were used to appease an ancient deity that asks for a price in blood?

Your mother has abandoned you. You are alone in this world. 

“The Princess says you cannot come in now, for she wishes to bathe.” You hear Ellia speak, her voice hard. You do not listen to Aemond’s answer, but considering Ellia comes back in and starts getting things ready for your bath, you guess he was not angered. 

“He asked that you not get dressed yet. He wishes to examine you.” Ellia says, helping you sink into the water. You keep your eyes on the ceiling, not wishing to look at your reflection. You already know what you will find. Dark circles under your eyes, unflattering haircut, skin waxy and pale.  As if all life had been robbed off you. 

You try to avoid her, this stranger wearing your face. She looks like the woman you had seen reflected on metal during your first day here. More ghoul than woman, all hail the Queen of the Seven Hells.  

That Aemond wishes to examine you doesn’t surprise you. He has been taking care of you since you have gotten sick. You were quite fearful of Maesters, both for being men and for what you had seen them do to your grandfather. Even in a feverish daze, you had refused them. 

Alicent hadn’t respected your choice then. But unexpectedly, Aemond had. Considering his uncouth and terrifying behavior before, you weren’t inclined to trust him, but had little choice. The feverish version of you was as weak as a kitten, and unable to resist his tender care. You feel lucky that you survived with your maidenhead intact. 

Once you are done with your bath, you dress in another shift, a cotton one that buttons all the way to your neck. You sit primly on your bed, covers drawn up to your waist. Ellia brushes your short hair, making tears well up in your eyes. 

Your mother had called it once the crown you never took off. A lion’s mane, for her brave girl. You had never imagined it could be taken away so easily. Gone were the elaborate braids adorned with flowers. You couldn’t even pin it back now. 

Aemond knocks. You brush your tears away. When he enters, you look perfectly composed. 

“How are you feeling?” He asks, sitting on the side of the bed. He places a parcel down next to you. “I brought you a gift. Thought it may cheer you up.” 

You ignore him. Aemond sighs. 

“It’s a dress. And a cloak. The dress comes from Highgarden, it has flowers embroidered on it. I got you a brooch to wear with the cloak, too. It’s a silver marigold. You like marigolds.” He explains. Your expression doesn’t change. You stare resolutely at the wall. It is not the first time he tries to bribe you with presents.

His regret is not sincere. Not when he takes advantage of every chance to touch you, and make your skin crawl. Yet again, you have to get used to it. 

No way out in the underworld but through. Best to not look back. If he wishes to exercise casual cruelty to feel better about himself, good for him. You would do the same if you were allowed. 

“I am going to check your lungs now.” Aemond says, and you tense. His hands slowly open your nightgown, with great care. Your breasts are exposed, so you cross your arms over your chest to cover them. 

Shame and fear make you feel like you are about to throw up. You remember his hands, and the way he had cruelly pinched you, as Ser Arryk forced you into position. You jerk your head away. 

You will marry him. That is what Alicunt says. You must endure his touch, and provide heirs for the Iron Throne. The thought sickens you. 

Aemond grabs at your wrists, pulling them away. To your utter embarrassment, the thought of being restrained makes you freeze with fear, and begin to tear up. 

“I think you can listen to her back.” Ellia says, sharply. She draws your shift closed, with a harsh tug. The girl is a few years younger than you, but she is fierce and outspoken. You wonder who chose her for this job. She is perfect for it.  

“I…” Aemond stammers, taken aback. He isn’t very used to being told off by the help. “You are right. I apologize, Princess.” 

He buttons your shift again. You stay very still, waiting for him to push you forward and press his ear to your back. But nothing happens. Ellia’s hands come to rest on your shoulders, clutching you tightly.

“I have made a right mess of things, haven’t I?” Aemond asks, after a while. You are unsure if he is speaking to Ellia or to you. His lips form a bitter smile. “Fuck. What have I done?” 

He rubs his good eye, almost punishingly. You feel very numb. Something broke in you that night, something that you do not think can be fixed. He had not taken your maidenhood, but he had certainly taken your innocence. 

“I apologize. I behaved in ways that are not befitting of my station, and much less…” 

“I don’t think I can forgive you.” You interrupt, before Aemond thinks he can begin spouting out some remorseful tirade and get things to how they were before. Your relationship with him cannot be mended. 

There was once a string connecting the two of you. It had been pulled tight by the years and disagreements among your families. Despite it, the thread gave. It stretched, and tensed, and never snapped. But Aemond had pulled it too hard this time.

The string is no more. It lays broken between you two. He is no longer the boy who had played with your brothers. Now, he is just a cruel man. A small, bitter, man. 

“It is one of those things you don’t really forget, I suppose. I know a bit about that.” He gestures to his eye patch. You wonder if his string with Luke had been cut by your brother that night. You wonder if your pain and his are comparable. 

The both of you stare at each other. You place your hands on your lap. 

“You will be pleased to know your Green Lady is doing well. She will be able to travel in about a week.” He comments, seemingly out of nowhere. A way out. Ellia doesn’t notice, still standing behind you.

“I wish to be Queen.” You answer him, also seemingly out of nowhere. Your heart aches for a whole different reason. All of your suffering would be in vain if you heed his advice. You would be another Queen that never was. 

“Would you like some jewelry, next time I visit you?” 

“My mother prefers Jace over me.” You have nowhere to go. You look up at him, and try to convey that no matter how much you may wish it, your mother would never forgive you. Not after being so close to getting everything she wants. 

“Aegon is in Essos.” Aemond suggests, a strange look on his face. It is then you realize this is his attempt at doing you a kindness. Sparing you. Apologizing. 

Have you grown so used to cruelty you do not recognize kindness anymore? 

“I wish to be Queen.” You repeat. You wonder what he thinks of this cold woman that you have become. The one that only wishes for a single thing: A crown. “I will think of travels then.” 

Your mother appears on King’s Landing a few days after. She comes with Daemon, your siblings, Rhaena and Baela and even Princess Rhaenys. It seems she has taken every dragonrider available with her, to show both the common folk and the Greens that the might of House Targaryen stands behind her. 

You have dressed today, which is a miracle on itself. You have not really been feeling up for anything. The dress you wear is a sober, red velvet gown. There are no flowers in sight. 

“Mother.” You greet when she dismounts from Syrax. For a second, you think of running towards her dragon and taking to the skies. Your mother used to take you riding with her as a child. Perhaps Syrax will still recognize you now. 

“My wonderful girl.” The endearment is new. She looks half mad with worry, crossing the courtyard in one long stride. You curtsy, but she grabs your hands before you can sink into it, and pulls you for a hug. 

Her hands shake as she smooths the short strands down. 

“What have they done to you? Your hair… And you are much too thin.” She sobs into your shoulder. Her embrace is comforting, making you melt into her. You start to chastise yourself for judging her too harshly. She must have been doing her best to get you back, but wars were difficult. More so among kin. “I am so sorry, I never intended for any of this to happen.” 

You think of your imminent wedding. Of the six moons you will spend at Dragonstone, with only Aemond to keep you company. Of Alicent’s cruel eyes as she told you to get used to it, for Aemond would have a right to touch you from now on. I have suffered, her brown eyes seemed to say, so every woman must too. 

“Why did you agree?” You ask her, brown eyes meeting lilac. You need to know.

“To save your life.” She whispers. “To stop a war.” 

But her eyes tell a different story.  When you look over her shoulder, you see Daemon being greeted by the Goldcloaks, a smug smile on his face. 

What is a girl to the Iron Throne?

Your smile falls. There is a terrible feeling on your chest, as if your heart, which had been beating so merrily, has just about turned into stone. 

You remove yourself from your mother’s embrace. The pomegranate you had for breakfast tastes like ashes on your tongue.

YOU SPEND MOST of your time reading. Hiding away in the library, where you enjoy pretending Aemond can’t reach you. 

Aemond doesn’t understand it. Dragonstone is so big you could go on with your day as normal and never cross paths with him. But he leaves you be, just as he had left you be during the wedding night. It seems to help you. 

He dedicates his time to exploring the island instead. Unlike you, Aemond won’t get to leave it while you go back to King’s Landing. Nor is he allowed any visits. It feels suspiciously like a punishment, perhaps for what he almost dared do to you. 

He is sure his uncle is behind this. It reeks of him. Exile with only you for company? Surely, your mother wouldn’t be so cruel, more thoughtful of what he could do to her precious daughter. But Daemon? He would find it outrageously funny. 

The island is very intriguing to walk. There are several dragons here, and Aemond recognizes them all. There is the Cannibal, and the Sheepstealer, Silverwing, Verminthor. He had been fascinated by them as a child, when he had no dragon of his own. 

Vhagar seems happier here. He supposes it is much better than the confinement of the dragonpit. But your dragon, the pampered green thing, seems to hate it. Competing for food is not something she cares for. 

Aemond wonders if he will get to see the dragons reproduce. With all the spare time he has, he might as well solve the mystery. He could do some research, but the library is your domain. He would have to wait for you to retire for the day. You spend almost all your waking hours there.

What in the Seven Hells could you be doing? You had not been the studious type as a child. Nor had you been energetic like your brothers. You reminded him more of Helaena, but instead of insects, your obsession was flowers. 

He tries to think of something else, but he is so bored and his curiosity is piqued. His feet lead him to the library almost without meaning to. 

Aemond often does things out of sheer curiosity that he later regrets. The first time he had fucked a woman had been the product of that, and it had left him feeling ashamed and unsure, but wanting more. It had been the oddest thing. 

He had claimed Vhagar only to see if he could, too. He had made that cursed toast, wanting to hurt the four of you, but also curious about what your reactions would be. Watching Aegon slam Lucerys against the table would be forever one of his fondest memories, but the scolding after… 

You are sitting at a table near the window. Sunlight hits you from the side, giving your brown hair an almost golden glow and bathing your features in a soft chiaroscuro. Thick tomes are spread around you, bearing oddly familiar titles. 

“The art of war. Seven accounts of the battle for Dragonstone. Ten thousand ships. The first dornish war, a treaty.” He whistles, unable to help himself. It is quite the collection. “Are you planning on declaring war already, niece?” 

You startle. The quill you are holding falls from your hand. 

“Husband.” You say, tone haughty. “If you must know, I am trying to learn strategy.”

“Strategy?” Aemond echoes. It’s not something he is very well acquainted with himself. He has some knowledge about it, from books and listening to his grandfather and Cole, but he is nowhere near an expert. His intellectual pursuits had been centered around philosophy and history, more than this. When he read about wars, he often glossed over the accounts about formations and such, more interested in the economical and political ramifications of them. 

Strategy was also something a father should teach. Viserys had never been too interested in it, having not seen battle himself. What he had learned had come from observing Cole. Never having been at war, it was challenging to conclude if he had the right of things. 

“I plan to be a good Queen.” You answer him, closing your book. Your tone is awfully civil. “And education is the greatest equalizer.” You give him a pointed look. Equals. You want to even the playing field between the two of you, so he can never frighten you again. How funny this is the topic you choose to learn. 

“You shouldn’t worry about that.” Aemond snorts. “I hardly know about it myself.” 

“But you are a man.” You say, astonished. “Surely, you were taught! Daemon taught Jace, someone had to…” 

“My father was never interested.” He leans against the window, observing you. You observe him back, eyes glued to his hands as if you expect him to lunge at you and stab you. “How come Daemon didn’t teach you too?” He stresses your stepfather’s name. 

“I am a woman.” You say, bitterly. “He thought my time was best spent learning to sing and play an instrument, so I could secure a good match.” 

“He never seems to disapprove of the womanliness of your mother.” He arches an eyebrow because while his uncle might not be a good role model, he is exemplary when it comes to marital devotion. 

“Doesn’t he? He has her popping out babes like there is no tomorrow.” You start gathering your parchment and quills. You have a small bound book inside which everything goes. Aemond had seen you with it before, but he had thought it a diary, not a set of instructions on how to go about a siege. 

Showed how much he knew you. Go figure. 

“You find having babes demeaning?” 

Your expression turns positively murderous. Children seem not to be a good topic of conversation. This will probably become a problem later on, when the two of you need children of your own. He makes a mental note of it and moves on. 

“His word is law. Or used to be, in our home. She defers to him.” You say, tone bitter. Daemon has fallen out of your good graces. Aemond almost wishes to travel to the Red Keep with you when spring starts, to see what you will do to him. Almost. 

There would be nothing that could prompt him to enjoy his sister’s court. He refuses. 

“Perhaps they are partners, and she seeks his counsel.” Aemond offers if only to irritate you. He is starved for intelligent conversation, and if he has to defend Daemon to keep you talking, he will. His boredom is driving him mad. There is nothing to do here beyond eat, sleep and train. 

“He is great at it, just like you.” You say, coldly. Then, you say something very interesting. You repeat the same words that he had said to you once. “What is a girl to the Iron Throne?” 

“Ah.” 

So your resentment towards Daemon wasn’t about favoring your brother, or fucking more brats into your mother, but rather much more simplistic. You felt as if he had chosen to sacrifice you, so your mother could get her throne. Fascinating. 

An angel passes between the two of you. Aemond can almost feel its wings brushing against him. Then, you inhale, sharply, and break the silence.

“So. Strategy. You should learn too.”

“You think war will come for us? And here I thought you trusted Jacaerys.” Aemond mocks.

“Let’s not delude ourselves.” You say, touching a strand of your hair. Brown. Strong brown. “There are new players in the game.”

Your mother’s babes, Aemond thinks. Daemon’s trueborn sons. Like a monster of myths, you cut one head and two more appear. You had disarmed your opponents in this generation, making them toothless dragons. Aemond was chained to you, Aegon in Essos, Helaena in Oldtown with her children. But as dragons tended to do, there were new ones hatching already.

War would come for you. And him. Aemond had never truly imagined himself sitting on the Iron Throne, he had been born a supporter. He had always thought he would stand behind a King.

But just as Daemon Targaryen, he could stand behind a Queen instead.

“So we learn, wife. And we fight.” Aemond sits across you and reaches for his own tome. Prince consort of Westeros had a nice ring to it. Perhaps his uncle was onto something.

You eye him warily. But you go back to pouring over your book, shoulders relaxing slightly.

It takes a few weeks of repeating the same routine, the two of you reading side by side during the afternoon, for you to warm up to him. Timidly, you show up to break your fast with him one day and never leave.

He is an early riser, always making use of the training yard before the sun is out. You never wake as early, but you need to do it if you wish to catch him before he starts his day. You manage to be out of bed at sunrise every morning that week. Aemond doesn’t comment on your change of habits. He is not sure that he wants to stop it.

“Aemond.” You say, one day, as he peels a pomegranate for you. It’s not like he is doing you a favor, really. It is for his own good. Your hands are small, and you press too hard to break the seeds out, making a mess of the whole table. It’s best if he does it and saves himself from being sprayed with the red liquid. He finds it stains terribly. Your tiny hands always end up red for days, and it’s not proper at all for the future Queen of Westeros. “Could you…?”

“What?” He cuts the pomegranate into quarters and pops the seeds out, placing them in a bowl. He slides them towards you, with a spoon. Savage thing that you are, you might end up digging right in with your hands.

“You owe me a debt.”

“I do?” He startles. Aemond is unsure what you are talking about, but his guts twists. You have a long memory, he has come to learn. And an intrinsic ability to quote his own words back at him at the most inopportune moments.

“What you did was awful, and while our truce has been pleasant, I wish to forgive you. And for that to happen, you will do something for me.” Your voice is careful and steady. There are no tears in your eyes. Only the slight shaking of your hands as you reach for the spoon betrays the scars that evening had left in you.

Aemond doesn’t want to talk about it. Not now, not ever. He wipes his hands with a napkin. The stains on his hands look awfully like blood, and they won’t come out, no matter how hard he tries.

“Who says I want your forgiveness?” He deflects. He does want it. But this past few weeks, pretending to be a normal marriage, have been too blissful to risking upsetting the delicate balance the two of you had found by ignoring the past.

“I do.”

Aemond looks at you. You are a bit pale, but your expression is calm. It relaxes him slightly, knowing that you are at ease.

“What I want is to get out of this damn island.” And it is true. He needs to get out of here, or he fears he might go mad. Seven Hells, Aemond fears he might already be. When had he started worrying about how you felt? Thinking of you as an ally and not a ball and chain?

“That won’t happen in the near future.”

“You are not my jailer.”

“Am I not?” You smile at him, deliciously wicked. It seems the little dragon is waking up, ready to torch everything in her path. Aemond’s scar starts to throb. He can tell something bad is about to happen. This doesn’t feel like your usual banter. “You want to rule. But before me, you were nothing. Only a second son.”

“And before me, you were nothing. Just a whore to throw at Cregan Stark and see if the damn dog was led by his cock enough to support your cunt of a mother.” Aemond’s mouth works faster than his brain. He is just so angry at hearing you say he was only a second son that his words come out before he can stop them.

You laugh. It only irritates him further. He feels as if he is unraveling, coming apart at the seams, but he just can’t stop it.

“Well, look at us. We made each other worse.” There is a smile in your lips, a coy, infuriating little thing. Insolent, impudent, just as your mother. He had been so wrong calling you a bastard. You are all dragon. “But you will earn my forgiveness, if you wish to share my bed.”

And it infuriates him, your presumption. That he will fall at your feet like a lovesick fool because you paid him some attention. Aemond half lunges at you, barely managing to stop himself from throttling you.

“You whore! I could just use you.”

You jump too. Your cutlery falls to the floor. Your eyes are alarmed. It is only then he notices what he has said. Aemond has crossed the line he had sworn he would never touch again.

“I am sorry. I didn’t… I wasn’t thinking. It was in poor taste, of course.”

Your eyes keep darting from him towards the exit. You are terrified, eyes both looking at him and somewhere far away. Are you there again, Aemond wonders? In that room with Ser Arryk and a version of him consumed by his bloodlust?

The next time you speak, your voice is but a whisper.

“You never think. That’s the issue.”

Aemond swallows. He has broken things once again, but he doesn’t know how to mend them. He needs to fix it.

“What did you need? The favor, what were you going to ask?”

Your lips turn white with the force you are using to keep them pressed together.

“It’s best I don’t.”

He thinks of you sitting in the library, hands smoothing down your parchment. Education is the greatest equalizer, you had said. An idea sprouts, half formed. As always, his mouth is speaking before his mind has time to catch up.

“If you knew how to wield a sword, would you feel safer? If I taught you to defend yourself?”

“I do not think…”

“I will let you trash me around the training yard, even.” Aemond offers because maybe wearing some of your bruises will help him feel better. Punish himself by letting you have a go at him.

“Fine.”

You are a good student. Despite an initial hesitance to be near him, you thrive on the training yard. You use your smaller form to your advantage, twisting and ducking in impossible ways. All those dance lessons seem to have paid off. You are light on your feet. He might make a swordswoman out of you yet.

“Do you think I could find Rhaenys’ sword?” You ask him, one day, as you laze on a rock. You are watching him hack at a straw opponent. The sun is hitting you just right, and lazy cat that you are, you are soaking it all up. “She had to have one.”

“Probably. But you think it is here?” Aemond pauses, out of breath. He sets his sword down and wipes the sweat off his brow with the edge of his shirt. Your eyes trail his movements with barely concealed interest. It is a recent development.

“Where else?”

“Essos? Sold by pirates?” He offers, very reasonably. You have a tendency to daydream, he knows. Despite being a cold, calculating thinker, ready to go to war for your crown, you are still a young woman. Aemond doesn’t have the heart to tell you Rhaenys might not have even had a sword. It would shatter you.

You huff.

“You lack a sense of adventure.”

It is how he ends up joining you in a chase around Dragonstone. The castle is scoured from top to bottom, running up flights of stairs, scandalizing the servants and opening up secret passages. You force him out of his boredom and actually get him interested in discovering the castle’s secrets.

Aemond's chest hurts when he thinks of what he will do when spring comes, and you are not there to distract him. It is probably the sappy thought that distracts him, truly.

He falls down a flight of stairs, over his ankle. It hurts like the Seven Hells. It’s nothing compared to the loss of his eye, but it does make him cry out in surprise.

“Sprained.” The Maester says, as you fuzz over him. It bars him from running around the island, so you invite him to listen to your tenants.

Aemond finds holding court in Dragonstone is not as dreadfully boring as he had feared. He supposes he will have to do it in your stead when you travel. He despises the thought.

But what he finds he enjoys more, is being your sword. No matter that you are growing more adept with yours, Aemond rather likes standing menacingly behind you to intimidate the men that dare interrupt you.

It spirals out of control when winter starts. Aemond has commissioned you a small diadem in the shape of a flower crown, and he gifts it to you just as the last leave falls from the trees in your garden. Dragonstone is hard-pressed for flowers during summer as it is, much more in autumn.

“You have not worn flower crowns in a while.” He offers, as the only explanation, when he places it on your hair. You smile, admiring the glittering jewels on the top of your head in the looking glass.

“I love it.” And your eyes meet his in the reflection, and Aemond has to look away because he fears what he will say if you look at him a moment longer.

He focuses his gaze on your shoulders instead. You aren’t tense any longer, and you seem unburdened for the first time in a long time. He is slowly starting to see flashes of the girl you used to be, the one that would fill rooms with laughter and sunlight.

He finds himself drawing strength from the memory as the morning progresses. The petitioners today have been especially irritating, and a gruesome case has been presented for the Princess to pass her judgement.

A woman with a scarred back is brought before you, still bleeding from a lashing. The wounds seem to have cured badly, due to her lack of access to a Maester. As you had sent her to the one in the castle, the husband had been brought in front of you, and Aemond knew with just a look that he was going to be trouble.

He had tuned out the words you were speaking, choosing instead to stand behind you, a hand in the back of your chair. But it is as you sentence the man to a week in the dungeons, that he hears it.

“… You are a child. I won’t allow a child, wearing a flower crown, to dictate how to discipline my wife!” He bellows out, and makes to lunge at you.

You flinch. Your expression, relaxed, turns into a frown. He can tell you are embarrassed about it, your crown of flowers. You had not worn them ever since that meeting in Storm’s End.

The guards step forward, ready to intervene. But Aemond’s blood is boiling because how this did man dare mock his gift to you? Who was he to mock you for who you were, when it had taken you so much effort to go back to a semblance of normalcy?

“My wife may wear all the flower crowns she wishes, for she is to be Queen of Westeros.” He says, stepping forward before the guards can do anything. He unsheats his sword. Aemond cannot hurt him, not yet, but putting the fear of the Seven in him will be delightful regardless.

“If you think anyone will support this… This…” The man argues, pushing him and trying to intimidate Aemond with his bulk. Aemond lets himself be shoved, smirking. Got you, he thinks.

“That is treason. Do you know the punishment for treason?” He asks, very calmly. He raises his sword. The man, busy glaring at him, doesn’t see it.

“It’s the truth! She is as touched in the head as…” But before the man can finish his comparison, Aemond beheads him.

“Aemond!” You scream. He smirks.

“He was growing tiresome.”

Aemond goes back to standing behind you, feeling rather pleased with himself. After that, no man dares raise their voice at you.

Spring and summer are unbearable months in Dragonstone. Aemond entertains himself with keeping your lands in order. He patrols the island daily, and makes sure to handle petitions the way you would like it done.

The day the first leaf falls, you arrive on dragonback. You jump out of your saddle as soon as you see him, tumbling out into his arms.

By the Seven, if Aemond hadn’t caught you, you would have broken a bone.

“You are back.” He says, a bit perplexed by your enthusiasm.

“It is my home, is it not?” You say, smile bright and smelling of flowers. The diadem he has gifted you with shines on your dark hair.

“Oh.” Aemond says, as if struck by lighting. “I…” He has been a fool, hasn’t he?

You surge forward, placing one of your hands on his shoulder and tangling the other in his hair, and you crash your lips to his. You are so warm against him, so small, and there is fire in his veins instead of blood, spreading through his body, reaching his heart and setting him aflame with just one touch.

You smile against his mouth, a smug, infuriating thing. He kisses back, harder, crowding you against your dragon. You fall back against her, and he follows, giving a teasing squeeze to your waist.

You pull back.

“It is good to be home.”

“Indeed.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

DETAILED TW: Aemond knows reader is scared of rape, he feigns he is about to do it to her to scare her. He has thought of the reader in sexual ways, but it is clear in the scene he doesn’t intend to go through it since it is told from his pov. He does grope the reader. Reader threatens with suicide to avoid rape. Twice. Pretty much dark fic.

[rainintheevening]

A big part of why the Prince Caspian movie hits me way harder than the book, is because Peter has to pick himself up from his mistakes and continue forward in making right decisions COMPLETELY ON FAITH. He does not see Aslan until it's all over.

In the book, Aslan leads them to the How, and by the time they get there they can all see him. And then they go and do stuff, after having seen him. I've never dug into what might be applicable meaning there, but nothing jumps out at me.

The movie on the other hand? Instant kinship. I don't get to see Jesus Himself in the flesh. No, I have to go on faith.

In the last four years, I've intimately known frustration with the state of things, loss, chaos, confusion, grief, anger, a deep desire for action and justice. I've gone my own way, and it's cost me, and I've begged the empty skies over and over 'God, where are You? Let me see You, where are you?' and I've stumbled and fumbled so many times, blind in the dark. And every time I've had to continue on faith without sight.

Peter makes his mistakes, tries it his way, gets it terribly wrong, he is broken and afraid. But he stops, and he stills and he REMEMBERS. He remembers what Aslan has done for him before, and how the Lion never failed his trust before. It's a test, like Lucy says, and he's been failing it, but he's not going to lean on his own understanding anymore, he decides. He will walk by faith, and not by sight. Because 'unless the Lord builds the house, its builders labour in vain'. And then at last, at the end, after he acts on faith, he 'stands still and sees the salvation of the Lord'.

It's also a very fitting transition for Peter, I think. He spent 15 years seeing in Narnia, then a year in England without seeing, and it began to wear on him. So when he comes back, he expect everything to be like it was and to see it all again. But he doesn’t, it's really not much better than home, and so though he makes the choice in Narnia, he's making it for his life in England too. To walk by faith, rather than sight.

And I am literally right in the middle of this journey. That's why these movies have struck me so hard. It's like God made a picture on the wall come to life so I would truly engage with what He's been trying to tell me.

I had so many incredible experiences with God, before it seemed the rain dried up and the heavens fell silent. And yes, remembering those times when I didn't know how to go on was very important, will always be important.

But then I've made all sorts of mistakes, tried to run the ship myself, hurt others, come dreadfully close to giving into fear and darkness.

So right now, you will find me sitting with Peter, searching the page-thin ink-lettered painting of the face of the one I love and follow, hearing the command, " Be still and know that I am God..."

[marlsboronights]

Marlene,Marlene,Marlene,Marlene I'm begging of you, please, don't take my man Marlene,Marlene,Marlene,Marlene Please, don't take him just because you can

Your beauty is beyond compare With flaming locks of yellow hair With ivory skin and eyes of dog shit brown

Your smile is like a breath of spring Your voice is soft like summer rain And I cannot compete with you, Marlene

And I can easily understand How you could easily take my man But you don't know what he means to me, Marlene

Marlene,Marlene,Marlene,Marlene I'm begging of you, please, don't take my man Marlene,Marlene,Marlene,Marlene Please, don't take him just because you can

You could have your choice of men But I could never love again He's the only one for me,Marlene,

I had to have this talk with you My happiness depends on you And whatever you decide to do, Marlene

Marlene,Marlene,Marlene,Marlene I'm begging of you, please, don't take my man Marlene,Marlene,Marlene,Marlene Please, don't take him even though you can

first of all, thank you for the lovely compliments siri!! ilyyyyyy!! idk how to feel about you comparing my eyes to dog shit but 🤷‍♀️ i’ll take it

second, i love my girlfriend ❤️🥰😆

finally, if i wanted your man, i would have got him a LONG time ago. anyway, you were my choice for a lavender marriage to appease our parents. but if i would marry a man, it would be you sweetie 😆

not gonna steal your boyfriend siri bc i love you so much 😘

[lyss-sketchbox]

do you have like,, any wriolette headcanons to share,, please I’m hungry,, I need wriolette food!!

Oh definitely, some of these are more wrio or neuvi specific tho but let me go off ok

Wrio has this one spot a lil far off from Meropide's entrance that he sunbathes in whenever he has the time. Its this lil cliff right here. It has a long stretch of beach, near the otter spot (TM), there's mobs to fight if he needs that, and it's not near any roads

Perfect spot for him to frostwalker/ice skate too

Neuv in one of his walks would find Wrio in his spot and Wrio would tell him this is where he goes to relax, Neuv would sometimes then use this spot too to relax in, Wrio welcomes him whenever they happen to meet here

I think Wrio never goes to the overworld until he is called in for that first meeting as Meropide's administrator, when he does step out he underestimated how much he truly missed the sunlight, the sea breeze, and the grass. It's not a big deal, he insists

Wrio would prefer sunny weather than rain, but the coldness of rain is more lively and refreshing than the cold of the fortress

Neuv can walk on water Furina style, he just chooses not to say whenever Wrio offers to skate with him. Basks in the feeling that he trusts Wrio so much to keep him from falling in

Neuvillette is a pianist while Wrio is a violinist (and does have a violin in his office) because every pairing in my book should be able to piano-violin duet the Merry-Go-Round of Life

Wrio is extremely observant, a skill he picked up from serving his sentence, it's how he's able to study and read Neuvi's tells and body language. It's very helpful whenever neuvi is too tired to talk or unable to drop the professional iudex face.

Neuvi learns by observation and attempts to pick up Wrio's tells in turn no matter how many times Wrio insists that he shouldn't worry about him <- fuck you gets loved back

Whenever they get engaged/married, their rings are simple white gold bands. Wrio replaces one of his rings with it, while Neuvi has his hooked to his cravat pin. It's so they're not too flashy and attract attention while still being with them even in work hours

Neuvi feels over the ring whenever he misses wrio

Wrio buries his face into Neuvi's neck so that he can hear Neuvi's purr of contentment better

Neuvi can get jealous but instead of cutting the convo short like Wrio does, the next time they are alone Neuvi just rubs his cheek all over Wrio's until he's happy

Wrio is touch averse, significantly more than Neuvi. While he and Neuvi had subtle touches before, getting together had pressured him to show more affection (because it doesnt bother him, he can love, so that he can be loved) Its one of the first times Neuvi was able to tell Wrio's tells correctly and to reassure him it isn't necessary and they can begin with... what they had before

They show affection primarily with holding or touching hands (ex. : holding hands when they sleep like otters, brushing knuckles and fingers when they walk, Wrio lifting neuvs hand to bury his face in it, etc.), a reassurance that the other is there with them, and they want to hold on just as much

[lovebittenbyevans]

What I Am To You | One Shot

Summary: You tried to figure out what is going on between you and Gojo.

Pairing: fuckboy! Gojo Satoru x Female Reader

Warnings: cursed words, slight angst, heartbreak

Author note: This is something I thought of. Enjoy reading!

– Comments, Reblogs and Likes are appreciated

You and Gojo have been fooling around with each other for almost a year. Both of you just can’t seem to get enough of each other. Some days he couldn’t leave you alone. He likes having you around from time to time.

For six weeks you have not been answering his calls and text messages. You wanted to be left alone in your own apartment. You didn’t feel the need to talk to him because he already treated you how he wanted to treat you.

You eventually got into his car, closing the door shut while hearing the rain against the window. It was a good thing you wore your sweater since you do get cold a lot.

“What do you want?” Was the first thing you asked him.

Gojo took a breath before he spoke. “I've been calling you and texting you like crazy. Why have you not been answering?”

You notice he wanted answers.

You looked out the window and said, “Minding my business, busy.” You let out a sigh and spoke again. “But I should have asked you about a few months ago. Do you ever want to be with me fully or still play games with your soon to be girlfriend Lyra?”

Everybody knows Gojo is not the type to committed to any girl. He doesn’t see the point in settling down and getting married. He wanted to have fun the way he sees his life as long as he sees fit.

“You know I don’t do the whole girlfriend thing.” He said honestly.

Hearing that stings a little. You couldn’t help but wonder why you have deep feelings for him. You wanted to fix him. You want to see a change in him. You want him to love you. You didn’t imagine being his side piece forever.

You wanted to be the one to change his mind.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

You slowly turned your head and met his gaze, fighting back tears. “Then what are we?” The question you were always afraid to ask him.

Gojo thought of that question plenty of times when different girls ask him that. He just never thought about it briefly.

He paused, breathing out and still looked at you. “We are two people who don’t want to lose each other.”

What the fuck?

You blink at him in disbelief, your eyes filled with disappointment. “That’s all you have to fucking say? Sounds to me like you wanted to say we are companion.”

He ran his hand through his hair and sighs. “Y/N, we won’t lose each other. You should be happy about that.”

Again, wrong choice of words he thought to himself

“And Lyra?” You've been dying to know the answer to that.

Before he could speak he was thinking about the words he wanted to say and mean it. “She’s a lady friend soon to be maybe I need more.”

Excuse me?

Your eyes widened as you opened the passenger seat door. Your fear came through tonight and you were hoping it didn’t at least.

You tried to say this as calmly as possible. “I have been there for you A LOT! I have always called you and texted you to see if you were out. I have always made sure I clear my schedule because we both know how hard it is to see each other on a daily basis. I have watched you cry and scream, even cuddle with you after sex when you didn’t want nobody to see how much not being suguru and ryomen friend anymore was hurting you.” A lump felt caught in your throat as you were trying to fight back tears.

“I always pick up when you call me and run to you.” You continue to talk. “But fuck you and I hope you have a miserable ass life with Lyra.” You got out of his car slamming the door shut.

You ran into your apartment trying not to get caught in the rain any longer, closing the door shut when your phone buzzed in your pocket. You sniffle, wiping a tear as you answer the phone. “Hello?”

“Why the hell are you crying?” Ryomen Sukuna's voice came through the phone.

You roll your eyes. “Now it’s not the time for that attitude, Ry.” One day his ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude will catch up to him.

Ryomen sighs, “what’s wrong, mama.” You sniffle again and wipe another tear from your cheeks. “Gojo.”

“I’m on my way.” When you heard a beep, that was all he said before hanging up the phone.

[superprofesh]

The Five Times Colt Seavers Almost Kisses You (and the One Time He Does) — Epilogue

Pairing: Colt Seavers x reader

Description: Eighteen months after you and Colt have declared your love for each other, there's just one thing that could make life better — actually getting to spend time together.

Rating: T

Word Count: 2.5k

Tag List: @strangedeerconnoisseur, @icantwaittoliveandlearn, @moonlightandstarshimmer, @chemococktailonthehouse, @1word (sending directly to the rest because Tumblr isn't cooperating)

Author’s Note: You know I couldn't resist a little epilogue for these two :D I hope this brings you all as much joy as this series has brought me, and I appreciate each and every one of you who has taken the time to read and/or respond to this story. Thank you :)

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 6

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. The steps leading up to the apartment have never seemed so long, and Colt honestly can’t clear them fast enough so he can get home to you.

Home. What a word. What a feeling. Colt Seavers has had a home before, but home has never felt so warm, so kind, so welcoming as the one he shares with you. And his soul is at home wherever you are.

It’s been eighteen months since he confessed his love for you on the airport greenway, eighteen months since the two of you started a relationship that has weathered all sorts of trials. Lengthy separations, serious injuries, art-related frustrations, meddling outsiders — sometimes it seems like the whole world has conspired against the two of you.

And still, you are his. You choose to be his every day. Your love has never wavered, and his love for you has only grown stronger as you’ve shown him what it means to be beloved.

Colt still smiles to remember the night he proposed. The two of you had barely been officially dating for four months when he couldn’t stand it another minute and asked you to marry him. You were slightly less impulsive about the idea — you took a full two seconds to agree and ask how soon you could get married. Neither of you had ever been more sure about anything than knowing you wanted to spend the rest of your lives together.

Marriage hasn’t been easy all the time. Colt’s work takes him all over the world, and yours keeps you busy 24/7. Sometimes weeks will go by without you getting to spend time together, and sometimes the moments you can steal are spent simply falling asleep on each other’s shoulders. You and Colt have learned to treasure every second you get to spend together, hoping that one day, you’ll have all the time in the world to enjoy each other’s company. Colt feels a flutter of excitement knowing that time may come sooner than you think.

For now, though, both of you have a full two weeks off from your different jobs. Colt’s latest movie finished filming yesterday, and you’ve been done with your latest Broadway set design job for three days. Colt has been on a plane for the last fourteen hours and is bone-weary, but all he can think about right now is getting through that door and seeing your smile.

Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two. Colt hits the top of the steps, and the hallway is flooded with soft golden light as you fling the door open, clearing the distance between you in half a second and throwing yourself into his arms with a beaming smile that makes his heart feel like it will burst with joy.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Two hours later, the two of you are snuggled together under a blanket on your couch, listening to the gentle night rain outside. You’re both thoroughly worn out — you had three weeks’ worth of catching up to do — and now you’ve both settled in for the simple pleasure of basking in each other’s presence.

You sometimes catch yourself wondering if this could all be a dream. Is it possible that you could actually be married to Colt Seavers, world’s greatest stuntman and the kindest, most dedicated man you’ve ever met? The way he showers you with his attention, the way he is so intentional about demonstrating his love for you, all his unconventional ways of letting you know he’s thinking about you even when you’re hundreds of miles apart… sometimes, it feels too good to be true.

The past three weeks haven’t been easy. You always miss Colt when you’re both far from home on jobs, but this past separation has seemed to last an eternity. Every night, you fell asleep longing to be with him, and every phone call, every text message seemed so inadequate to express how much you missed him. You’ve found yourself craving a time when the two of you will be able to spend every evening this way, wrapped in each other’s arms and unworried about anything else in the world.

Like this moment. He’s almost asleep, his cheek resting against the top of your head while you’re curled up in his arms. In these quiet moments, listening to his steady heartbeat and enjoying the abundant amount of heat he manages to give off at all times, you’re tempted to wonder how any life could be this sweet.

The two of you have been good for each other in more ways than one. With you in his life, Colt has started showing more caution in the stunts he performs. He’s still the same fearless daredevil he’s always been, but now he takes a few extra minutes to make doubly sure he’s safe when he leaps off a building or dives straight into a pool of dark water. It’s amazing how a person starts caring about themselves a little more when they know someone else cares for them.

Colt isn’t the only one changed, either. Before, you never thought twice about staying awake for three days straight to finish an elaborate set piece, or going without meals for a full day, or obsessing over a job almost to the point of a nervous breakdown. Colt has made it his mission in life to check on you throughout the day and make sure you’re taking care of yourself, and somehow you’ve made it a habit, too.

With your head tucked under his chin, you feel Colt stir slightly out of his sleep. You start to shift away to give him more room to stretch out, but he just wraps his arms around you tighter and smiles down at you.

“I missed you,” he says softly.

Your heart swells with gratitude at his simple ways of saying I love you. “I missed you, too,” you reply, reaching up a hand to thread through his hair. He sighs and closes his eyes at your touch.

“So, what are we going to do with our two weeks off?”

You hum in answer to his question, pretending to think it over. “Actually, I was thinking about just getting a ton of work done in advance,” you tease him, grinning at the way his face warms into a smile. “Just locking myself in my studio, working all hours of the night…”

“That’s fine,” Colt tells you mildly, reaching one hand up to stroke down your arm. “I was actually planning to work, too. Your car is seriously lacking in scratches and dents. I thought I might borrow it to practice for a car chase through the neighborhood.”

You lean forward to press a kiss against his shoulder. “While you’re doing that, I could repaint your truck with some psychedelic decals.”

“I could also work on smashing through windows in the living room.”

“At least put down a tarp first,” you instruct him, your kisses gradually working up his shoulder to his neck.

Colt grins and tilts your head up with his fingertips. Your lips meet in a sweet, unhurried kiss that makes shivers travel the length of your spine. Even after all the kisses you’ve shared, the feeling never grows old for you. His lips are soft, gentle against yours, his arms holding you close to his chest.

“I don’t care what we do,” Colt whispers against your cheek. “As long as we have the chance to do this anytime we want to.”

You smile and nod in agreement, relaxing into his arms and letting your head fall onto his shoulder. The rain continues to fall steadily outside, the soft lamplight cascading through the windows and casting a golden shade over Colt’s skin. The contentment and warmth of this moment envelopes you, but something still tugs at the back of your mind.

“How long do you think this will last?” you ask softly, wondering if Colt is still awake to hear you. “Being apart so often for so long?”

Colt senses the hesitation in your voice and lifts his head to look down into your eyes. “Does it bother you?” he asks. You’re touched by how serious he sounds.

“Not terribly,” you answer honestly, not wanting to sound as forlorn as you’ve felt the last few weeks. “It’s hard sometimes, but it makes catching up even more fun.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Colt smiles. He doesn’t ignore your question, though, and he pushes himself up so he’s sitting up straight beside you, tugging you over so you can sit up on your knees and face him. He takes both your hands in his. “I don’t know how much longer,” he tells you. “Are you trying to say you’re ready for a change?”

“Not necessarily,” you say carefully, caught off guard by how serious he suddenly seems. “I don’t think either of us is ready for that. But to be honest, I’ve been thinking about it more and more lately. Being able to see you every day, both of us coming back to the same place every night…” You hear the wistful note in your voice and try to curb it, not wanting Colt to feel any pressure from you.

But he finishes your sentence for you. “...spending evenings together like this instead of with a goodnight text across the country.”

You nod, realizing that Colt has been feeling exactly what you’ve been feeling. “No matter how much I love designing sets, I get so tired of sleeping in hotels and only seeing you on video calls.”

“I know,” he says, reaching up to comb some stray hairs behind your ear. “Me, too. I thought about it more this last trip than ever before.”

You beam a relieved smile at him, suddenly feeling like you’ve released a huge burden just by sharing your feelings with him and knowing he's been going through the same thing. “Maybe we should start thinking about a new arrangement,” you reply softly.

“Are you suggesting divorce?”

You laugh out loud at his serious tone, and Colt laughs with you as he pulls you into a hug. “You are so ridiculous,” you say through a grin. You give him a peck on the cheek, thinking the conversation is over now that you’ve gotten that worry off your chest, but Colt surprises you by disentangling from your arms and launching into another serious tone.

“What do you say to this,” Colt proposes. “One more job each, and then we think about going into business together?”

You sit bolt upright at that. “Going into business together?” you echo in surprise. “What do you have up your sleeve?”

“What, you’ve never heard of married people going into business together?”

This is almost too much to process. “Colt, you’re a stuntman,” you remind him. “I’m a set designer. Those aren’t exactly compatible professions.”

“They could be very compatible if we started a joint venture as movie consultants,” he insists. His eyes are beaming with pride, and suddenly you realize that this isn’t a spur-of-the-moment suggestion from him. “That way, any company that hired us would put us on the same jobs, and we could each do our separate thing on the same sets. I could be a stunt consultant, and you’d be an art consultant. We could expand it as we needed to.”

Colt’s grin is infectious, and you impulsively reach out to frame his face in your hands. “Am I crazy, or does it sound like you’ve put some thought into this?” you ask in disbelief.

“I already told you, I missed you,” Colt shrugs. He takes your hands in his, then flips one over to kiss the inside of your wrist. But you’re not finished asking questions.

“What do you mean, ‘stunt consultant’? That sounds dangerously like you’re thinking about a career shift.”

“Not necessarily,” he continues, using his fingertips to trace the inside of your wrist now. “It’s more of a way I could pick the jobs I want instead of being Tom Ryder’s faithful shadow. Plus, I’d have the chance for more of a stunt coordinator job one day.”

You’re amazed at how much thought he has put into this idea, as well as how it so perfectly solves the problems you’ve been wrestling with for the last three weeks. “I thought you weren’t interested in climbing the ladder,” you counter with a smile.

“I never have been,” Colt admits, still swirling his fingertips over your inner forearm. “But if it means I have to be away from you all the time, I’m willing to take a little leap.”

“How long have you been thinking about all this?”

“Not long. I ran into Dan Tucker on this last set. He gave me the idea for the joint venture.”

“Remind me to send Dan a bouquet of flowers.”

Colt grins wide at that, and he leans forward to close the distance between you, pressing a gentle kiss into the corner of your mouth. “Does that mean you’re interested?” he murmurs.

“I might be,” you say, feeling your heartbeat speed up. “If I think I’d be compatible with my future business partner.”

“I can arrange for some compatibility exercises.”

You smile at his response, sliding your arms around his neck as he moves to pull you into his embrace again. “Will there be a fee for training?”

“No charge,” Colt mumbles against your jaw.

“Good benefits?”

“Lots and lots of benefits.” His lips are moving down to do something wicked to the skin of your neck, but you pause him briefly by lifting his head up to meet his gaze. His dark blue eyes are focused on you with the intensity that melts you every time you see it.

“Let’s do it,” you declare, hardly daring to believe that this perfect idea could become a reality. “I don’t know how, but let’s make it happen.”

Colt gives you a smile that seems to brighten the entire room. “You got it, da Vinci.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“I’m so glad you’re home.”

“Believe me, it’s good to be home.”

Colt demonstrates his statement by pulling you into his arms and dipping you back so you’re laying across his lap. You laugh and pull him down to your level, resting one hand on the back of his neck while he kisses you. His kiss is gentle, almost mischievous somehow, as if he’s already planning his next move to surprise you.

“I suggest a two-week vacation right here,” you say breathlessly when he finally lifts his lips off yours. He kisses the tip of your nose as you continue, “I don’t care if we don’t do a single thing, as long as we’re together for all of it.”

“Mmmm, now you’re talking,” he tells you in the husky voice that always sends goosebumps over your skin. Another kiss, this one on your forehead. “But I bet we can think of lots of things to do.”

“You think?” you ask slyly, and your smirk prompts Colt to gather you up in his arms and stand, an impressive show of strength even from him. Your grin widens, and you capture his lips in a kiss that leaves you both heated and flushed. This is worth all of it, you think. All the lonely nights, all the uncertainty — it all fades in the heat of his gaze, this man you love with every fiber of your being.

“Definitely,” Colt replies against your lips, and you can feel his smile even through the words. “In fact, if we’re going into business together so soon, we’d better get started on those compatibility exercises right away.”

[perfectlyoongi]

HUSBAND!HOSEOK who makes you a bracelet as a marriage proposal. it was common for Hoseok to give you gifts made by him, he just to create and liked you, it was only logical that you would receive all of his work; so, you weren't suspicious when he gave you a small white bracelet, but it was when you noticed the small golden letters that your heart quickened a little, your wide smile appeasing a rather nervous Hoseok. “i promise i will give you a ring. i just found it more special this way. so… what do you say?”

HUSBAND!HOSEOK who takes you to mcdonald's in the middle of your wedding just because you said you wanted a burger. you mentioned it by chance, without really caring about your words, but that was enough for Hoseok to tell you that it was only a few minutes and that it was quick, he swore to you that no one would notice you were missing; Hoseok just wanted to make sure that day was going to be perfect for you, and if that involved leaving your party to buy a simple burger, he didn't mind leaving for a few minutes — he just wanted to see you happy. “from this moment onward, whatever you need or want, i will make sure you have it. you will be the happiest person in the world. that is my mission.”

HUSBAND!HOSEOK who makes a collage album of your memories to give you on your first anniversary. it wasn't just the photographs from Hoseok's gallery that portrayed your times as friends and partners, there were also movie tickets, cards of flower bouquets, small dried leaves and stuffed animal tags, various tiny items that sculpted your relationship into the epitome of love; so, Hoseok worked whole nights on a small album, choosing each photograph and item in detail, ensuring that that gift made you as happy and emotional as it made him. “i also have dinner planned at the first restaurant we went to and a boat trip afterwards. but for now, i think our memories are enough.”

HUSBAND!HOSEOK who makes tiktok couples trends with you. he didn't publish anything, sometimes he didn't even record, but Hoseok liked to see couples trends on the app, dance challenges or something else that excited him; they were moments of fun, joy infecting your room between so many attempts and failures, a few minutes of pure abstention, where nothing existed other than you, Hoseok and the music that sounded muffled from his cell phone. “there’s a new trend we have to do! it’s a dance, but i know we’ll get it right the first time!”

HUSBAND!HOSEOK who will exchange shoes with you if yours are hurting you. whether it was winter or summer, whether it was sunny or snowy, it didn't matter, Hoseok was always ready to help you and ease the pain you were feeling; he insisted, almost demanding, that you wear his sneakers or shoes, yours finding shelter in Hoseok's gentle hands. “i’d rather walk barefoot and get cold than see you suffer. give me your shoes and shut up.”

HUSBAND!HOSEOK who dances in the rain with you, no matter how much time passes. whether it was your first week of marriage or ten years later, it was indifferent — Hoseok only wanted you with him while mother nature toasted you with the heavenly water of eternity; there was no need for music or invitation, it already seemed to be a tradition of yours: whenever the rain started to fall when you were together on the street, it was almost guaranteed that he would hold you and make you spin among the most delicate drops of nature, creating eternal smiles on your lips. “it makes me feel like i'm falling in love with you for the first time. my love will never grow old.”

HUSBAND!HOSEOK who will never let the flame of your relationship go out. he would do anything not to lose you. infinite time could pass between you, but Hoseok would always make sure that something fiery and genuine shined in you, because he couldn't afford to lose you, to lose the only person he truly loved and dreamed of his entire life. “i’m not going to lose you. i didn't spend so much time loving you to let you go so easily. i will love you forever and i will make you love me back.”

[estellan0vella]

Ninja Cats and Disco Aliens Older Brother Sukuna AU HFBU

The three of you are basking in the lazy afternoon, sunlight filtering through the curtains. Sukuna's arm is draped over your shoulders, his fingers playing idly with your hair and your legs are draped over his lap, while Yuji is sprawled on the floor in front of the TV, surrounded by a mess of toys. The cartoon playing on the screen is one you've seen a hundred times, but Yuji's giggles make it worthwhile.

Suddenly, Yuji sits up, his big eyes filled with curiosity. "Suku, Y/N/N, why do dogs have wet noses?"

You glance at Sukuna, who raises an eyebrow and smirks. Here we go.

"Well, Yuji," Sukuna starts, leaning forward with a conspiratorial grin, "dogs have wet noses because they're actually tiny aliens who use their noses to communicate with their home planet."

Yuji's eyes widen. "Really?"

You stifle a laugh, trying to look serious. "Oh yes, Yuji. They send messages back to their planet through their noses. That's why they sniff everything so much."

Yuji looks amazed. "Wow! That's so cool!"

Encouraged by his reaction, Sukuna continues. "And you know what else? When they wag their tails, it's because they're trying to send signals to the other alien dogs around them. It's like their version of talking on the phone."

Yuji nods enthusiastically. "That makes so much sense! But... what about cats? Do they send messages too?"

You exchange a quick glance with Sukuna, who's clearly loving this. "Cats," you say, trying to keep a straight face, "are actually secret ninjas. They're always sneaking around, spying on everyone to gather information."

Sukuna nods in agreement. "That's right. When they're purring, it's actually them recharging their ninja powers. And when they knead with their paws, they're practising their martial arts moves."

Yuji looks at you both, completely awestruck. "Ninja cats! That's awesome!"

Sukuna ruffles Yuji's hair. "Yep, and that's why they're always climbing on things and knocking stuff over. They're in training."

Yuji giggles, clearly enjoying these wild explanations. "What about birds? Why do they fly?"

You can't resist jumping in. "Birds fly because they're actually miniature superheroes. Their feathers give them special powers, and they're always out there saving the world from tiny villains."

Sukuna nods solemnly. "Exactly. And when they chirp, they're actually talking to their superhero headquarters. That's why they're so loud in the morning—they're getting their missions for the day."

Yuji's jaw drops. "Bird superheroes! That's so cool!"

Sukuna laughs, giving you a squeeze. "Yep, and that's why they're always so busy. They have a lot of bad guys to catch."

You lean your head on Sukuna's shoulder, smiling at Yuji's excitement. "Any other questions, Yuji?"

He thinks for a moment, then his face lights up. "Why do we get hiccups?"

You exchange another look with Sukuna, both of you struggling to keep straight faces. "Well," Sukuna begins, "hiccups happen because there's a tiny elf inside your stomach who's practising his drumming skills. Every time he hits the drum, you hiccup."

You burst out laughing, unable to hold it in anymore. "And sometimes the elf gets really excited and starts drumming really fast, which is why you get lots of hiccups in a row."

Yuji laughs too, clutching his stomach. "A drumming elf! That's hilarious!"

Sukuna grins, clearly proud of his creative answer. "Yep, so the next time you get hiccups, just tell the elf to take a break."

Yuji nods, still giggling. "Okay, I will!"

The cartoon ends, and Yuji jumps up, ready for more questions. "Why is the sky blue?"

You take a deep breath, trying to come up with something equally outrageous. "The sky is blue because it's actually a giant blueberry pancake that stretches all around the Earth. The sun heats it up, and that's why it looks so blue and delicious."

Sukuna nods sagely. "And sometimes, when it rains, it's because someone spilt syrup on the pancake, and it's dripping down to us."

Yuji looks absolutely delighted. "So when it's cloudy, does that mean there's whipped cream on the pancake?"

You nod, laughing. "Exactly! And thunder is just the sound of a giant fork cutting through the pancake."

Sukuna chimes in. "And lightning is when they put too much powdered sugar on it, and it sparks in the sky."

Yuji claps his hands, loving every bit of this absurd explanation. "That's amazing!"

The questions keep coming, each one more outrageous than the last.

"Why do stars twinkle?"

Sukuna's eyes light up. "Stars twinkle because they're actually disco balls hanging in space, reflecting light from cosmic dance parties."

You add, "And when they twinkle, it's because the aliens are having a really great time dancing."

Yuji giggles. "Disco aliens!"

The next question catches you a bit off guard. "Why do people snore?"

You take a moment to think, then grin. "People snore because there's a tiny trumpet player inside their nose, practising for a big concert."

Sukuna laughs. "And sometimes he gets really into it, which is why some people snore louder than others."

Yuji laughs so hard he falls over. "A trumpet player! That's so funny!"

The afternoon continues in this vein, with Yuji asking more and more ridiculous questions, and you and Sukuna coming up with increasingly bizarre answers.

"Why do plants grow towards the light?"

You answer, "Because they're actually solar-powered robots, and they need to recharge their batteries by soaking up sunlight."

Sukuna adds, "And when they bloom, it's because their battery is full, and they're ready to start their secret robot missions."

Yuji looks around the room, trying to find something else to ask about. "Why do fish swim?"

Sukuna smirks. "Fish swim because they have tiny jetpacks on their fins that propel them through the water."

You nod. "And when you see them jump out of the water, it's because they're testing their jetpacks to see how high they can go."

Yuji claps his hands again, thoroughly entertained. "Fish with jetpacks! That's so cool!"

You exchange a smile with Sukuna, both of you enjoying the sheer joy on Yuji's face. It's moments like these that make all the chaos and absurdity of life with Sukuna and Yuji so worthwhile.

As the afternoon turns into evening, Yuji finally starts to wind down, his energy fading. He curls up on the couch between you and Sukuna, his eyes heavy with sleep.

"Suku, Y/N/N, can I ask more questions tomorrow?"

You smile, brushing a hand through his hair. "Of course, Yuji"

Sukuna leans down, kissing Yuji's forehead. "Sleep tight, little man. Dream about all those ninja cats and disco aliens."

Yuji yawns, his eyes closing. "Goodnight, Suku. Goodnight, Y/N/N."

You watch him drift off to sleep, feeling a warm sense of contentment. Life might be filled with ridiculous questions and even more ridiculous answers, but with Sukuna and Yuji, it's also filled with love and laughter.

And as you snuggle closer to Sukuna, you know that you wouldn't have it any other way.

taglist - @sad-darksoul @thejujvtsupost

[mika-no-sekai-blog]

Word count: 2600+

Warnings: swearing, otherwise mostly fluff

Part XXVI | Part XXVIII

Next few days it rained just as Tamlin had predicted. Thanks to him you had enough food, the only problem was the fast running out herbs. Not wanting to go out, it was a great chance to practice your magic abilities. High Lord always sat down with you, watching over you. Whenever you had trouble, he offered advice. It wasn't easy after so many years of not using your powers, but it was fun and the two of you laughed a lot when things didn't turn the way you wanted them.

Except of that there was nothing much to do. You couldn't go out and moreover as a result of your reckless run in the rain you caught a cold, so looking out the window and wishing the downpour finally stopped was all you were allowed to do.

Tamlin banned you from the kitchen, making you sit whole day in front of the hearth while he took care of everything. Including you. He wouldn't even let you go up the stairs on your own. You suspected that if he wanted he could cure you with a single snap of fingers, but for some reason he didn't want to. But you couldn't complain at all.

It was pleasant to have somebody to care for you, especially when they did it with such love. Every refilling of your mug was accompanied by kiss on crown of your head and kind smile. Every fixing of the blanket or handing you a book, got you a soft, sweet kiss on cheek and gentle caress. No need to say that you actually spent more time sitting on his lap than on your own. Your chest swelled every time Tamlin slipped into your armchair, pulling you to his strong body.

Bad weather also gave you a lot of time to talk, to really talk about things that bothered you. You patiently listened to his life story, about his family, years in father's army and everything that hurt him while Amarantha pushed him to sacrifice his friends, made him watch the death of so many innocent lives right before his eyes and then just for fun tortured girl he liked and even killed her. He told you about what happened after Amarantha died, all the nightmares that haunted him for months, the echo of the crack of neck that followed him every second of every day. He intentionally skipped the part about your brother being an ass, but you already heard about it from Feyre.

You knew he didn't want you to pity him and you tried not to, but it was hard. You reassured him that he did all he could to protect his Court and held him when you were short for words.

When it was your turn to share pieces of you, well, you didn't have much to say. Your family wasn't perfect, but it wasn't as bad as Tamlin's. Your mother, cousin, brother and his friends made sure you had a quite happy childhood and the only really bad, traumatic thing that happened to you, was the night you lost your mother and your memories.

"Tamlin, I want to thank you," you whispered into the crook of his neck when your tears finally dried. He was gently rocking you while drawing circles on your back with his warm hand. "If it wasn't for you, I would be dead."

He shook his head dismissively. His body was tense as you shared what you saw that night, his jaw still clenched, tips of his claws slightly jabbing the skin of your hip where he held you. You couldn't see his face from this angle, but you could imagine his frown, cold emerald eyes full of hate and rage gazing into the dancing flames. He looked like that when he told you about his father and brothers. All those years when he tried not to get in their way, keeping it low to survive, left a lot of hatred and anger in him. "I could do more. I-"

"You did enough," you stopped him. "I'm alive just because you were there. You aren't responsible for whatever happened to me afterwards."

He looked down at you in disbelieve. "I knew they had somebody in dungeons. I should have done something, help you escape."

He leaned to the side, putting as much distance as possible in between you which wasn't much in your current position. His hands fell to armrests, claws fully slid out. "It doesn't matter what they would have done to me."

"I thought that we already talked about this, but never mind," you spoke calmly with a soft sigh. "Let's say you went down there and helped me get out. What would have happened to you after that? They would have punished you or even worse."

"It matters..a lot.. To me, it matters.."

He watched you out of the corner of his eye and then sighing pulled you into another hug. He looked defeated.

"We can't change the past, Tamlin. But I'm glad you didn't go down there to find out what your father was up to. If you did, I might have never met you again. And we wouldn't be here now, holding each other."

At that moment air crackled with static energy and Rhysand winnowed in.

"Horrible weather," he grunted, shaking drops of rain from his cloak. Last few days he was too busy and only sent you messages. You didn't expect him to appear anytime soon.

Rhys looked around, his gaze fell to you watching him with wide eyes from Tamlin's lap. He froze in shock, his face colour changing from warm tanned to white and then to red.

"Hands off of my sister," he hissed. "Just a few days! I don't show up for few fucking days and you already dare to touch her? Like this?"

Tamlin sighed looking away and without a word began to gently push you from his lap so he could stand up. You knew he couldn't stand your brother's visits and rather disappeared on the second floor, but you needed to put a stop to this stupid situation. You clung to him, holding him in place. He raised a brow at you, but you only smiled at him.

"You didn't knock," you said in sweet voice to Rhysand whose eyes were jumping between you and High Lord of Spring.

"What?" He sputtered angrily.

"Do you remember when we talked about finding happiness?" You were calm as you looked up at him. His talons scratched the walls around your mind and you let him in.

What does this mean, sweetheart? I'd love you to stand up. Now.

Rhys, I'm happy.

You could feel flush spreading on your cheeks. Talking about this kind of feelings was something you'd never done with your brother nor he mentioned his lovers to you in the past. It was probably the only border you two kept intact.

What?! With him? You can't be serious. If you want a High Lord we can try to figure something out. But you.. and him.. Rhys' voice in your head was almost pleading.

I don't want a High Lord. I don't care about such things at all and you know that very well. I-.. I have feelings for him, Rhys. Do you.. understand? He might be my happy ending.

Admitting this much, you were too shy to even look your brother in eyes.

Meanwhile Tamlin stayed still, watching you with concern. Hands that he respectively put on armrests in presence of your brother, inched closer.

"Everything okay?" he murmured, so only you heard him. You nodded.

Rhysand left your mind and silently considered something. Hands at his sides curled into fists, his knuckles white.

"Can I have a word with you?" he asked Tamlin after a while. He frowned at him, but nodded. This time you let him stand up, watching as the two stepped out into the rain. You couldn't help it and sneaked closer to the front door. Through window you could see Rhysand pacing in the rain back and forth, fingers running through his already damp hair. Tamlin stood on doorstep, arms crossed on his chest, his back to you.

Rhysand stopped pacing and turned to him. "Do you like her?"

Tamlin nodded.

"C'mon," Rhys grunted, rolling his eyes. "I mean, do you really like her? No games, no.. getting back on me or something like that..?"

He again only nodded, no words. Rhysand stared him down, gritting his teeth.

"I love her, Rhysand," Tamlin finally spoke so lowly you almost didn't hear him over the sound of rain. "She is my everything."

Your heart swelled. He said that he loved you. Aloud. You talked a lot these last few days, but except of the 'I like you' he told you before, he hadn't expressed his feelings so directly. It was all just small lovely gestures here, soft kisses everywhere except of your lips there. Hearing him to express his feelings so openly brought tears to your eyes.

"I really hope you mean it," Rhysand snarled threateningly. "If you ever even try to think about hurting her-"

"I know. You'll find a way to revenge. I already heard that once before."

In a blink of eye Rhys stood in front of Tamlin, fisting the front of his shirt. His violet-blue eyes shone dangerously. "I'm not joking. Your kin already took me whole my family. She is the only one left. I won't silently watch her being used, hurt and thrown away by any male."

"I will never do any of that," Tamlin hissed in answer, his chest vibrating with growl, but otherwise he hadn't moved an inch, glaring down on your brother. He was just a few centimetres taller than him, but his frame was much sturdier, especially his upper body.

"Good," Rhys released his shirt still glaring at him and stepped back. "You better remember that."

Then he looked straight at you. See you next time, sweetheart. If anything, send me a message. You know how.

"Take very, very good care of her, Tam. She is the most precious person in the world." And with that he was gone.

Tamlin shook his head and grunting something under his breath he opened the door. As soon as he was inside, you rushed to him and squeezed him in firm embrace. Without thinking you stood up on your tiptoes and your lips landed on his. He went rigid, eyes widening.

You realized what you'd done and in shame started to pull away. Tamlin's hand clasped the back of your head and holding you in place his lips parted slightly and brushed over yours. So slowly, he claimed them in tender kiss, not rushing anywhere. Heart thundering in your chest, you kissed him back.

After a minute or two when your lungs burned with lack of oxygen, he broke the kiss and looked down at you, all flushed with glazed eyes. His fingertips brushed away an unruly strand of hair from your face, sliding down to your jaw.

He moved so fast you didn't see it. His next kiss was nothing like the first one. It was wild and hot and needy, war of lips, teeth and tongues. He kissed you like a starving man, devouring and exploring every inch of your mouth, sucking out all air from you.

One of his hands travelled down your body to your hip, his fingers digging into your flesh. You moaned into his mouth drawing a growl from him. Your back arched, chest brushing against the chest. There was no time to take a gulp of air and you were starting to feel light-headed.

Before you could pass out he pulled away, leaning his forehead against yours, eyes closed. Both of you were heaving heavily, lips swollen.

"Gods," you whispered and he laughed, his breath fanning your face. You were drunk on his scent, now suffocatingly stronger.

"You taste like strawberries." He pecked your cheek, lips trailing to your jaw and down the column of your neck to the shoulder. He didn't miss even that sensitive spot under your ear. You bit on your lower lip, holding back another moan.

"Say it again," you pleaded breathlessly.

"What? About the strawberries?" he smile into your skin.

"No. What you told to Rhys."

"Aah, you mean that part that I won't hurt you."

"No, not that."

"Then what?" He was teasing you while his lips and hands explored your body.

"You are such a tease. The other thing you told him."

"Hmm," he pretended to think about it, his mouth slowly returning back to the spot under your ear. He licked the sensitive skin and lightly nipped at it. The moan escaped you before you could stop it. "You mean the 'love you' part?"

You hummed in agreement, unable to think straight with his soft lips playing with your earlobe while whispering words in hoarse deep voice that made your toes curl.

Tamlin stopped teasing you and scanning your face with interest, he waited until you opened your eyes and focused. He caressed your cheek with feather-light touch, fingers barely touching you. The other arm held you firmly to his body. You could feel every shift of his muscles. Bright emerald eyes found yours.

"I love you, Y/N," he said little nervously. "From bottom of my heart, I love you."

Your heart skipped few beats and you closed your eyes again. It wasn't the first time somebody confessed to you, but this was so different. It felt so right as if you were born only for this, waiting for him your entire life.

You ran your fingers along his shoulder blades, ends of his golden hair tickling your knuckles. You inhaled deeply and found his gaze.

"I love you, Tamlin," you breathed out.

"Thank the Mother," his tense shoulders relaxed a little, "I already thought you won't say it."

You huffed amused. He leaned down and gave you a peck, licked his bottom lip and gave you another and another and soon you were kissing again. His chest vibrated with growl.

"I dreamt about this so many times, but it's actually much better than I imagined."

"You dreamt about this?" You quirked a brow, nuzzling to his neck.

Muscle in his jaw flexed. "I did. Every night when I couldn't sleep, I tried to imagine holding you like this and kissing you."

You giggled. "Liar. You made it up now."

He laughed, the sound echoing in that broad chest of his. You snuggled to him even closer, enjoying the beautiful sound. "No, I didn't."

You blushed so fiercely you were glad he couldn't see your face.

"Shouldn't we make some dinner?" you asked after a while.

"No," his hands nestled on your waist. "You should go sit down and wrap up into blanket while I prepare something to eat."

He started to gently push you back towards your armchair.

"Nooo," you pleaded. "I sat all day long. I want to do something too."

"Fine," he cooed adding a log to fire. He snapped fingers and a tome fell into your lap. You immediately read its title, your fingers already prickling with curiosity. "Will you read to me while I cook then?"

"Seriously?" You pouted. He just nodded, chuckling. He knew you loved reading and used your weakness against you, knowing you wouldn't be able to resist. You opened the book on the first page, eager to find out what kind of story Tamlin chose and started reading it aloud.

You only stopped to eat and then Tamlin took the book and read to you until you fell asleep on his lap. Marking your progress he put the book aside. Carefully he picked you up and carried you to the bed. Throwing the blanket over you, he snuggled up to you, kissed your forehead and smiling fell asleep.

Taglist:

@impossibelle @sevikas-whore @b0xerdancer @ladylizzieofdarbyshire @tele86 @mybestfriendmademe @nocasdatsgay @yunloyal @nebarious @isabiss @st0rmyt @lilah-asteria @ubigaia @paleidiot @acourtofimagines @harahettania @talesofadragon @ceoofyearning @little-nightowl

[thelampisaflashlight]

Tying The Knot

[Get your head out of the gutter, this one is actually a wholesome one. RainDrop.] Below the cut.

The day he met Dew, the ghoul had been a stiff breeze away from crumbling away, shaking like a leaf as he tried to remain on his feet.

He'd learn much later the reason; That he'd fought tooth and nail to keep his packmate from tearing him apart in a rage, and that the shiver, that terrible, persistent tremble of his body, was it trying to stay upright.

At the time, Rain had not seen the hand splayed across his back -a sister of sin steadying him-, had not seen the way Terzo had eyed him from across the room, the last remnant of his old pack, barely holding onto life, but alive.

More than anything, the thing Rain noticed about Dew was that he was alive.

Were it not for the raspy hiss of his breathing, it would have been easy to liken him to a corpse.

It had bothered him for so long, the idea that Dew had been forced out of bed to witness not only his summoning, but that of the others, who poured out of the pit, half feral and lost, snapping at anyone who got close, but he hadn't been.

This had been an indulgence.

Dew wanted to see them.

And when coal black eyes gazed upon them all; Rain could feel him staring through them, through him.

It was then that Rain knew Dew was a creature born of spite, of persistence...

He remembers his first approach.

Unfazed by the chatter of teeth or swipe of claws.

With his fingers dipped in a mixture of ash and blood, he aided in anointing them all, and, now, when he sees Dew in his robes during one of Copia's sermons, it's all he can think of.

Dew stands now at the head of the chapel, back to him, long white hair tied back into a careful braid, the one Rain remembers practicing late at night.

It's done in a style from the pit, the kind you have to learn from an elder, impossible to find on youtube, even if similar patterns exist.

His hands twitch, wanting to drag through the strands and tug it loose, to undo all his hard work in a single pull, because if he knew how seeing him like this would make him feel, he'd never had tied those knots in the first place.

Each cross is a promise, woven to remind the wearer they are loved.

Rain watches the little ribbon he tied to secure the braid in place peek out; A bright, joyous red that contrasts heavily against Dew's pale hair.

Bolder than he thought it would be, and now Rain can feel eyes on him from among the pews.

His packmates know they didn't tie that ribbon, and all of them know such an intricate braid could not be done by Dew's hands alone, no matter how skilled he may be with his fingers.

Rain swallows, mouth suddenly dry.

It's...

It's a little too obvious what he's saying with all of this.

He's embarrassed, yes, but more than that...

He's nervous that Dew won't understand the meaning of this gesture.

Dew may be a ghoul like the rest of them, but, much like Swiss -who was born and raised on the surface- he has no memories of the pit.

The soul inhabiting his vessel is a mix.

An even blend of demon and man, but his consciousness solely belongs to the entity that lived topside.

He doesn't understand their culture.

Let alone the niche courting habits of an oceanic subspecies of water ghoul like Rain's.

At best, Dew thinks it's just a cool hairstyle.

At worst, he thinks it's lame or weird, or-

"Rain." a shockingly gentle voice calls to him, and when he looks up...

Dew looks down at him, standing above his seated form, his expression softer than he's seen it in a long time.

"You look terribly sad for a man who's just proposed."

Rain stutters, covering his face with his hands, looking as if he's about to burst.

"...You knew?"

"I guessed based on how much you were sweating while tying my hair back." he replies teasingly, "And Mist told me, ages ago. Not about you doing this, but about the practice in general."

"Oh."

"Yes, oh."

Rain tucks his head between his knees.

"Are you okay??"

"...Gimme a year to recover before you tell me yes or no, I don't think my heart can take it."

Dew grins.

"If I say 'yes' will you die on the spot, or-"

"Can y'all be mushy somewhere else, it's putting me off Papa's sermon about pre-martial sex." Cirrus groans, "Congrats, but also, fuck off!"

"Boo! Boo, Cirrus! Ruining our moment..." Dew sticks his tongue out

"...The sermon was about sex? Was he for or against it??" Aeon frets, "I wasn't listening!"

Everyone turns to the other ghoul, frowning.

"W-What??"

"Do we look like Christians to you-"

[marigold-hills]

June 27: drought | @wolfstarmicrofic | word count: 480

PREVIOUS PART • FIRST PART

“Love you, Moony,” Sirius says. Because he can. Because he’s allowed. Feels it like first drops of rain after a drought. Like letting it soak through the skin and drench his hair, a warm summer storm.

They’re wrapped around each other, Sirius’ head on his Moony’s chest. Each steady breath a raise and a fall. Each like a rebuilding.

“Love you too,” a hand tightening around him, lips on forehead.

Bliss, Sirius thinks, and nothing else at all. It’s quiet in his mind. He wants this moment for forever.

“We should let our two idiots back in, shouldn’t we.”

“Must we?” Sirius whines. It’s warm, comfortable. Perfect to drift off. His eyes are already closing. “I don’t want to move.”

“Can’t let them sleep on the sofas. Come on love, take down the locking charm. I’ll get them.”

Sirius burrows his head further into Remus’ chest. “Come back here, after?” Feels strangely shy asking, “sleep here with me tonight?”

Another kiss on the top of his head. “Wild horses won’t tear me away.”

Remus gets dressed – large tshirt, checkered pyjama trousers. Has already vanished the mess they’ve made and cleaned Sirius up. Sirius waves his wand to remove the enchantments.

“Leaving you in bed like this is almost impossibly hard, I hope you know,” Remus pulls him into a kiss, sweet and chaste and so loving it breaks something in Sirius’ soul.

James and Peter are half asleep when they get back in, stumbling and herded by Moony like they’re particularly awkward sheep and he a shepherd. “I want to hear everything in the morning,” James ruffles Sirius’ hair on the way to bed. “Goodnight, gentlemen. Good work today everyone,” he collapses onto his mattress and is out in seconds.

Remus climbs back into the bed, as promised. Faces Sirius, brings him into his arms. It’s the most natural thing. They might have been like this for lifetimes.

Sirius thinks don’t take this away from me. Let me have this. Let me fall asleep looking at him and wake up to his breath on the back of my neck. Nothing else I’ll ask for, just this. Just him.

They have days left in the Castle, but Sirius is no longer weary of the change. He’ll do what it takes to keep them all together. Under no impression that it will be smooth, or without issues, especially not after the last full moon: he thinks how to prepare for the next one, and for the way Moony’s body sometimes needs its time.

“You’re thinking too much for this late at night. Did I not tire you out enough?”

“Just looking forward to all the things we’ll still get to do.”

Moony holds him closer. “Hmm,” sleepily agrees, “me too. But there’s time still. Sleep now.”

So Sirius does. When he wakes up, Remus’ heartbeat is under his palm like a promise.

moon-girl88 @digital-kam @tealeavesandtrash @sweetstarryskies @alltoounwellll @hunnybeemarie @hoje--aqui @annaliza999 @hihimissamericanbi @gipitothefrog @shamelesswolfstarshipper @a-pine-cone @cosmicweeds @cocoabutterandbooks @bloodoffire @residentdisaster @shamelesswolfstarshipper @ravenwordss @prancingpony42 @themoonlovesthestars @starving-marauder-lover @weirdtinkerbellversion @deadcupcakehere @theprettieststarfr @dumbass-gryffindor1960

(let me know if you do/don’t want to be tagged in next parts)

[reyreadersblog]

hihihi!!!! Can I please req some Grayson and Lyra hcs? Like cute or angsty ones idm 💕

Hii pookie, of course i can💟♥️

Hope you like itt

Pairings: Lyra Kane x Grayson Davenport Hawthorne

A/n: all of these are MY hcs, so if you don't like it, please be respectful🙏🏻

~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~

LYRA X GRAYSON HCSS

• Idk if this makes sense but if Lana del Rey was a couple they would be the one, because they are so Lana coded♡

• when Lyra gets tired wearing high heels, she takes them off and gives them to Grayson to carry it.

• my guy would do ANYTHING for her.

• Grayson is very sensitive when it comes to his hair, but Lyra is the only one who can touch it.

• she's a WILD animal, i'm telling you, when she wants to do something, she will do it no matter what or how risky it is, And Gray is always dying when she sees her doing something dangerous.

• they had litearl investogation on each other, i'm not even kidding, not even a fully solved case would have as much documents as they did.

• she calls him by his middle name, Devenport🤭 thanks to @lyrakanefanatic for this idea.

• Lyra's laugh makes Grayson WEAK.

• they're a switch...i'm just gonna..leave it here.

• they'd have a heartbreaking, soul shattering love confession outside in the rain.

• sometimes Gray calls her love as a joke.

• it would take them a WHILE to become a couple.

• they both have daddy issues, yayy.

• they can easly tell when one's mood changed.

• periods are very hard for Lyra, so Grayson tries everything he can and is really careful during that tine if month.

• when they fight, it's actually something REALLY serious.

• Lyra is kind of a sunshine too in their relationship (compared to Gray), but with more of a sarcastic persinality.

• she can make him do anything with her eyes and smile.

• Grayson unbraids her hair.

• they are the IT couple, fans are crazy over them.

• Lyra gets super jealous when fangirls talk and swoon over Grayson.

• HAND. ON. THE. WAIST. y'all. That's his way of claiming her.

• both are pretty dominant in their relationship.

• they have a code word too, like how Averyjameson has tahiti (probably lilies)

• one time Grayson wore all black and my girl diedd.

• they would have so much banter.

• Grayson would fs propose to her with the black opal ring.

[notafraidofredyellowandblue]

Rammblings Nijmegen 2024-06-18

The Show (part 2)

- Sound and music were pretty good, as a guitarists-fan i was looking forward to Richard's solos, but the first one i couldn't really hear well, maybe the sound was a bit off there, but that must have been just a glitch, because elsewhere it was great (Ausländer solo os so beautiful 🥰). I know some people mention there's playback on some songs, but honestly, i don't care, we were all looking forward to a great show after being wet and cold for a while, that i just wanted it to look and sound the best it could 🌺 (Maybe it was me, but at Adieu i think there was someone off key at some point 😊 so that definitely wasn't playback, but they pulled it together)

- Paul and Olli's side i could watch pretty well, although i didn't see Olli that well, on IG photos i see that he wore a darker shirt for part of the show, maybe that had something to do with it. Paul was for the most part of the show playing with his micstand and doing Paul things like he usually does 😊

- Flake is great in his gold outfit, no trouble following where he's going, and i loved his 'stuck doing the Till-hammer' but, with team feuerzone egging him on chanting 'Flake, Flake' 😄

- Richard looked great, even from that distance (he didn't bother trying his hair to stand up and started with the hair combed down), and i lived his backing vocals, especially at Puppe, you could really hear his voice in the sound as well 🥰

- sometimes i read fans not liking the songs from the Untitled album that much, because 'it isn't Rammstein as it should be', but honestly, some of the songs that got the crowd moving the best, were actually Ausländer and Radio, and even the Deutschland remix with the stickmen dance was great at getting the crowd to dance along, until that point in the show the crowd were mainly watching (not team feuerzone, they always moved ofcourse), but those songs really melted the ice (maybe that was also the moment the rain started to drizzle out, don't remember). Loved the stickmen dance (which i didn't think i would), the 4 guys did a little 'kickline' at some point, and some other funny stuff, and we in our little corner on the stands danced along 😊

- And ofcourse the big songs like Sonne (when the sun really showed for the first time), Du Hast, Deutschland, DRSG, Mein Teil were great as well, but i really loved all the songs, not one exception ❤️

- I was too far away to really notice if 'fun was had' on stage (you know i like it when the guys have fun on stage), but i loved Paul and Richard playing together, love that their Mein Teil intro is always a bit different (up until that point they played pretty much their regular 'roles'), think Till tried to distract Paul before that intro a little bit to prevent him from going to center stage 😊 but the tower was obstructing my view a bit, so really only saw afterwards on social media all the details 😄 but that's okay, they had fun, that is the main thing 🥰

- i really enjoyed my first show, and i really wanted the band to know it, i wouldn't have minded if they stuck around on stage a bit longer at the after-Sonne-bows and the final salut so we could cheer them on more, but that isn't the Rammstein way and i accept that 😊

- and the best part: i get to do it again today (and it looks like it will be dry) 🥰

[kittymartini]

Honeybee pt. 1, Joel Miller x Reader

Heyy guys, this is my first story ever, i’m excited to share it with you and please let me know if you like it, if you think i should change some stuff or if you find some grammatical errors or something, english isn’t my first language but i do try to keep my writing as grammatically accurate as possible. Also i’d like to note that i’ve never seen tlou and this story has nothing to do with that storyline I just stole Joel to be the love interest because Pedro Pascal is hot. <3

”Honey, if you don’t wake up right now you’ll miss your flight.”

I heard my mothers voice come quietly from downstairs, i checked the old alarm clock that I found in our attic, it makes a slight buzz noise whenever i pay attention to it, 8:01.

fuck, the flight’s leaving in 2 hours and i’ve done absolutely nothing,

I start to get up and notice how the rain outside is making a tiny puddle onto my floor, right under my slightly open window.

———————

We arrive at the airport just in time,

whoever decided that you should go to airports 3 hours ahead of time can go to hell.

”Beatrice, honey, please call me the second you land and- and when you find your host family at the airport, a- and also when you get to their house, just keep me on the line at all-”

My mother stammers on but I cut her off.

”Mom, it’ll be fine, I’ll text you when i find them, okay?”

I say to her, as i pull her into a hug trying hide the fact that my eyes have begun to tear up.

”I’ll miss you honey, just have fun. I had the most fun when i was an Au Pair in America, you’ll have a great time baby”

My mom says into my hair while hugging me tight, her cashmere blouse smelling of Chanel N.5 and my tears.

————————

”Ladies and gentlemen thank you for flying with us from London to Texas, we hope you had a great flight and we wish you a nice trip!”

The pilot announces as the plane wheels hit the ground, I can already feel the Texas heat through the windows and I instantly begin to regret wearing my thickest, sweatiest Levi’s and a huge hoodie from Brandy Melville.

I walk around near the exit area filled with people holding signs and ”Welcome home” banners, I look around until my eyes land on possibly one of the hottest men I’ve ever seen, he has to be atleast 40, he’s got salt and pepper hair and a stubble on his chin, his clothes look rustic and I’d bet a 100 bucks that he had just come from a ”Hottest cowboys ever” convention, my eyes land on the sign he’s holding ”Beatrice Anderson”

Oh my god, he’s here to pick me up,

my heartrate begins to rise and my legs feel more and more like jelly as I walk over to him.

”Hi!”

I say while smiling awkwardly.

”Are ya Beatrice?”

He asks in the most charming accent I’ve ever heard, I swear his voice couldn’t get any sweeter.

”Uhh.. yeah, who are you, I mean, I- not to be rude I just thought my host family would pick me up.”

God could I sound more like an idiot.

”Yeah, well they were real busy, I’m Joel, I help ’em around the farm sometimes”

He smiles, and I can almost feel my knees giving out.

We walk over to his truck, it’s red and looks like something you’d see on the side of the road just waiting for a scrap yard worker to pick it up, Im suddenly very aware of my heavy, sweaty clothes and decide to just take off my hoodie, who cares if I just have a white lacey top underneath, it’s like a 100 degrees.

”Just hand me your bags and you can go sit!”

Joel yells from the other side of the truck, where his keys were just hanging on from the drivers side door.

He walks over to me and I swear his eyes went up and down and lingered a bit too long on my top, but whatever, I might just be tired and delusional from being on the plane.

The car ride wasn’t too bad, we didn’t talk much, he just played some of his music, I actually knew one song, I used to listen to it every night back when I was sixteen,

”Sultans Of Swing”. At one point as he went on to change gears, his hand grazed the side of my thigh, i dont think he even noticed but my face was red the rest of the ride.

————————

The car stops in front of a beautiful white farmhouse, I look out the car window and see horses, a field, and a red, old looking barn. I see a woman and a man standing in front of the front door, but oddly, no children. We get out of the truck and Joel hands me my bags

”Jus’ head on up, the Smiths are a real nice couple”

He says to me through a slight smirk and his dark brown eyes stay fixed on mine.

”Uhh yeah, thanks for the ride.”

I say to him while taking my bags from him, our hands touch and he pulls away.

”I hope I’ll see ya around, Honeybee.”

He says in a low voice as he gets back in his truck, I didn’t even have time to process the new nickname when I saw my host family running down the driveway.

”Hey! Oh how was your flight, we’re so sorry that we couldn’t pick you up ourselves, hope Joel wasn’t too mean to you.”

The woman says, laughing after the last sentence.

”I’m Mary and this is my husband Luke!”

The husband, Luke, extends his hand out for me to shake.

”It’s nice to meet you, I’m Beatrice, the trip here was fine and Joel was really nice actually.”

I say through a smile.

They lead me up the beautiful mid ceuntry wooden stairs up to my bedroom, it was a simple bedroom with a white and blue floral wallpaper, a big wooden bed in the middle of the room, a wooden coffee table next to the bed, and a vintage looking dresser in the corner. The evening sun was shining nicely through the open window and the white curtains were flowing lightly as I set my bags down and tried to feel at home.

————————

I learned the next morning at breakfast, that I wasn’t here to be an Au Pair for their children, they lived alone, I was here to take care of their house and farm while they were at work.

”So we’re leaving soon, don’t worry, Joel will help you get started and if you have any questions he’ll be happy to help you”

Mr. Smith says to me.

Oh my god I’m seeing Joel again today,

I try to focus on eating breakfast, I look out the huge dining room window and there he is, wearing old jeans, a dirty white T-shirt and brown cowboy boots, he turns around and faces directly at the window, I turn my head away from the window and pray to god that he didn’t see me staring.

————————————————————————

If you want more parts please let me know because I love writing and wanna make more parts but if no one likes my writing i wontt

[eponastory]

Beads

There was silence all around Zuko as he sat alone by the turtle-duck pond. The sky was filled with rainclouds, but not a single drop had fallen just yet. Still, he could feel it brewing, gathering up in the sky just like in his old soul. The deep feeling of nostalgia that came and went with every breath always called up memories of times that he cherished.

Times with the only friends he had ever had and then the woman he loved more than life itself.

He was the last one now. Somehow, he outlived them all. It was not supposed to be this way, but as time kept ticking on, his body refused to give up on life. All he had was memories that were slowly fading in detail as the days, weeks, and months went on.

"Grandfather?" His silence was interrupted by his grandson, Iroh. He cracked his unblemished eye open and grunted at the halt in his thoughts. "It's about to rain. Mother said you need to go inside before it starts pouring down." Izumi was not one to fret over him in public, but behind closed doors, she was on him about his health.

"I'll be fine. I don't mind the rain." Zuko closed his eye and took in a deep breath before settling himself again. Rain made him think of her when she was much younger, alive, and full of fury. "It brings back memories."

"I don't think Mother sees it that way." He could hear Iroh crossing his arms. His grandson was so much like him in so many ways, yet there was a lot of his grandmother in him too. The way he sighed reminded Zuko of her so much. "I also think Uncle Koda said something about a game of Pi Sho later." His eldest son was only in the Fire Nation for a little while for some trade agreement or something like that.

"Tell, them both I will be in soon if they are that worried about me." Zuko told his grandson.

Then he was left in peace again with his memories.

It was Zuko's idea to have four children, but how she had gone along with that idea was beyond him. All four of their children were bothersome now, but he still loved them and made sure they had everything they needed even though he had little to give them now.

As soon as Izumi was old enough and able to take on the mantle of Fire Lord, Zuko was quick to relinquish it. After the formalities and Izumi's coronation, he took his wife on a very long trip across the world. Just the two of them traveling alone had brought back a new flame of love between them. Of course, at this point, Zuko's hair was only graying at his temples. Katara's on the other hand, had yet to show any change.

"Let me braid your hair." He felt her hand on his bare shoulder as he sat at the edge of their bed. They had been in the South Pole for a total of four days when she decided to buy some carved whalebone beads.

"Why?" He turned his head to look at her with his eyebrow raised. He knew that look on her face when he saw it. "You're up to something."

"Can I not braid my husband's hair for once?" She had already grabbed a lock of his graying hair behind his good ear with her other hand. "I just want to braid it."

"Fine." Zuko sighed out before she slapped his arm playfully earning his glare.

"You're so grumpy today. Is it because we have to go home in a few weeks?" Katara asked as she stood on her knees behind him and started on a small braid. "We could stay as long as we want."

"I'm fine with going home. We have grandchildren that require our attention." He thought about his young granddaughter, Saya, who was only four years old and her younger brother Kai. If there was anything Zuko loved more than his children, it was his grandchildren.

"Then why are you grumpy?" If Katara did not know him so well, he would say he was fine, but he knew better than to deny her. "You've been in a mood all morning."

"It's your brother." He felt a tug on the braid she was working on.

"What did Sokka do this time?" There was a huff from behind him as she pulled on the braid again, only a little harder this time. "Don't tell me he wants to take you hunting, we all know what happened last time."

"He wants to 'sword bend' again." There was a giggle from his wife as she slid her fingers up the newly made braid. "In front of everyone."

"I'll make sure to hide his boomerang this time, if it makes you feel better." He felt her thread the braid through something before tying it off and letting it hang on his shoulder. "There, all done."

He picked up the new braid to see what she had done to it and found she had threaded three whalebone beads onto it. One of them carved with a dragon like Druk that sat between two lotus beads. Zuko looked at her when she wrapped her arms around him from behind and rested her chin on his shoulder.

"Happy Birthday." She kissed him on his cheek. "I love you."

When he felt the first drop of rain on his cheek, he opened his eyes with his fingers wrapped around the beads still hanging in the braid she had woven together years ago.

How he missed her.