#breadth first search

[agatedragongames]

Learn how to explore a grid and find a goal point with breadth first search in this pathfinding tutorial. You will use Processing and Java to code the breadth first search pathfinding algorithm and create a graphical demo so you can see it in action.

In the last tutorial, we programmed depth first search and watched it explore a node graph. In this tutorial we will program breadth first search and watch it explore a grid.

The breadth first search algorithm will add every unexplored adjacent node to a queue, and explore all of the added nodes in sequence. For each node explored, it will continue to add the adjacent unexplored nodes to the queue. It will continue to do this until the goal is found or all connected nodes have been explored.

[livipup]

Artificial Intelligence at Humber College - Final Presentation

[staff]

Tumblr’s Core Product Strategy

Here at Tumblr, we’ve been working hard on reorganizing how we work in a bid to gain more users. A larger user base means a more sustainable company, and means we get to stick around and do this thing with you all a bit longer. What follows is the strategy we're using to accomplish the goal of user growth. The @labs group has published a bit already, but this is bigger. We’re publishing it publicly for the first time, in an effort to work more transparently with all of you in the Tumblr community. This strategy provides guidance amid limited resources, allowing our teams to focus on specific key areas to ensure Tumblr’s future.

The Diagnosis

In order for Tumblr to grow, we need to fix the core experience that makes Tumblr a useful place for users. The underlying problem is that Tumblr is not easy to use. Historically, we have expected users to curate their feeds and lean into curating their experience. But this expectation introduces friction to the user experience and only serves a small portion of our audience. 

Tumblr’s competitive advantage lies in its unique content and vibrant communities. As the forerunner of internet culture, Tumblr encompasses a wide range of interests, such as entertainment, art, gaming, fandom, fashion, and music. People come to Tumblr to immerse themselves in this culture, making it essential for us to ensure a seamless connection between people and content. 

To guarantee Tumblr’s continued success, we’ve got to prioritize fostering that seamless connection between people and content. This involves attracting and retaining new users and creators, nurturing their growth, and encouraging frequent engagement with the platform.

Our Guiding Principles

To enhance Tumblr’s usability, we must address these core guiding principles.

Expand the ways new users can discover and sign up for Tumblr.

Provide high-quality content with every app launch.

Facilitate easier user participation in conversations.

Retain and grow our creator base.

Create patterns that encourage users to keep returning to Tumblr.

Improve the platform’s performance, stability, and quality.

Below is a deep dive into each of these principles.

Principle 1: Expand the ways new users can discover and sign up for Tumblr.

Tumblr has a “top of the funnel” issue in converting non-users into engaged logged-in users. We also have not invested in industry standard SEO practices to ensure a robust top of the funnel. The referral traffic that we do get from external sources is dispersed across different pages with inconsistent user experiences, which results in a missed opportunity to convert these users into regular Tumblr users. For example, users from search engines often land on pages within the blog network and blog view—where there isn’t much of a reason to sign up. 

We need to experiment with logged-out tumblr.com to ensure we are capturing the highest potential conversion rate for visitors into sign-ups and log-ins. We might want to explore showing the potential future user the full breadth of content that Tumblr has to offer on our logged-out pages. We want people to be able to easily understand the potential behind Tumblr without having to navigate multiple tabs and pages to figure it out. Our current logged-out explore page does very little to help users understand “what is Tumblr.” which is a missed opportunity to get people excited about joining the site.

Actions & Next Steps

Improving Tumblr’s search engine optimization (SEO) practices to be in line with industry standards.

Experiment with logged out tumblr.com to achieve the highest conversion rate for sign-ups and log-ins, explore ways for visitors to “get” Tumblr and entice them to sign up.

Principle 2: Provide high-quality content with every app launch.

We need to ensure the highest quality user experience by presenting fresh and relevant content tailored to the user’s diverse interests during each session. If the user has a bad content experience, the fault lies with the product.

The default position should always be that the user does not know how to navigate the application. Additionally, we need to ensure that when people search for content related to their interests, it is easily accessible without any confusing limitations or unexpected roadblocks in their journey.

Being a 15-year-old brand is tough because the brand carries the baggage of a person’s preconceived impressions of Tumblr. On average, a user only sees 25 posts per session, so the first 25 posts have to convey the value of Tumblr: it is a vibrant community with lots of untapped potential. We never want to leave the user believing that Tumblr is a place that is stale and not relevant. 

Actions & Next Steps

Deliver great content each time the app is opened.

Make it easier for users to understand where the vibrant communities on Tumblr are. 

Improve our algorithmic ranking capabilities across all feeds. 

Principle 3: Facilitate easier user participation in conversations.

Part of Tumblr’s charm lies in its capacity to showcase the evolution of conversations and the clever remarks found within reblog chains and replies. Engaging in these discussions should be enjoyable and effortless.

Unfortunately, the current way that conversations work on Tumblr across replies and reblogs is confusing for new users. The limitations around engaging with individual reblogs, replies only applying to the original post, and the inability to easily follow threaded conversations make it difficult for users to join the conversation.

Actions & Next Steps

Address the confusion within replies and reblogs.

Improve the conversational posting features around replies and reblogs. 

Allow engagements on individual replies and reblogs.

Make it easier for users to follow the various conversation paths within a reblog thread. 

Remove clutter in the conversation by collapsing reblog threads. 

Explore the feasibility of removing duplicate reblogs within a user’s Following feed. 

Principle 4: Retain and grow our creator base.

Creators are essential to the Tumblr community. However, we haven’t always had a consistent and coordinated effort around retaining, nurturing, and growing our creator base.  

Being a new creator on Tumblr can be intimidating, with a high likelihood of leaving or disappointment upon sharing creations without receiving engagement or feedback. We need to ensure that we have the expected creator tools and foster the rewarding feedback loops that keep creators around and enable them to thrive.

The lack of feedback stems from the outdated decision to only show content from followed blogs on the main dashboard feed (“Following”), perpetuating a cycle where popular blogs continue to gain more visibility at the expense of helping new creators. To address this, we need to prioritize supporting and nurturing the growth of new creators on the platform.

It is also imperative that creators, like everyone on Tumblr, feel safe and in control of their experience. Whether it be an ask from the community or engagement on a post, being successful on Tumblr should never feel like a punishing experience.

Actions & Next Steps

Get creators’ new content in front of people who are interested in it. 

Improve the feedback loop for creators, incentivizing them to continue posting.

Build mechanisms to protect creators from being spammed by notifications when they go viral.

Expand ways to co-create content, such as by adding the capability to embed Tumblr links in posts.

Principle 5: Create patterns that encourage users to keep returning to Tumblr.

Push notifications and emails are essential tools to increase user engagement, improve user retention, and facilitate content discovery. Our strategy of reaching out to you, the user, should be well-coordinated across product, commercial, and marketing teams.

Our messaging strategy needs to be personalized and adapt to a user’s shifting interests. Our messages should keep users in the know on the latest activity in their community, as well as keeping Tumblr top of mind as the place to go for witty takes and remixes of the latest shows and real-life events.  

Most importantly, our messages should be thoughtful and should never come across as spammy.  

Actions & Next Steps

Conduct an audit of our messaging strategy.

Address the issue of notifications getting too noisy; throttle, collapse or mute notifications where necessary.  

Identify opportunities for personalization within our email messages. 

Test what the right daily push notification limit is. 

Send emails when a user has push notifications switched off.

Principle 6: Performance, stability and quality.

The stability and performance of our mobile apps have declined. There is a large backlog of production issues, with more bugs created than resolved over the last 300 days. If this continues, roughly one new unresolved production issue will be created every two days. Apps and backend systems that work well and don't crash are the foundation of a great Tumblr experience. Improving performance, stability, and quality will help us achieve sustainable operations for Tumblr.

Improve performance and stability: deliver crash-free, responsive, and fast-loading apps on Android, iOS, and web.

Improve quality: deliver the highest quality Tumblr experience to our users. 

Move faster: provide APIs and services to unblock core product initiatives and launch new features coming out of Labs.

Conclusion

Our mission has always been to empower the world’s creators. We are wholly committed to ensuring Tumblr evolves in a way that supports our current users while improving areas that attract new creators, artists, and users. You deserve a digital home that works for you. You deserve the best tools and features to connect with your communities on a platform that prioritizes the easy discoverability of high-quality content. This is an invigorating time for Tumblr, and we couldn’t be more excited about our current strategy.

[1nvalidsyntax]

Why is everyone talking about these "graph theories". When are we going to start talking about graph facts

[autism-corner]

guy is too smart for his own good.

[dngrs-untld-hrshps-unnmbrd]

Mating Season

Halsin x Female Reader | sexual frustration | sexual tension | growly bear halsin | totally adoring halsin | horny bear mating instincts | semi-shifted sex | fluff | smut | nsfw

How Halsin’s romance might have played out if we could have had his kisses, adoration, and been totally railed senseless by Oak Daddy from the end of Act I. An ode to Halsin’s hairy chest, big arms, and the vein that I know stands out so thickly on his *muffled horny noises*

After a long and tiring day of fighting off goblins as you search for the Githyanki Crèche, you groan in relief as you sink into the cool waters of the river. Everyone else is back at camp and you’re able to enjoy the currents swirling around your naked body. 

You float in the water, thinking about how much your party has grown in the past few weeks. First Shadowheart, Gale, and Astarion, then Lae’zel, Wyll, and Karlach, and finally Halsin, the wildshape druid you rescued from the goblins. He’s a focused member of the group, a valuable healer, and an unstoppable force in battle. You occasionally feel things turning against you in a fight, and then Halsin is there, supporting the group and laying down swathes of flame, lightning and ice. His bear shape never fails to strike fear into the hearts of your enemies. 

Around the fire at night, he talks openly about his quest to free the Shadow-Cursed lands, his admiration for the party, and his praise for your leadership. His gentle words about you have your body prickling with awareness of his. 

That warm smile of his. His large and clever hands. His deep, gentle voice. Everything about this man makes you tingle all the way down to your toes. Whenever you think his gaze is lingering on your mouth, he murmurs goodnight to you and leaves your side. You watch him go, wishing that instead he would reach out and touch you.

An angry, snarling sound fills the air and you sit up in the water. Not far from you, an enormous bear, grunting and breathing hard, walks heavily down the riverbank. It’s huge, and its muscular body blocking out the setting sun, and from the noises it's making and its attitude, it’s a hair's-breadth from lashing out at anything that moves. 

You freeze, not daring even to breathe, hoping with everything you have that the animal will turn around and head back the other way. Instead, it launches itself into the water with an almighty splash. 

As it disappears beneath the surface, you notice a faint scar over the bear’s right eye, as if it’s been clawed. You recognize that scar. 

Wait, is this--

Golden light flashes. The water seethes. A man stands up where there was a bear just moments ago, water cascading from his body. Halsin, and he must have stripped before he changed into wildshape for now he’s completely naked, standing hip-deep in the water. 

He’s partly turned away from you but you can tell his manner is no less worked up than it was in bear form. He swipes his hands angrily through his dripping hair and breathes hard, the muscles of his shoulders and arms clenched in frustration. 

Halsin is one of the gentlest-natured men you’ve ever met, most of the time. Like nature, he too can be wild, his eyes flashing and his voice breaking like thunder over you when he’s frustrated or disappointed, such as when he was remonstrating Kagha for the Rite of Thorns. How magnificent he was that day. 

But what is he restless for now? He stands in the water, looking around at the forest, gripped with frustration, and when he turns a little more your way you can see that the root of his cock is thickened in a tell-tale manner. 

Ah. 

That kind of frustration. 

You quietly make your way to the edge of the river where a willow tree is trailing in the water, moving as carefully and as quietly as you can. This feels like a private moment you’re intruding on. Even though you don’t mean to spy, it feels like you are. The fronds of the willow provide a little cover for you, and hopefully Halsin will cool off and leave the way he came. 

The dice do not roll your way this evening as he approaches you, seeking deeper water. A moment later, your gazes lock, and his eyes widen in surprise.

‘What are you doing there?’

‘I wasn’t spying on you,’ you tell him quickly. ‘I thought you needed some peace, so I was waiting here quietly.’

His eyes run over you, your back pressed against the river bank and cowering amid the willow leaves. 

Halsin heaves a regretful sigh. ‘I frightened you, didn’t I? I am sorry. It’s all right, I am myself again.’ 

He smiles and holds out his hand. It’s a tight smile, like he’s forcing it for you, but you’re no longer worried a bear is about to disembowel you.  

You place your cool fingers into his large, hot ones and let him draw you slowly out of your hiding place. The water is deep enough here that your nakedness is covered, and so is his.

You relax as you gaze up at him, enjoying the sensation of Halsin holding your hand. Quietly enjoying the sight of his bare chest and handsome face. You hope he might walk you into the shallows so you can be naked together, but he remains in deep water, sunk in thought.

‘The river is yours. I’ll leave you to enjoy it,’ you murmur, and glance to where you left your clothes. 

Halsin’s fingers are still tightly twined through yours beneath the water. He seems to be in a world of his own as he gazes at your mouth, your throat, the droplets of water sliding through your wet hair and down your shoulders. A world that includes you. A world where you’re touching one another. 

‘Halsin?’ you ask tentatively. Hopefully. If he wants to move closer and kiss you, that’s more than okay with you. After a long and dusty day, there’s nothing you’d like more than exploring his body in the cool water. That hairy chest of his. His hard muscles. You long to run your tongue over him. Flex your fingers on his biceps. Trace the red tattoo on his cheek.

Halsin comes back into himself with a deep inhale, and he lets go of your hand. ‘Then I’ll see you back at camp.’ He moves away from you through the currents. 

As you push the water from your body and dress in your clothes, you search for Halsin in the river, but he’s disappeared around a bend. 

***

Later around the campfire, you’re hyper aware of Halsin as you talk with Gale about his home in Baldur’s Gate. Halsin is silent, the campfire flickering over his handsome face. You try not to pay him any more attention than you do the others, but your interest in him has spilled over into blazing attraction.

Your gazes lock and Halsin’s brows are drawn tightly together. 

Is he glaring at you? 

A moment later he gets to his feet and, unnoticed by the others, slips away into the darkness. Something’s eating at that man and you wish you knew what.

A short time later, you take a bottle down to the river to refill it with water before turning and heading for your bed. As you round the corner of the ruin where you’ve made your camp, you run straight into Halsin. 

His eyes widen and they flare with heat and surprise, and then he quickly looks away and moves past you.

‘Have I done something to make you angry with me?’ you call after him. 

Halsin stops dead. He stares straight ahead for a moment, and then slowly turns to you, shaking his head. ‘Far from it. I am worked up and frustrated, but not with anger.’

Maybe his frustrations are because of you, and that’s a thought you don’t know what to do with when he keeps avoiding you. 

Not knowing what else to say, you tell him, ‘We will free the Shadow-Cursed lands soon. I know we will.’

He breathes out heavily, his expression troubled. ‘I’m not thinking of the Shadow-Curse right now, even though I should be. It is more important than anything I...’ He trails off, but his gaze lingers on your mouth. ‘...want.’

Halsin steps closer, and you feel the heat blazing off his chest. His warmth and bulk are so welcoming and you crave to reach out and touch him. The backs of his fingers caress your hair. The lightest of touches. Then he takes a handful of your hair and dips his head, bringing the strands to his nose. 

‘You smell wonderful.’ He heaves a deep sigh, and whispers, ‘Can I hold you for a moment?’

That sounds lovely to you, and you nod. 

Halsin wraps an arm around your waist, scoops you against him, and buries his face in your neck. ‘By Silvanus, your scent is sweet,’ he groans. ‘I caught it when we first met, in that foul goblin nest. How it pleased me. Getting to know you these past few weeks has been even sweeter.’

Your hands are plastered against his chest and so is your body. He’s saying everything you hoped to hear. More than you hoped to hear. He has such a beautiful way with words. You turn your head so he can kiss you, but he still refrains. 

Taking a ragged breath, he releases you and steps back. ‘I’m sorry. It’s always difficult this time of year.’

You miss his warmth so much that you shiver. ‘What time of year?’

He gazes at you for a long time. ‘You may laugh, but I’ll tell you. It’s bear mating season.’

You don’t laugh, but your eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

‘I know--I’m no bear,’ Halsin says with a laugh of his own, ‘but I spend so much time in wildshape that bear instincts tug on my heart and...other parts of me. I return to my own form and unfortunately the needs do not dissipate. In fact, they worsen, because it is not a bear I want. When she comes close to me smelling like spring and honey and warm sunshine I can’t help but crave her.’ A smile glimmers on his lips.

Enough being vague. You want to hear him say it. You step closer and put a hand against his chest. ‘A general someone, or anyone in particular?’

He groans softly and captures your face in his hands. He drinks you in and swipes his thumb across your lips. The gesture is soft, and full of the promise of his kiss.

‘You are someone I admire and I think I could grow to care deeply about,’ he murmurs. ‘I care about you so much already. Any little scratch you receive I want to push Shadowheart out of the way and tend to you myself.’

Your heart soars.

‘But this isn’t how or when I wanted to begin anything with you. I have to walk away.’

Disappointment plummets through you. 

He’s still holding your face and his expression is conflicted. It seems he wants to put an end to this for now but can’t bring himself to do it. 

‘I can walk away, if that helps?’

His eyes fill with gratitude and longing. ‘Please. That would be a mercy. Know that when the time comes, I will come to you with more than lust in my heart.’

You nod, trailing your fingers down his chest as you step back, but you fail to see what’s wrong with him desiring you. ‘Whatever you need. Of course.’

‘I hope I haven’t offended you.’

You smile gently at him. ‘Your desire is so far from offensive. Please know that I don’t demand more of your attention than you’re willing to give. The Shadow Cursed lands are your priority and I’m...’ How to put this delicately? I’m here for you and you can rail me senseless in between your duties whenever you want to let off steam. That’s what you want to say, but you’re too shy to say it. ‘...Here. Your friend. Always.’

Halsin seems to catch your meaning anyway as his jaw flexes and he nods slowly. 

You promised him you would walk away, and you do, and though you give him ample time to allow him to pull you back, the next sound you hear is a clash and a growl, and a flare of golden light. When you glance over your shoulder, a bear is thundering into the woods on all fours. 

***

A few days later, you’re returning to camp feeling like you’ve been put through a meat grinder, and your companions haven’t fared much better. Gale is unusually silent and covered in blood. Shadowheart is exhausted and dragging her feet. You’re trying not to limp because she and Halsin have already cast so much healing magic. Something’s wrong with your leg, but you’ll see to it yourself when you’re alone. 

The others bid you tired farewells as they head for their tents, but someone catches your arm and holds you back.

‘Oak Father, you’re bleeding. Why didn’t you say anything?’ 

Halsin is staring at your legs, and you stare with him. Blood is pooling around your foot. Oh, that’s not good. 

‘I can tend to it myself after I’ve had some rest--’

Your words are cut off as the massive druid picks you up in his arms and carries you into a crumbling barn. Automatically, you wrap your arms around his neck and lean against the solid bulk of his chest. Halsin lays you down on a pallet and helps you remove your armour, revealing a ragged gash on the top of your thigh. Your clothes have to be cut away until your legs are bare.

Halsin looks exhausted and has dark circles under his eyes. It seems he’s been taking little rest as he roams the forests nightly as a bear. When he reaches for you to lay healing hands on your wound, you place a hand on his wrist.

‘You don’t have to do this right now. I’ll bandage myself up and someone can heal me after they’ve rested.’

Halsin raises challenging eyebrows at you. ‘You believe I don’t have the strength to heal you myself? That I’ll walk away from the most important person in my life and leave her bleeding?’

You moisten your lips, trying not to show how much his words have affected you. The most important person in his life? Suddenly you don’t feel injured at all, and he hasn’t even healed you yet.

‘I have more than enough magic left for this. Now, lay back and let me do my work, and then you can get back to yours.’

You settle back on the pallet and gaze at the cobwebby rafters. Halsin’s hands hover over your thigh, and a warm, delicious feeling spreads through your leg, and then up between your thighs. Your head falls back in relief and pleasure. 

Even Halsin makes a surprised noise. ‘That felt...’ He rubs your now-healed high, massaging the last of the tension and pain from your muscles. ‘That felt different. How’s your thigh now?’ 

You can’t help but moan and arch your back a little at his touch. ‘Good.’ Your voice comes out in a breathy whisper.

‘Just good?’ He strokes his palm over where there was a cut just moments ago. 

‘Halsin, please, you make me feel heavenly,’ you whimper. The words pass your lips without thinking. You reach up to take hold of his shoulders so you can pull him down to kiss you, but pull back before you can touch him. 

This isn’t what he wants. Your hands clench on the pallet, feeling your core ache with need. As soon as he leaves, you can get yourself off thinking about him. 

‘Would you like me to go?’ he asks softly. 

‘I never want you to go.’

His hand rests lightly on your leg. 

You open your eyes and gaze up at him, and he’s sitting so close to you. ‘But if you stay, you’re going to see me touching myself.’ Then you smile at him, remembering your last conversation. ‘I would love for you to see that. As a friend.’

You want him to see you. You want him to participate.

He smiles and leans down to you, and runs the blade of his nose up your cheek. ‘I can’t think of anything more wonderful after a long, hard day, my dear friend.’

Halsin lays down beside you and props his head against his fist. With gentle fingers, he helps you to drag your underwear down your legs and cast them aside. As your teeth sink into your lower lip, you gently touch yourself, your eyes on his handsome face. Halsin strokes your thighs, your stomach, finds the fastenings on your clothes and loosens them. As he pulls back your bodice, revealing your breasts, he lowers his head to take one of your nipples in his mouth. 

You cry out and flex up into him. Heat is gathering within you. You suck on your lower lip and release it. ‘Please--your fingers--I need--’ you manage between pants. You can barely get the words out, but he understands. Halsin drags two fingers through your sex, making them slippery, and then sinks them inside you. 

Another loud cry from you. Gods, he feels perfect.

Halsin groans and kisses your throat, murmuring, ‘You’re so tight around me. Have you been as frustrated as I am?’ He pumps his thick fingers in and out of you, slowly at first, and then faster.

Yes you have, the godsdamned stubborn bear of man. He should have pulled you into his arms that day in the river and let you suck all the frustration from his body out through his cock. 

‘So frustrated,’ you whimper. ‘Please, that feels so good. Don’t stop, please don’t stop.’ 

He brushes his lips over yours. ‘I won’t stop. You’re always so beautiful, but like this, all of nature pales in comparison.’

You reach down and lay your hand over his wrist, adoring the tension and flex of his muscles in his arm as he moves inside you. Your fingers keep moving on your clit as you moan and cry out his name, and when you come you dig your nails into his flesh, and press your feet into the ground so he can fuck you even harder with his fingers.

When you fall back exhausted, Halsin sits up and spreads your thighs open, trailing his fingers over your sex and drinking in the sight of you as you catch your breath. ‘Your body is wondrous.’ He leans over and kisses you, his tongue caressing yours. ‘Will you rest well tonight?’ 

You nod, feeling drunk from his kiss and your climax. 

He smiles. ‘Then I’ll rest well too, knowing that you’re sleeping soundly. Thank you for sharing this beautiful moment with me.’

As he sits up, you notice that he’s hard inside his tight pants. Excessively hard. Huge in fact. He shouldn’t be leaving, he should be pulling off his clothes and pounding the living daylights out of you until he also gets the release he needs. 

But he’s gone before you can call him back to you. That’s not why he just blew your mind, was it? He healed you, and now he wants you to get some rest. Druid’s orders, apparently. 

You smile and roll over, and fall into a doze. 

***

The next morning, before anyone has arisen, Halsin finds you coming back from the river. You smile at him, thinking he looks so handsome in the morning light, and you expect him to keep moving past you. Instead, he stops and smiles at you, as if basking in the sight of you is all he wants right now. 

‘May I have a kiss?’ you ask hopefully. Perhaps he’s decided not to want anything for himself right now, but he still wants to make you happy. 

Without needing to be asked twice, Halsin grasps you around the waist with his large hands and walks you back against the wall, kissing you enthusiastically. ‘I can still smell you on my fingers this morning. I could smell you all night. You are a delight.’

Your lips part for his so he can kiss you even deeper. With your arms around his neck, you revel in the sensation of his mouth on yours. 

‘I find you irresistible.’ Another kiss. ‘But we have much to do today.’ Another kiss. 

‘We do,’ you say, smiling as he kisses you again. 

He gazes down at you for a moment, a slight frown between his brows. ‘If you need more, know that I won’t be offended if you take another lover. Nature intends for us to roam and be free.’

You have considered that, if not someone at camp, then a handsome stranger at a tavern, but you’d only be thinking about Halsin the whole time. ‘And if I don’t want to?’

‘You must do as pleases you,’ he replies, and kisses you again.

You guess that he didn’t tell you this for idle reasons, but to let you know about his own preferences. You reach up and stroke your fingers through his russet hair. ‘I have always wanted my own person, but to roam with them. Share everything with them. I would miss you too much if I was to roam without you.’

He smiles down at you. ‘Us, with others? I would like that, in time. You’re more than enough for me, but I wouldn’t wish for you to be denied anything. Seeing you with another lover, and participating as well...it sounds wonderful.’ Then he steps away from you. ‘But we are getting ahead of ourselves. My thoughts turn to other things for now. But they will turn back to you.’

With a final warm squeeze of your hand, he leaves you, but your heart is lighter than it’s been in a long time. 

***

Two nights later, you’re awoken by snarling and roaring in the distance, and you sit bolt upright. It sounds like two large animals are fighting in the woods. 

Only Astarion is awake. ‘What a ridiculous racket,’ he mutters with a scowl, before licking his thumb and turning the page of the book he’s reading. 

You look over at Halsin’s pallet, knowing it’s going to be empty before you lay eyes on it, but your stomach drops just the same when you see that it is. You scramble to your feet and set off at a run into the darkness. 

You follow the roaring and snarling and it doesn’t take long to find two bears fighting with teeth bared and swipes of their claws. You recognise Halsin from the scars over his eye.

What can you do to help him? A spell? A cantrip?  

Before you can decide, Halsin swipes the other bear so hard across the snout that it reels back, and then turns and runs away into the woods. 

Halsin paces up and down for a moment, and then golden light ripples, nearly blinding you, and when you open your eyes again, he’s striding toward you. His chest is heaving and blood is pouring from scratches and bites across his shoulders and throat. Nothing life threatening, but he’d be in pain if he wasn’t so angry.

‘That bear was looking for a mate, and I wasn’t having it prowling around her when I haven’t even tasted her myself.’

Halsin when he’s feeling himself wouldn’t say something so uncharacteristically possessive. It must be the mating season instincts overriding his natural feelings. ‘That bear wouldn’t have been interested in me.’ Also, you could have tasted me by now if you’d wanted to.

He doesn’t seem to have heard you as he glares into the darkness. Suddenly, he rounds on you. ‘It’s dangerous out here. You shouldn’t have come. Go back to bed.’

You fold your arms and stay where you are. The big alpha bear can throw his weight around, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to jump to obey his commands. ‘Shouldn’t have come? Would you have ignored me if I was being attacked in the woods?’

Halsin takes a deep breath and some of the anger melts from his face. He pushes his hands through his hair and shakes his head. ‘Of course not, I would never abandon you like that. Thank you for coming out here to help me. I promise I’m not ungrateful. I’m all out of sorts because...’ He gestures vaguely at himself and the woods around you both. 

You smile at him. ‘I know. It’s mating season.’

You help him pick dirt and gravel out of his cuts before he casts healing magic on himself, but you’re not ready to leave him and go to bed. The river is close by and you take his hand and lead him to the water. 

‘Let’s wash the blood and dirt off you.’

At the riverbank, hesitantly you reach for his clothes. He says nothing but he’s watching you with such intensity, and so you find the fastenings and help him out of them. With gentle fingers, he does the same for you. The night air is warm and still. Crickets are chirping and the river makes gentle rushing noises. The two of you are standing so close that you’re breathing each other’s breaths. His massive chest lifts and falls. Your nipples tighten with awareness of him. You don’t want to stare but you can’t help but look at this beautiful man as you undress him. 

Halsin helps you out of your underwear, and his cock bumps against your thigh. He’s so hard that he’s standing to attention, his foreskin drawn back, a drop of pre-cum at the tip. Your mouth waters, and you want to run your tongue along the thick vein that stands out on his shaft.

‘Sorry. Ignore me,’ he mutters. 

You don’t want to ignore the most beautiful cock you’ve ever seen, but you keep your hands to yourself and look up at him. ‘I want to feel flattered. Should I feel flattered?’

‘You know I think you’re wonderful,’ he breathes, caressing your face. 

Oh, by all the gods, then fuck me, please. 

‘Would you want me even if it wasn’t mating season?’

‘Of course I would, though I’d probably be better at keeping that to myself. You wouldn’t awaken to hear me fighting other bears in the woods, or see me staring at you with longing across the campfire. I’d still feel the same way, but I wouldn’t be so obvious about it. Probably.’

‘Do you mind that mating season makes you feel and act this way?’

He smiles and shakes his head. ‘It is who I am, and another connection I have to nature.’

‘Halsin. For a wildshape druid who believes in going with what’s natural, you’re very stubborn about resisting what your body is telling you it wants.’

A smile curves his lips. ‘You may be right. I’ve told myself that focusing on the Shadow Curse is the right and only thing to do, but...’

Halsin ducks his head and slants his mouth over yours. The kiss is so fierce and sudden, and pleasure takes a swan dive through your body. He wraps his arms around you and gathers you to him.

‘This isn’t how I imagined things between us,’ he murmurs. ‘I intended to come to you after the curse is lifted and declare my feelings for you, and tell you that my unburdened heart is yours.’ 

‘Please still do that,’ you breathe, planting soft kisses again and again on his mouth. ‘I would love that. But don’t walk away from me now.’ 

‘You want me, even though my mind is often on things other than you?’

What a romantic Halsin is, wanting to give you his whole heart at once, or nothing at all. ‘Of course I do,’ you tell him, your fingers stroking his bare back. You don’t need that declaration yet. You just need him. 

Halsin lifts you in his arms and carries you into the water, gazing into your eyes. The water flows around your bodies as he kisses you and places you on your feet.

He nods at something over your shoulder. ‘I have to taste you. Turn around and put your hands on that rock.’

You do as he asks, standing thighs-deep in the water and bent over with your hands braced against the river bank. Halsin kneels down in the water and cups your ass. 

‘So beautiful...’ You feel his tongue run up your sex, and you moan and close your eyes. He’s slow and languorous about it. Not trying to make you come, just tasting you thoroughly and enjoying the sensation of you against his tongue. 

Halsin stands up and when you glance over your shoulder you see him gazing at your sex as he strokes you with his fingers and fists his cock slowly up and down. 

‘Can I have you, sweet one?’ he asks huskily. 

‘Please, gods, yes .’ You’ll go crazy if he holds back a moment longer.

You feel him step closer, and the blunt head of his cock slides against your slippery entrance. He feels alarmingly thick and you take a deep breath and try to relax. 

With a muttered oath, he sinks into you. As much of him as he can, anyway. Gods, he’s a lot . You walk your feet apart, trying to accommodate more of him. 

‘Too much?’ he asks, hesitating. 

You shake your head desperately. ‘Not too much. More, please.’

He fucks you slowly, working himself deeper by delicious increments, while your cries fill the night air along with his ragged breathing. His blunt nails scratch your flesh. He roughly squeezes handfuls of your ass. 

You reach down between your legs and touch yourself, and you grow wetter and wetter, allowing him to fuck you in long, smooth strokes. Every single one makes your insides light up. Your orgasm is barrelling down on you surprisingly fast. 

‘Please, fuck me hard, I’m going to come,’ you beg him. 

Halsin groans and takes your hips in a secure grip and slams into you, over and over, hard, brutal and heavenly thrusts. You push against the rock to hold you steady as a wild, untamable sensation crashes over you, and you cry out loud enough for the whole forest to hear you. 

Your head is hanging low and you’re panting as you feel Halsin draw out of you.

‘But you haven’t come,’ you protest, straightening up and turning around. It’s what you want, to see and feel this beautiful man let go. 

He takes your hand and helps you out of the river. ‘I’m not done with you yet.’

He lays back on the grass and pulls you astride him so your thighs are straddling him. ‘I want to see you like this as well.’

Hungry for more, you grasp his cock and sink down his length. Halsin groans and his head tips back, and he squeezes both your breasts in his large hands. His throat is so beautiful, and so is his chest. You draw patterns in his chest hair as you move up and down his length. 

Weeks of frustration and wanting him haven’t been fulfilled by one climax, and soon you feel another one gathering within you. He watches you with a smile as you desperately moan and pant his name. As your cries reach a crescendo, Halsin plants his feet securely against the ground and pushes sharply up into you, over and over, making you shatter around him even harder than before.

You collapse forward on his chest, weakened and helpless, his cock still lodged deep inside you. 

‘That was wonderful,’ you moan, your cheek plastered against his chest. ‘Give me a moment and we can change positions. I’m not stopping until you come.’

He rubs circles on your back. ‘I think I might shift into wildshape if we keep going. I can feel the need getting stronger and stronger.’ 

‘I don’t mind. Your bear form is pretty sexy.’

He laughs softly, a surprised sound. ‘Really? I’m pleased you think so.’

Even sexier is the way he looks while he’s changing, his body even bulkier and hair sprouting everywhere. ‘Can you change part ways?’

His hand stops moving on your back as he considers this. ‘I can. I think it might be easier for me to maintain that, rather than one or the other.’

Halsin rolls you both over until you’re on your back in the grass and pinned beneath him. With a heavy hand on your inner thigh, he pushes your knees up to your chest and thrusts deeper, and then again. 

‘By Silvanus, you feel wonderful,’ he pants.

A ripple goes through his body. His eyes turn fiercely golden. The hair thickens across his chest and spreads over his shoulders and down his arms. His top lip pulls back from his teeth, revealing thick incisors. His cock swells to what feels like twice its size inside you. You gaze at him in wonder. He looks incredible like this. 

As he continues to pump his cock into you, you press your hands against his muscular, hairy stomach, struggling to accommodate all of him. 

‘I’m hurting you,’ he realises, his voice more growl than words. ‘I can change back.’

‘No, don’t stop. Just slow down for a moment. It’s a good problem to have.’ You reach down to the place where you’re joined and wrap your fingers around his slippery thickness. Gods, that’s wonderful. So is his bulk looming over you and the rich, animal scent of his body. He thrusts carefully, watching you closely, his golden gaze roaming over you. 

‘So beautiful, sweet one,’ he rumbles. ‘Are you sure you like me like this?’

‘Yes, oh gods, yes.’

With every thrust, it’s getting easier for him to slide his whole length deep inside you, and pleasure stabs through you every time he bottoms out. 

You reach up and cup his furred cheek. ‘I didn’t think it was possible, but you’re even sexier like this. How does it feel for you?’

He groans and seems to take courage from your words. ‘Like I’m finally free. No longer fighting what I crave.’ The speed of his thrusts pick up, and he devours you hungrily. ‘You’re so good to me.’  

His breathing becomes a throaty snarl. His claws dig lovingly into your thigh. His hips move in a relentless rhythm, long thrusts, and then shorter, urgent ones, and you can tell he’s nearing his peak. You hold onto his shoulders for dear life as his body stiffens and his climax breaks through him, and he throws his head back.

With a groan, he sinks down onto his elbow and buries his face in your throat. As you hold him tight, you feel him shift back to his human form, his skin smooth and damp with perspiration. 

Halsin lifts his head and kisses you. ‘I’ve never done anything like that before. Was it all right? I didn’t hurt you, did I?’

You hasten to assure him that he didn’t and it was everything you wanted.

He smiles. ‘How wonderful you are.’

You stroke his sweaty hair back. Neither have I. You’re so beautiful always, and especially seeing you like that, through wildshape eyes.’

He rolls onto his side in the grass and wraps both his arms around you, keeping you tight against his chest. ‘I shouldn’t have been so stubborn. The world feels so much better now I have you in my arms.’

‘How long does mating season last?’ you ask. You hope it’s a long time, and he needs you often. 

He laughs, a deep sound reverberating through his chest. ‘It’s every moment I lay eyes on you, sweet one.’

‘I hope that I haven’t distracted you from your duties.’

He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. ‘I’m more motivated than ever.’

You lay like that together in the grass until Halsin feels your cooling body shiver. 

He helps you to your feet and draws you into his arms for one last, tender kiss. Cradling your face in his hands, he murmurs, ‘You are the person I admire most in the world. I feel honoured by every moment I spend by your side.’ He kisses you again. ‘Know that I can’t wait until I’m able to tell you that my whole heart is yours.’

Thank you so much for reading. Please leave me a comment and let me know what you think! Or tell me how the Halsin brainrot is affecting you while playing BG3. I have just about no braincells left by now. Only Daddy Bear remains. 

[trek-tracks]

People tagging my Star Trek: TOS seasons 1-3 posts with "Bones didn't sign up for any of this shit": Technically incorrect. Bones may have been unaware of the true depth and breadth of the shit but he definitely officially signed up for some of it through Starfleet service contract.

People tagging my Star Trek: The Motion Picture through the first two thirds of The Search For Spock posts with "Bones didn't sign up for any of this shit": Technically correct! Bones was drafted via a little-known service reactivation clause, intimating that he had no idea of this possibility when he signed up way back when and probably considered being forcibly beamed back onto the Enterprise after several years in retirement to be kidnapping rather than actively signing up for this shit. Even though due diligence is the responsibility of the signer, it could be argued that that this was an unforeseeable consequence. Whether it could be argued that it was a foreseeable consequence if Bones had ever met Jim Kirk is another story.

People tagging my end of The Search for Spock through The Undiscovered Country posts with "Bones didn't sign up for any of this shit": At the end of The Search For Spock, Bones says "I choose the danger" in an official capacity in front of several witnesses. Now, whether he is coerced, in his right mind (as well as someone else's) or whether this statement is considered legally binding in Federation court--

[zabchan]

Big Moana 2 Spoilers ahead. Beyond the cut is the Samoan to english translation of maui's 2nd song for moana. (And the context it appears in)

ladies and gents of the moana fandom, thanks to the effort of samoan speaker @yuki685 on youtube, and my buddy @rykierykerman for hooking me up with the text and screenshots

what i'd like to discuss with yall today is not only sharing the translation for this song, but some of the character implication this has for maui, especially when you look at how his OG legends depict him.

LYRICS:

(Maui singing in Samoan):

Aue, aue, le faigata / Aue, aue, how difficult it is

Ua pa'ū fa'anoanoa / Falling into sadness

Aue, aue, fa'ataga ola / Aue, aue, please allow this life to continue

Lenā La'u talosaga / This is my prayer

---

(E manu malo) / May there be blessings

(Opataia Foa'i and Te Vaka singing in Tokelauan)

Tele tele mana e o te vavau (Vavau) / Great, great power of mana

Tau ke tu ke Manumalo / Fight, stand tall and be victorious

Ke Manumalo / Be victorious

---

(Grandma Tala)

Aue, aue, mana e o te vavau / Aue, aue, the power of mana

Tau ke tu ke Manumalo / Fight, stand tall and be victorious

Ke Manumalo / Be victorious

Ke Manumalo / Be victorious

Ke Manumalo / Be victorious

_____

The piece that made me flip my shit when I read it was the confirmation that this song is a PRAYER

when I first heard this song before the movie I assumed it was a funeral rite. a dirge, followed by a choral revival. during the film, when maui and then the ancestors sang it over moana's lifeless body and I had no subtitles to go on, I thought perhaps it was a spell, or maybe a lullaby from Maui's far distant past, then taken up by the ancestors as a comfort to the grieving Maui- then back to the spell theory as Moana awoke to the powerful music and emotion channeled by tala and her crew.

even my first google translate search of the lyrics missed the word prayer, which goes to show that AI translation is no match for native human insight.

Maui's song being a prayer is a friggin big deal.

Maui's stories span the width & breadth of the pacific islands, and each culture arising from those island tells variations on that legend. some emphasize his rebellious side, others his inventiveness, still others his drive, his humor, his ingenuity, his pride. But a common theme in most is that this man, this demigod- he does NOT get along with the majority of his ancestors or the gods. Even when he's not outright malevolent to them, he's tricking them or undermining their effort. He's usually stubbornly self-sufficient, if he gets help from someone divine, its usually because he tricked them into doing it. Maui does not beg, he does not plead. (at least, not with any lasting sincerity). he's a charmer, a schemer.

But here he is, his tattoos stripped away, his hook gone, his beloved Moana growing colder and colder- he's out of tricks. he's out of time, out of power. he's as helpless as the day he was thrown into the ocean to save her. rock bottom, figuratively and literally.

he does the absolute last thing he can, born of pure desperation. pure grief, pure need. He prays.

he prays not expecting an answer. he prays, knowing that the gods and all his family would relish the chance to tell him to fuck all the way off. he prays, even if to no one but moana's lifeless body.

i often joke that maui is bad at feelings. but really what i mean is that maui is bad at regulating his feelings. he represses them as hard as he can, denies them, wraps them in humor and when that fails he straight up tries to out run them. its a maladaptive coping skill he's had to pick up over his immortal 3000 year lifespan because otherwise, he'd be wallowing in endless grief as friend after friend either dies or lives long enough to become his antagonist. boy has some serious trauma built up and no good examples of how to handle it in a healthy way.

until moana.

moana provided an example of how to be vulnerable without being weak. a safe space where he could share his heart and be met with understanding and validation. we see him mature, even fractionally, and in the sequel he's not nearly so closed off. he worries openly about moana, admits his concerns about the mission, even returns moana's favor from the first film and gives her a sincere, supportive pep talk.

but all his progress in processing his emotions seems to backfire in this moment. the first time he'd opened his heart to a fragile mortal friend and here he is, exactly as he feared, devastated at her passing. He had invested real time and care and attachment into this human and he's utterly shattered that its all coming to an end so fast. that he'll never experience her voice or her smile or her wit ever again.

she's precious to him. he cant bear to lose her. his sadness in more crushing than the ocean he's surrounded by, denser than the rock he kneels upon. even if he got his powers back, even if he pulled up a million islands, if Moana isn't there to land on them...there's no point.

less than 10 minutes ago he was ready to die for her.

3 minutes ago in movie time, maui faced his own mortality. powers stripped bare, down to his last ounce of strength, frying in impossible lightning heat, he kept struggling. the first look he gives moana is fear, raw and unfamiliar on that handsome face. but in this penultimate moment, his eyes meet moana's. his grimace gentles, eyebrows lift, gaze softens into a regretful, heart melting smile. he finds small comfort in seeing moana for one last time, seeing her unhurt, hearing her call his name. the rope slips from his grip, and somewhere in the milliseconds between lightning flashes, he relaxes, relief skitters across his features. perhaps he thinks "ahh, at least she's ok." "at least she'll outlive me". perhaps he has a moment of acceptance for his fate, knowing she's proud of him, knowing he did his very best. maybe he thinks ,"this way ill be sure to meet her again, in the afterlife. its for the best."

or maybe, just maybe, he thinks

"see you out there, moana."

but now, 3 minutes later, its once again the worst case scenario. any relief he had in that last smile at her is obliterated in the wake of his grief. its once again the worst case scenario. he's not thinking now of the curse being broken or his hook or his tattoos. a world that she's not in, whether he be human or demigod, is not a world he can stand to exist in. he cant do this without her. he needs her.

so he digs deep inside himself, through the pain or losing her, through his own family trauma and antagonism towards authority, and pride, to beg, on his knees for help from a higher power. its unclear to us if he's intending to pray to the gods or to his own ancestors or both or neither. to anyone who can help. to anyone who will listen.

and its neither of those sources who answer, at least, not as directly as matai vasa or tala do. its moana's kin, her loved ones, (eventually including the ocean), who answer from the great beyond. he looks them in the eyes and they weep with him. they sing power over moana and the impossible happens.

(salacious handholding occurs)

the stars are put back in maui's eyes, the sun back into his sky.

does this mean...

yes.

his tattoos are still cooler than hers.

even when theyre mad at him. (same, little guy, same.)

bruh.

now kiss

[topguncortez]

For Her Hand - Jake Seresin x Shy!Wifey

opposites attract masterlist || main masterlist

synopsis: Jake has always been cool and collected under pressure, but setting across the table from one of the Navy's most infamous legends to ask for his daughter's hand in marriage?? Well, that's enough to make anyone crack under pressure

word count: 1.7k

warnings: none? cursing, mentions of death, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of religion

Jake was sweating. 

He probably had sweat stains on the underarms of his dress shirt, and he was now worried that he was going to have to use the bathroom before James got here. Tonight was the night that Jake was going to ask for Y/N’s hand in marriage. . . even though he already proposed. 

Jake knew he was doing it all backwards. He had already gotten an ear full from his mother when they called her several months ago to tell her the news of Y/N’s pregnancy. Jake never wanted it to be like this, no, he was raised to be a true gentleman. He was supposed to court the girl for a couple of months, and then ask her father and the church for their blessing to get engaged, then there would be a big party on his family’s ranch to celebrate the engagement and then there would be a huge wedding ceremony that was more about showing off to his parents’ friends than about him and Y/N. 

But there was something about Y/N, that made Jake throw all expectations out the window. From the moment Jake saw her from across the Hard Deck, he knew he was going to spend the rest of his life with her. That moment he stepped off the carrier and went straight to her house to find her covered in dirt, he knew that she was going to be the mother of his children. That he would come home to her every single time. Every night he dreamt of the life they would have together, the names of their children, what they would look like, the big house he would build her, and the garden that she would spend hours out in. 

Jake hadn’t always had a good reputation when it came to women, and it was pretty well known. Throughout the academy and flight school, it wasn’t uncommon to see Jake leave with a new woman. There was a part of him who had spent years searching for the person to fill the void in his heart that had been festering from years of striving for his father’s attention and love. And Y/N was the person who filled it in a very healthy way. 

When James first heard about Jake’s and Y/N’s relationship, he was not thrilled. He had seen flyboys like Jake before. He knew what they got up to on postings and detachments, and didn’t want his daughter to join the club of broken hearts. He had also seen and heard the broken cries of their partners when an officer walked off the ship and handed them a neatly folded flag. James felt ill every time he thought about his daughter being in that position. 

But then he saw how they interacted with each other at the Naval ball, and Vice Admiral James “Hercules” Parker was proven wrong. He could see the love that Jake had for his daughter. And even though nothing was promised in their line of work, James knew he couldn’t stand in the way of true love. 

Jake wiped his hands on his pants for what seemed like the thousandth time that hour as he looked around the restaurant for James. He felt like dinner was a more professional way to ask to marry his daughter than doing it over drinks at the Hard Deck or a round of golf, or blurting out in the middle of a meeting (like Coyote had done with Warlock). What made his nerves stay somewhat at bay was that Jake was kind of doing this all backward. He had already proposed to Y/N when he came home from his last deployment and she had said yes. Blame it on the heat of the moment and being a hair's breadth away from death, but Jake couldn’t wait any longer without making her his forever. And she was already pregnant with his child, and James and Clara had already accepted him into their family. 

“Jacob,” James said as he walked to the table. Jake stood up and greeted James with a handshake, “Missing Thursday night football for this.” 

“I’m sorry sir,” Jake said and took another drink of his water. James eyed him suspiciously, seeing the young man's hands shake, as a waiter walked to the table. 

“Anything to drink for you two, tonight?” The waiter asked. 

“Top-shelf whiskey,” James nodded, “Make that two, neat.” 

“Oh, I’m good with water,” Jake said. The waiter nodded and went to go get their drinks, “Sorry, I’m just a bit nervous.” 

“I can see that,” James said, “Didn’t think that the ‘Hangman’ could get nervous,” Jake cringed at the way James said his call sign as if it were some sort of dig. Some sort of pass to let Jake know that he wasn’t good enough for his daughter, “What’s on your mind son? How’s Y/N and the baby?” 

“Good, they’re both good. She’s pissed, uh,” Jake cleared his throat, “Sorry, upset, that Clara won’t let her dig the flower beds.” 

“It’s not good for pregnant women to be digging in soil,” James responded, his voice void of emotion and staring Jake down like he was an idiot. 

“Right, yes! I knew that from the parenting books,” Jake nodded, remembering one of the only facts he had retained from those books, “Anyway, I uh,” Jake scratched the back of his neck, trying to gather his thoughts, “I love you, daughter,” James nodded, “A-and I did this whole thing backward and I apologize for it. My dad drilled into my head that you always ask for permission first before you do anything with another man’s daughter-” 

“Or get her pregnant.” 

“Yeah, I’m sorry for that too. But sir-” 

“James,” 

Jake nodded, “James, I don’t ever want to see a day where your daughter is not by my side. When I thought I wasn’t going to make it back to her. . . well, it was the worst thing ever. I had to make a promise to her when I got back on solid ground, and I did. And now, I gotta make it right. If you would please grant me the blessing, I would love to marry your daughter.”  

James looked at him for a moment, the silence becoming so thick between the two men. Jake felt a cold sweat go down his spine, but then he saw a smile break out across James’ face, “I knew this would come sooner or later. I was hoping for later, but,” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black ring box, “She used to wear this around the house as a little girl. It was my mother’s.” 

James placed the box on the table and Jake gingerly picked it up. Inside sat a beautiful diamond attached to a silver band. The diamond had to be nearly three carats and had smaller diamonds around it. Jake looked up at James, tears brimming his eyes. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask-” 

James shook his head, cutting Jake off, “I did the same thing nearly thirty years ago,” James chuckled, “I lost my wingman and almost burned in myself. The moment I got home to Clara, I told her that I could not go back up into the sky without knowing I was going to have her forever. Then she dragged me to the courthouse that same day,” James shook his head with a smile, “I knew this moment was coming at some point in time, when 'dad' stopped being the only man in her life. The only man she looks at with those eyes. No dad is ever ready for that day, and one day, hopefully, you'll have the same experience."

Jake could only imagine the day he would have a little girl and hoped she’d look like Y/N. He could see it now, a beautiful daughter that had her mother’s beautiful eyes and smile, and her personality. If she was born with Jake’s. . . lord help them all, she was going to be a firecracker. 

“Does this mean that I. . .” 

“You have my blessing to marry my daughter.” 

— — — 

After dinner was over, Jake probably broke every traffic law to get home to Y/N. He smiled as he noticed the lights in the backyard were on and the sound of her giggle was in the air. He could hear the small barks of the German shepherd puppy he had gotten her as a companion for when he’s gone on deployments. Jake grabbed the bouquet of pink carnations and basically skipped to the backyard. 

“Bring it back, Steve!” Y/N called as the puppy hustled his way back to his owner, “Good boy!” Steve’s attention turned the second that the gate to the backyard was opened. Even for a puppy, his barks were still loud, startling Y/N. She turned around, seeing Jake standing there with a goofy grin on his face. 

“What are you-” 

“Marry me,” Jake said, cutting her off. 

Y/N giggled, “Sweetheart, I already said yes. Did you hit your-” 

“Nope,” Jake shook his head and walked over to where she was kneeling on the ground. Steve growled a bit as Jake got close to his mother, “Hey, I was the one who adopted you and let you chew on the seatbelts in my truck.” Steve gave Jake a look, before trotting off into the backyard, “Animals.” 

“Be nice,” Y/N playfully scolded, and sat down in the grass. Her hand rested on her growing bump, which had popped a few days ago, and had become Jake’s latest obsession to touch, “How did dinner go?” 

“Went great,” Jake said, sitting down next to her and pulling her into his lap. He rested his large hand on top of her’s, “He gave me his blessing and gave me this,” Jake pulled out the ring from his pocket. 

Y/N gasped, “My nana’s ring! Oh my god, I thought I lost that!” 

“Your dad kept it and gave it to me,” Jake said. He grabbed Y/N’s hand and took off the fifteen-dollar ring he bought at Target that was slowly starting to turn green, “Now, we can make it official,” Y/N turned her head to look at him, “What do you say, Mrs. Seresin?” 

Y/N smiled and turned in his lap so she was straddling him, “I think you should’ve told him I’m already Mrs. Seresin, but. . .” She tilted her head back and forth, “Baby steps.” 

“Yeah, yeah, baby steps,” Jake smirked as he wrapped his arms around her waist and flipped them over. Y/N’s giggles filled the air as Jake pressed kisses all over her face. Her ring glittered in the moonlight.

note: happy Valentine's Day or whatever

taglist: @sio-ina-bottle @kmc1989 @soulmates8 @averyhotchner @fandom-life-12 @jazminlahey20 @jessicab1991 @reidshearts @princess76179 @dizzybee03 @dempy @kellyls04 @daddymack01 @beautifulandvoid @noonenuts @bradleybeachbabe @its-the-pilot @buckysteveloki-me @shibble @a-library-ofmy-own @fanfictionismyhobby @emilyoflanternhill @seitmai @moonlessnight14 @hardballoonlove @sgt-barnesveins @vhkdncu2ei8997 @1nterstellarcha0s @krispybearbouquet @a-serene-place-to-be @seresinslady @na-ta-sh-aa @milestomaverick @itsmytimetoodream @topgunslut @yuckosworld @angelbabyange @pedrohoe04 @midnightmagpiemama @lynnevanss @ummjustfics @thegoddessc @mrsevans90 @mjsvinyl @luversgirl @silenthappyplace @buckysvinyl

[agatedragongames]

Pathfinder Search Algorithm Battle Royale

A-star (yellow) vs Breadth (green) vs Greedy (red) vs Depth (blue)

Four pathfinding search algorithms which start at different corners of a hexagon grid, looking for the same goal

[clare-875]

Hey clare!!!!! I love ur fics and you seem like such a cool person!!!!!!!! I would absolutely love if you wrote a tenya iida x reader with THE MOST FLUFF YOU CAN ADD pretty please <333 you can have complete free reign over the prompt, i'll be happy with whatever teehee ;) thanks lovely <333

A Dose of Him (Tenya Iida x Reader)

_____ Pairing: Tenya Iida x Female Reader Summary: Tenya Iida is in love with you Warnings: Fluff!! A/N: Omg, my first MHA fic! Thank you for all the love, I hope this is what you were looking for! <3 [MHA Masterlist] _____

When Tenya Iida is in love, you can see it in his eyes.

Tenya never thought there could be a goal beyond becoming a hero worthy of his brother's name. But then, you walked into his life. He wishes he could say his adoration of you was built off of many interactions; deliberate and steady and methodical, just the way he liked things.

But what he soon found out was that love was quite the opposite.

It crept up onto him and grabbed a hold of him and in an instant, he was whisked away in its clutches and prone to its effects. So you can imagine when he met you on the first day in Class 1A, he was beyond surprised and almost disoriented at how one glance at you - a stranger - could influence the pace of his racing heart.

It was confusing to him at first, and he could scarcely even acknowledge that the warm feeling ignited within him was because of you: You and your words and breath and presence. But even when he himself didn't know what it was he felt, his classmates knew.

Even those usually oblivious to such things couldn't miss the ways his eyes would dart beneath his glasses at an utterance of your name. They couldn't miss the way his irises seemed to gleam whenever your light laughter blessed his ears. They couldn't miss the way his gaze searched for yours in the breadth of battles; the lingering worry and anxiety clearing only in the aftermath, when he acknowledged that you were safe and sound.

When you started dating, your shared love could only amplify the devotion in his eyes.

He confessed to you early in your second year, his nerves exceeding even what he felt in his Hero Licence Exam. It had been an ordinary afternoon to any other individual but to him it was everything. His plan was simple and thought out: to get you to join him outside once class was over for the day. What he didn’t expect was for his anticipation to brim so much, he could scarcely get the words out. Ultimately when he had gotten himself together enough, he had stood straight and bowed to you rigidly.

“[y/n] [l/n]... I have liked you for a long time now. Would you please do me the honour of going out with me?"

He didn’t expect your response to be your light laughter. But you couldn’t help yourself at the formal and serious and just Tenya-way of his confession. However, when he lifted his head in time to hear you say yes, you can see in his eyes that they shone with pure honesty, devotion and love. “Yes, Tenya Iida. I would love to go out with you.” Your words to him were the beginning of a happiness he had never felt before.

When Tenya Iida is in love, you can feel it in his touch.

Before you started dating, Tenya could stare inquisitively at his hand you brushed for lengths of time. It was to the point where Midoriya would ask if there was something wrong with his hand. Any time he felt a flutter of your warmth when you stood close to him, or even in the passing of your presence he was frustratingly flustered. When you hugged him once he had fully recovered from his fight with the Hero Killer Stain, he swore he had a heart attack.

When the both of you started dating, Tenya had to learn quickly to get used to your touch for the sake of his poor heart. But in turn, in every caress and hold of his, you could feel his gentleness and care and utter love. He treated you like you could almost break under his hold, but you also never felt safer than when you were in the confines of his secure arms.

Every battle you were paired in he would subconsciously pull you close to him. In the aftermath, he could never be satisfied until his arms were wrapped around you once more. On dates, his hand would hardly leave yours. His touch would linger as he guided you away from oncoming traffic, helped you into your seat, and held your bags of shopping. In his mind, it was a given: You were his girlfriend and it was his duty to treat you as such. But to you, he was simply a gentleman amongst men.

And he was completely and utterly yours.

In lazy afternoons he has you in his arms, and when he is finally used to your presence enough to feel bold, his touch would linger on the flesh of your bare skin. It was like you were built just to melt into his embrace, and he always felt an unmistakable loss whenever you weren't. He would never say it aloud though, due to his irrevocably stubborn and flustered nature, but you would know the next day when he would scarcely leave your side.

"Are you okay? You've been following me around all day."

"I'm just... I'm just practising my stealth skills. No need to worry."

You could roll your eyes at his bullshit excuse, but your heart could only warm when you saw the pink on his cheeks. Before your boyfriend even knew what was happening, you had moved and shoved your face into his chest. Two of your arms wrapped themselves tight around his torso. "L-love? What's wrong?" He looks down at your attachment to him, and his own arms wrap themselves instinctively around you. However, his eyes widen when you lift your head and let a knowing smile enlighten your features.

"If you wanted a hug, you could've just asked for one you know?"

His heart pounds faster against your ear.

When Tenya Iida is in love, there won't be a day that you aren't reminded of just that: he loves you.

You are currently in your boyfriend's room and leaning heavily against his shoulder as he points out words that lose shape in your tiredness. "-and this, love, is what you do when you need to find the integral of this term. You see, you cannot-" His words are a jumble in your mind, and you faintly wonder why even in your hero course, you are doing mathematics. "Love, are you listening? It is of utmost importance that you learn this before your exam next week."

You hum at your boyfriend's blunt words, somehow they take an edge of gentleness when it is you he is talking to. "I'm listening baby, just resting my eyes for a bit." You promptly go from leaning on his shoulder to placing your head on his lap; a much more comfortable position you find for your aching neck and head. You can feel your boyfriend freeze briefly at your change in position, before seeming to relax once more. You can hear the sigh he lets out under his breath.

"Perhaps, we have done enough studying for today."

You smile and open your eyes briefly at his words, but surprisingly to you, Tenya is already looking down at you with softness in his gaze. "What do you say, love? I will walk you back to your room." As he softly speaks to you, one hand caresses your face gently and your lips upturn further in delight. His touch is heavenly after a day of torturous study, and despite being grateful for your intelligent boyfriend, you find yourself wishing it had been a day spent doing something more fun together.

As you look up to him through your eyelashes, you clutch his other hand and intertwine it in yours. Tenya feels his face flush red at your gentle hands caressing his. "No, let's stay here a while. Please?" Normally, Tenya would've upheld the rules of an approaching curfew and obliged to his role as class representative. However, his stature seems to melt just by your sleepy gaze and uttered words. "Okay, love." You grin in satisfaction and let out a small laugh of glee before focusing your attention on his hand once more and relishing his touch.

Soon, and completely expected by Tenya, you fall asleep.

You don't know it, but your boyfriend lets you lay there a little while, though mostly for the selfishness of having you in his presence just a moment longer. He then uses his strength to pry you gently into his arms, getting ready to take you to your room. As he travels the corridors he pays no mind to the teasing words of his classmates nor the "that's so manly," comment made by Kirishima. No, his gaze is solely on you, and his importance on making sure his peers stay quiet enough for you to sleep. His heart lurches when you snuggle closer to his warmth.

When he finally lays you in your bed, he hesitates for a moment before placing a kiss on your forehead and gently removing the deathly grip you have on his shirt. He sees you frown at the loss in contact and proceeds to internally swear that it was the most adorable sight he's ever seen. "Good night love." His words are merely a whisper in the dark room. "I love you." He witnesses your lips upturn and he smiles adoringly.

When Tenya Iida is in love you could never question it, because he encompasses it in everything he does, just for you.

[kittttycakes]

Oooh very interested by the 5. feeling their pulse one 👀 for Dreamling maybe?

Dreamling | 1k | G | Retired!Dream | Domestic Fluff | Established Relationship

It took Morpheus longer than it should have to notice that it was a pattern. 

He was, by then, intimately familiar with Hob’s hands and how they felt against his skin, the breadth of his palms and the length of his fingers as known to him as the back of his own hand. They had been the first feeling he had woken to in this, his new life, the weight of Hob’s hand holding his an anchor he had not previously known to search for. It was one he sought out regularly, now. There was a part of him that hoped, in the very back of his mind, that it might be the last feeling he felt, too, a very, very long time from then. 

This was all to say, of course, that he should have recognized the frequency with which Hob’s fingers found their way to his wrist, the way they lingered there, not pressing, but merely resting. It had not crossed his mind to wonder why; after all, did he not find himself touching Hob just as frequently? 

It had been a slow and drizzly day. Everything felt gray: the clouds in the sky, the light filtering through them, the long expanse of the hours before sleep with little to fill them. Morpheus still found it easy to become lost in the labyrinth of his own mind for minutes and often hours at a time. It was Hob’s self proclaimed job to draw him out of it, casting cups of tea and stacks of books and the low drone of the television in front of him to lead him out, a piecemeal version of Ariadne’s thread. 

He found himself in a familiar position: half curled on the sofa, his head in Hob’s lap, the rain lightly tapping at the window to the side of them. Hob’s arm was around him, and, in seeming deference to his comfort, he was not holding his hand, but held his wrist instead, allowing Morpheus to stay in exactly the position he preferred. With a languid stretch, he turned, looking up at Hob rather than the flickering screen of the television. Hob was much more interesting to look at, in any case, with his brow slightly furrowed in concentration as he read, his free hand holding his book open far too close to his face. He had neglected to put on his glasses, something Morpheus could poke at him for later.

Hob looked down at him and smiled, adjusting the position of his arm around him. Two fingers fell against his wrist again, as easily as anything, slipping into place. 

“Hob,” Morpheus said. It was not a question. Had he been sitting upright, his head would have been tilted in that curious way of his that he knew Hob found endearing, but that he somehow could not bring himself to stop doing, an innate gesture that had the added advantage of getting him exactly what he wanted when properly deployed. It was a shame he couldn’t achieve it then. 

“Yes?” Hob shifted the book in his hand, half closing it while his thumb kept his place.

“Why are you taking my pulse?” 

Hob opened his mouth, no doubt to form the words, “I’m not taking your pulse,” before snapping it shut and thinking better of it.  

Morpheus raised an eyebrow, waiting. Hob’s ears were turning pink. 

“I didn’t think you’d noticed,” he said, fingers still pressed against his pulse point, as if it hadn’t occurred to him to move them.

Morpheus considered this. He could picture, suddenly, all of the ways in which Hob had done exactly this before: Morpheus, pressed full length against Hob’s back, his arm around Hob’s waist and Hob’s arm over his own, Hob’s hand resting in just such a way that the tips of his fingers rested over Morpheus’s wrist; Hob, over and above him, not quite pinning his wrists above his head with the span of one hand, the tips of his fingers resting just against the thin skin of his wrist; Hob, taking his arms and arranging them to wrap around him, one hand still caught in his, and leading him in the steps of a dance that was the unholy bastard child of several much more structured steps, singing low in his ear, his thumb resting against the artery and tendon of his wrist. 

“I have noticed now,” he replied. 

“Old habit, by now,” Hob said, ears still pink. It was, Morpheus decided, flattering on him. He so rarely caught Hob visibly off-guard; it was a wonderful opportunity that had been afforded to him now, and he intended to enjoy it. 

“That is not an answer to my question,” Morpheus said, unable to stop the small smile that settled at the corners of his mouth. 

“No, I suppose not,” Hob relented, setting his book down over the arm of the sofa without any regard for the integrity of its spine. 

“It’s a reminder, I suppose,” he continued, looking down at Morpheus. “That you’re here, with me, right now.”

There was something in his voice, still, that Morpheus decided immediately to leave alone. They could return to it later, whatever it was that Hob was refusing to say. He only wanted to know, not to pry. They had all the time in the world, after all. 

He pushed himself into an upright position next to Hob, regrettably losing his hand on his wrist in the process, but remedying this loss by reaching for Hob himself, the palm of his hand cupping his jaw as he drew him closer. Hob went easily; he always did, never needing to be asked.  Morpheus pressed his lips to the underside of Hob’s jaw. For a moment, he thought he could feel it—the fluttering of his pulse against his lips. Perhaps Hob had something there, after all. There was something about it—the relentless pulse of alive alive alive just under his skin—that Morpheus could see himself returning to, again and again.

[ichorai]

water dragon ; aemond targaryen. (m)

the sequel to little dragon!

pairing ; aemond targaryen x tully!f!reader

synopsis ; aemond loved his wife and his children more than anything. to lose one of them... that would bring nothing but war to the seven kingdoms.

words ; 10.3k

themes ; fluff, smut (minors dni!), heavy angst, established relationship (married), parents au

warnings / includes ; major character death (please proceed with caution), blood & cheese, descriptions of violence/blood, unprotexted sex scenes, sex in the rain, jealous!aemond, foul language, you and aemond have three children (syraena, kyrion, myra), cameos of the rest of the hotd characters, syraena experiencing gender dysphoria :( aemond being a good father/husband (most of the time), kyrion is a dragon dreamer, aegon being gross and touching you inappropriately, so sorry if the valyrian isn't completely correct </3 the timeline for this fic is a bit shifted so that king viserys dies a couple years later than he does in the show (so the children have more time to grow) lots & lots of foreshadowing !! there will be a part three.

main masterlist.

A dull, heavy thud resounded across the training yard when Criston swung his morningstar at Aemond yet again, its thick spikes missing his cheek by a hair’s breadth as he gracefully spun away, the ball landing onto the ground. Before his mentor could strike him again, Aemond darted around him in the blink of an eye, slanting the longsword’s blade against Criston’s throat. 

“If we were enemies on a battlefield, you would be dead,” the Prince murmured.

The Dornish knight raised his hands in surrender. “Then I am grateful we are neither enemies nor at battle.”

With a hum, Aemond let the sword retreat back to his side, turning to place it back on the weapons rack. Only, he found his gaze falling on a small girl amongst the onlookers, her e/c eyes wide, curious, and eagerly dark.

“Syraena? What are you doing here?” he asked his eldest daughter, striding up to her and staring her down with the most stern expression he could muster. It was an hour past noon, and that meant she was supposed to be at her embroidery lessons with the Septa. Or perhaps it was dancing lessons? Aemond couldn’t quite recall. Either way, she wasn’t supposed to be here.

Upon further inspection, he noted that her wispy hair was far shorter and more scraggly than usual, small bits of silver strands littered over her scrawny shoulders.

“What did you—did you cut your hair?” Aemond accused, his single eye narrowing as he knelt down in front of her. “Gods, your mother is going to have my head.”

“Do you like it, Kepa?” Syraena replied, wildly ruffling the short silver tendrils with a wide smile. “I found a sharp shard of glass by that broken window beside the mess hall… and I cut my hair with it!”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Aemond blew out a long, exasperated sigh. Though this wasn’t the first time Syraena had startled her parents, prone to impulsive recklessness, it didn’t make her proclivities any less hard on Aemond’s heart. “Darling, that is wildly careless. Don’t ever do that again, you understand me? Come on—you shouldn’t be here, your mother must be worried to death searching for you.”

Swiftly, he wound his arms around the six year-old, lifting her up so she would sit over his waist. Of course, Syraena being Syraena, pulled a sour face and began reaching out for Criston, who was observing on with an amused expression.

“But I want to watch you spar!” she complained, twisting in his grasp and kicking at his stomach. Aemond had to bite down on his tongue to swallow his groan of pain, but he held onto her tight nonetheless. “Kepa, let me down! Let me go!”

“You should be in your lessons,” Aemond chastised, striding up the winding stairs back into the Keep. 

Pouting, Syraena let herself flop limply against Aemond’s shoulder. “I hate lessons. I hate the Septa. I hate being a girl.”

Raising a brow, Aemond glanced down at her before softly patting the back of her head. Though he hadn’t a clue what it was like to be a woman in Westeros, he could understand her feeling of not belonging amongst others who seemed to belong so easily. Syraena never got along with other girls her age, who were often afraid of her callousness and her tempestuous nature. In that respect, Aemond supposed his daughter was just like him.

“I’m sorry, my sea dragon. Perhaps I’ll let the Septa know that you no longer wish to dance.” 

“And embroider!”

“Hm. That, as well.”

Syraena grinned widely—her curved lips reminiscent of yours.

“Kepa?”

“Mmh?”

“Don’t tell mother I cut my hair,” she whispered, eyes shining with worry.

It was hard for Aemond to suppress his smile. “I’m sure she’ll notice regardless of whether I tell her or not, darling,” he gently told her.

Her expression dropped. “I didn’t mean to cut it this short. I just don’t like my long hair.”

“You’re very beautiful either way, Syraena,” he easily replied, before stopping in front of his chambers, where he knew you were watching over their baby daughter. “Alright. You go on inside—I’ll go speak to your Septa.”

He set his daughter down on her feet. She loitered by the door, dragging her feet glumly.

With a bark of a laugh, Aemond nudged her forward. “Go on. Your mother won’t be angry. Not that much, at least.”

Aemond’s only son, Kyrion, was a quiet boy. Only five years of age, born less than eleven moons after Syraena, he was already of greater intelligence than most far older than him, growing a knack for reading and drawing. The maesters would often express that his mind was developing much quicker than what was deemed normal. 

Not only that, but he was quite handsome, as well, with strikingly sharp features akin to his father, and a head of snow-white curls. His eyes were a pale shade of purple, always distant and clouded over with thought. From as soon as he began to talk, Kyrion often spoke in strange, twisted riddles, mystifying both you and Aemond to no end.

King Viserys, as sickly as he was, had claimed him to be a dragon dreamer. Alicent had hushed him then, thinking he was on another one of his senseless rambles, and gently asked the two of you to step out so he could get some rest.

Now, as Aemond sat with his son in the library, he pondered the possibility of it all. Perhaps Kyrion had a divine gift—the ability to see glimpses of the future. He would have to speak with you about it, see what you thought first.

Even if it were true, Aemond didn’t want to put any kind of unnecessary pressure on his son. Kyrion was only five, after all, no matter how startlingly intelligent he was.

“And what does this say?” He tested the boy, tapping his finger against the dusty Valyrian book.

Immediately, Kyrion replied in his soft, far-away voice, “Zaldrīzoti mērī ipradagon parklon. Dragons only eat meat.”

“Hm. Good.”

“It should be more specific,” said Kyrion, hands fidgeting beneath the table. “Dragons only eat cooked meat.”

A ghost of a proud smile hovered over Aemond’s lips. “That is correct—this book is old, from a time before maesters were able to record accurate, detailed information about dragons.”

Kyrion didn’t reply, flipping the worn, yellowed page.

“What does this mean?” he eventually asked, pointing at an unfamiliar word.

Aemond glanced over at the book, before blanching, and cleared his throat hastily. The paragraph was depicting a few different maesters’ debates on the mating practices of dragons—a topic of which Aemond was not too keen on broaching with his five year-old son. 

“Mmh… nothing of importance. Keep on reading, my water dragon. You’re doing very well.”

Blinking up at him with his large, pale violet eyes. He seemed to sense his father’s discomfort, so he let the matter drop, returning his attention to the book. Aemond blew out a relieved breath—he’d surely have to tell you about this later tonight.

Myra Targaryen, the youngest of Aemond’s children at three years of age, was a sweet little girl with a soft heart, always wearing a gentle smile. She loved all things in nature, and had a near unbearingly kind soul. She loved singing and dancing, a stark contrast to Syraena, who turned her nose away at such activities. At times Aemond wondered how Myra could possibly be his kin, for she was far too pure and he was… certainly not.

Unlike her sharp-faced siblings, Myra’s features were much softer and healthily plump. Her hair was a shade darker than them as well, the curls a silver-gold hue of blonde. Though Aemond was hoping for another daughter that bore your beautiful eye color, Myra was born with his dark purple irises, nearly blue in certain lighting.

As you had left to soak in a bath, Aemond had taken it upon himself to put his river dragon to sleep, tucking her beneath a fleece blanket and brushing her flaxen away from her drooping eyelids, heavy with exhaust from the day.

“Ēdrū sȳrī, Myra,” he whispered, brushing a kiss upon her forehead. Sleep well.

“Night-night, Kepa,” she responded, grinning sleepily, dimples indenting her chubby cheeks. “Today I saw a butterfly in the gardens!”

“Mmh, was it a large butterfly?”

“No. It was very small—smaller than my hand! I named it Hūra, because it was white, like the moon.”

Finding her grin contagious, Aemond felt a smile flicker over his usually stoic demeanor. “A lovely name. Your Aunt Helaena loves butterflies, as well. Perhaps you can tell her all about Hūra tomorrow.”

Myra enthusiastically nodded, before sitting up against her feather-pillows, reaching up to her father to press a sweet kiss against his scar, just below his eyepatch.

By the Gods, he could nearly feel tears prick the corner of his vision, but he managed to subdue them for a minute, not wanting to weep in front of his young daughter, lest she grew worried for him.

“I like Kepa’s scar,” she mumbled as she settled back down to go to sleep. “How did you get it?”

Aemond was silent for a long while, unsure of what to tell her. “An accident,” he simply replied. 

“Does it hurt?”

It did, at times. Not as often as it used to, but there were instances he could still feel phantom pains throbbing behind the leather patch. “Not anymore,” he lied, voice quiet.

If Myra had any other questions, she didn’t get the chance to ask them, already drifting off into slumber.

Aemond hummed, before rising onto his feet, making his way out of her chambers. To his surprise, you were hovering by the doorway, arms crossed and affection written plainly over your expression.

“I just put Kyrion to bed,” you whispered, leaning into his touch when he cradled your face with his palms with a quiet greeting. “He was speaking in riddles again—something about a deal with a stag?”

The two of you began making your way down the hall, to your shared chambers. “Stag?” he asked. “Baratheons?”

“I don’t know.” You shook your head, sighing. “I worry for him.”

Aemond slipped into the room after you, shutting the door behind him. He gathered you in his arms, capturing your lips with his in a chaste kiss. When he pulled away, he studied your concerned features—just as beautiful as the day he’d met you.

“We’ll be fine, dōna embar,” he reassured you, leading you to bed with a protective hand resting over your lower back. You loosely smiled at the nickname—sweet sea. “The dragon-trouts are strong. No house, stag or otherwise, could ever lay a hand on them.”

Instead of responding, you kissed him again, your nose bumping against his in your haste. The both of you laid down on the tall mattress, the promise of sleep whispering sand into your ears.

Before you could fall into a dreamless rest, however, Aemond quietly murmured, “I’m assuming Syraena didn’t tell you she cut her hair with a shard of glass she found by a broken window. Kyrion also asked about mating practices whilst we were in the library. And Myra wanted to know how I got my scar.”

Startled at the sudden barrage of information, you abruptly sat up, eyes wide, sleep suddenly the very last thing on your mind. “What?”

The next morning was dreary. 

It was a rare thing for rain to grace the capital, as it was usually arid and warm. But the skies were grey and thunderous, miniscule pinpricks of water beginning to fall from the dark clouds. You stood on your chamber’s balcony, enjoying the cooler temperatures and the light drizzles dampening your skin, your hair, your sleeping shift. It’d been several moons since it last rained—compared to your original home, the Riverlands, King’s Landing simply paled in comparison. How you missed the feeling.

Aemond, on the other hand, seemed indifferent to the change in weather. He stepped out to join you, one of his spindly hands reaching out to grasp the damp fabric around your waist, the other moving upward to tilt your chin so you’d look at him.

“How beautiful you are, ābrazȳrys,” he whispered, trailing kisses down from the corner of your lips to your jaw. The Valyrian word for wife was uttered with an extra husky tone. “The hour is quite early—the children are still fast asleep.” There was a rough, needy scratch to his voice, indiscreetly conveying his lustful intentions.

With a wanton grin, you replied breathily, “Fuck me in the rain, Aemond. Fuck me until I can’t wa—”

Before you could finish your sentence, Aemond was already shoving you up against the stone railing, his hot mouth slanted desperately over yours. You kissed him back with just as much vigor, curling one of your legs around his waist. Already, you could feel his length hardening, pressing against your lower stomach.

You moaned lewdly into his mouth when the hand that had been under your chin snaked further downwards to grasp at your breasts through the drenched shift, his nimble fingers pinching at your sensitive peaks. His other hand relinquished his grasp on your waist, slipping beneath the fabric between your thighs and running a finger through your folds. The action made you cry out, grasping his forearms for dear life.

“You’re already drenched for me,” Aemond susurrated, pulling away from your lips, which you had chased after with a sigh, littering kisses against your bobbing throat. “Ñuha jorrāelagon.” My love.

“Please, Aemond,” you croaked, needing more. “Please, I need you inside me.”

With a hum, Aemond swiftly shoved your damp shift up to bunch around your waist, leaving your lower half completely bare for him. 

“Who am I to deny you, embar?” he whispered, biting the outside of your ear, before slowly sliding his leaking, throbbing length into your cunt. “Fuck! Mmh—you take me so well, sweet wife.”

Slowly, he began rocking into you, prideful at the way you rolled your eyes into the back of your head. Your shift, clinging against you like a second skin thanks to the rain, made the motions of your heaving, bouncing breasts all the more enticing. He ducked his head to freckle kisses over your chest as he thrust into you, murmuring praises into the wet fabric.

A clap of thunder drowned out the obscene noises the both of you were making. 

Wildly, Aemond tore himself out of you, extinguishing the fiery complaints on the tip of your tongue by turning you over and pushing your stomach into the railing, so you could face the city. You were far too high up for anyone to clearly see, but the thrill of it was there, nonetheless.

Your husband slid back into you with a deep groan and a string of curses, sloppily pounding you from behind as he neared his peak. He wound an arm around you to languidly stroke at your pulsing clit, which had you bucking back into him with a surprised choke of his name.

It wasn’t long until you collapsed against him, your cunt clenching around his cock like a vice, white stars bursting out in front of your vision. Not too soon after, Aemond spilled himself within you, his hot cum dripping out of your core and down your thighs, panting against your shoulder. 

“Mmh,” you moaned once he slowly pulled out, so as to not overwhelm you with overstimulation. “I do hope it rains in King’s Landing more often.”

“If it leads to more of this, then so do I,” Aemond replied, turning you around with gentle touches to kiss you soundly. “For now, how does a hot bath sound?”

Myra’s shrieks of laughter echoed across the large chambers as she clumsily ran away from Syraena, who was enacting a large, hungry dragon searching for her prey. 

“Kepa, help me!” she screamed, scrambling to hide behind her father’s legs. Amused, Aemond picked up his youngest girl, setting her on his hip. His eldest clung to his shin, forcing Aemond to drag the both of them across the room as they squealed in delight. 

“Faster!” Syraena ordered. Aemond made a mental note to tell Criston he was most likely going to be late for training today, knowing his girls probably wouldn’t let go of him for the next few hours.

On the other side of the chambers, you sat by your son next to the fireplace, sipping on a chalice of spiced apple cider. Kyrion was sprawled out on the expensive chaise, the corner of his tongue poking out of his mouth as he concentrated on drawing on a piece of parchment with a coal-tipped pencil.

“Mother, look,” he said, pulling your attention away from your husband and the excited girls. The paper was pushed onto your lap, covered with black smudges and hastily drawn lines. “This is what I see in my dreams.”

You blinked, studying the drawings closer. “What is it, honey? Are those trees?”

His white hair flew every which way as he vehemently shook his head. His small hand pointed at the six figures, hovering a few inches above the uneven ground. “Those are people. They didn’t bend the knee.”

Horror’s dark fingers wrapped around your heart, and you reared back to stare at your son. “Kyrion, what is this? You… have you seen this?” 

His pale violet eyes met your terrified ones. “In my dreams,” he repeated, voice soft and tame, as if he hadn’t just drawn a picture of six lords hanging from the gallows. “You don’t have dreams like those?”

Still in shock, you shook your head, mute.

Kyrion studied you for a moment longer, before grabbing another sheet of paper to start drawing again. “You’re lucky, mother. Sometimes I feel it.”

“Why is that, Kyrion? What else do you feel?”

The little boy shrugged. “The milk curdles, the blood spills.” He fell quiet after that, clearly done with the conversation.

Struggling for words, you blew out a long breath, before looking back at the parchment. You leaned forward to press a kiss to his head, patting down his short white curls, before standing up and making your way to Aemond, his drawing in hand. Myra had somehow ended up on his shoulders, yelling for help as Syraena jumped around, trying to catch her little sister’s flailing feet.

“Mama,” the young river dragon cried, reaching out to you with tearful purple-blue eyes. “Syraena bit me!”

True to her word, there were shallow teeth marks imprinted in her chubby shin. Syraena grinned at her handiwork, looking none too apologetic. 

“Aemond!” you sharply reprimanded, which made your husband flinch at the sudden attention, puzzled as to why the blame was placed on him instead of Syraena. “Gods, did you just stand by and watch as your daughters mauled each other?”

“I was outnumbered, darling. They are vicious little things, our girls,” Aemond lightly replied, letting go of the golden-haired girl so she could cling onto you, sobbing into your neck. At your stern expression, Aemond added on, “Syraena, say sorry to your sister.”

With a quick tongue, she quickly said with years of rehearsed practice, “Sorry, Myra. Can I come watch you train now, Kepa?” 

Before he could reply, you stepped in. “Ah-ah, Syraena. You need to go to the Septa and apologize for running away from your lessons yesterday. You may be excused from embroidery and dancing, but that doesn’t give you the right to be rude.”

Glum, Syraena glanced at her father, who only beckoned her along. “Listen to your mother.”

With a heavy exhale, the silver-haired girl stomped out of the room to do as she was bid. 

You traced your hand along the bite mark on Myra’s leg. “It’s not too bad, sweetheart. Go on—go ask your brother if you can draw with him.”

Sniffling, Myra slid down from your arms and waddled off to sit by Kyrion, who wordlessly scooched over to make space for his little sister.

“What’s wrong?” Aemond asked, noting the worry in your expression. The once light-hearted atmosphere seemed to dissolve away in an instant.

Pursing your lips, you handed over the drawing. 

“Kyrion said he saw this in his dreams. People hanging… he said they didn’t bend the knee,” you whispered. 

Aemond studied the coal-streaked parchment, eye narrowed. “Perhaps that’s all it was… just a dream.”

“Or it could be a vision. Your father said it himself—our son is a dragon dreamer,” you responded, gripping his forearm. “Aemond, I’m worried that war is upon us. Sooner than we think it is.”

There was little Aemond could truthfully say to comfort you, and so he simply drew you close, breathing in your homely scent—pleasantly noting that he could still smell the rain on you. 

“It’ll be alright,” he murmured sincerely. “I won’t let anything happen to you, or our family. I’ll keep you safe.”

Blinking away the tears stinging the corner of your eyes, you pressed your nose against his throat. “I’m not sure you’d be able to, husband. Not in a war for the iron throne. Nobody is safe from that.”

Your law-sister, Helaena, had always harbored a gentle, sweet soul—a direct opposite to her brother and husband, Aegon. The very thought of being trapped in a loveless marriage, made to squeeze out heirs for a monster of a man was already nightmarish enough… you couldn’t fathom what it was like for Helaena to endure such a life. Nonetheless, she was often as happy as one could be, dreamily smiling and murmuring unintelligible words to herself. 

That evening you found yourself having tea with her, listening to her speak about the strange weather and the bugs she had found washed up in the gardens due to the rain. 

“Many worms, yes,” she mumbled, fiddling with a wooden carving of a cockroach. “Worms and drowned ants. Ants and drowned worms. Beetles, as well, yes.”

You smiled, glancing at her children, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, playing with yours—though Kyrion wasn’t really playing with his cousins, more just standing in the shadows and silently watching his sisters play with them. He truly was a copy of his father, after all.

“The poor creatures,” you surmised. “Rid of their homes and families just because of a bit of rain.” A bit of guilt twinged within your chest—just earlier today, you had told Aemond you wished for it to rain more.

“Oh, it’s not all that bad,” Helaena hummed, looking up at you with a mild grin. “Death gives way to more life. There will soon be new worms, new ants, new beetles. It’s simply the way of nature.”

You nodded, setting down your teacup. “I suppose you’re right. It’s just a shame that it has to happen in the first place.”

To your surprise and none of Aemond’s, all the childrens’ dragon eggs hatched within their cradles. They were growing larger and larger every day, being looked after by the dragon keepers before the children could ride them.

Today, Aemond took them down to the Dragon Pit, where his children were going to bond with their respective beasts. You were invited to come, as you always were when Aemond went off on his excursions with the kids, but you had wrinkled your nose and turned back to your book. 

“I have no taste for stinking of dragon today, thank you,” you curtly replied, grinning down at your book. “Don’t you think Myra is a bit too young to bond with her dragon? She’s only three.”

“It doesn’t hurt to get acquainted,” he swiftly replied, before bending at the waist to slant a sweet kiss to your hairline, before taking his leave to head out of his chambers and wrangle his kids down to the Pit.

They were excited to go, Syraena most especially, practically sprinting down the corridors. He called out after her to slow down, but she paid him no mind. 

The Dragon Pit smelled of smoke and charred meat and something distinctly dragon.

Keepers brought out the three dragonlings, playfully nipping at each other’s wings and yipping as if they were young pups. 

The largest of the trio was named Aerion—Syraena’s dragon. He was a slender beauty, with shining black scales and sharp, crimson wing membranes. With the Keeper’s nod, Syraena confidently marched forward, stroking her dragon’s head, a toothy grin plastered across her lips. Aerion seemed to purr beneath her touch, plumes of grey smoke falling from his nostrils.

Next to come forward was Kyrion’s dragon, his rippling scales a dark shade of green and sharp eyes a molten amber. “Tyvaros,” Aemond heard his son mumble his dragon’s name. “Tyvaros.” A bit more timid, Kyrion hesitantly stepped forward and, with the Keeper’s approval, he reached out for the small green dragon. He was the calmest of the three, leaning forward to gently nudge his head against Kyrion’s shoulder.

The smallest of the hatchlings was Goldentooth, a pale, cream-hued dragon with aureate spikes running down her back and along her tail. She was Myra’s to claim, having been the very last to hatch. 

“Go on, Qelbar.” He gently nudged his flaxen-haired daughter forward. River, he affectionately called her. “Don’t you want to bond with her?”

Myra nodded, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. “What if she doesn’t like me?”

“I can’t see a reason why she wouldn’t like you,” he calmly responded, patting her back. “Your brother and sister are getting along with their dragons just fine. It took me a long time to bond with a dragon, as well. You’ll get there, eventually.”

His words seemed to instill some courage into her, and so she shuffled along to the last Keeper, murmuring hello to her dragon. It wasn’t long until the fear subsided, and the small dragon was already climbing all over her arms and shoulders.

After an hour of bonding, the Keepers were hoarding the dragons further down into the Pit for feeding, and in turn, Aemond took the children back up into the Keep. They all stank of dragon, something you definitely weren’t going to be happy with, but had wide smiles on their faces nonetheless.

There was a hearing carried out on the subject of the heir to Driftmark (which was settled in an unsettlingly gorey manner, courtesy of Daemon Targaryen), which meant Princess Rhaenyra and her sons were back in King’s Landing for quite a while, to Aemond’s displeasure. You, on the other hand, bore no ill-will to the Princess, and were rather excited for the royal dinner to be held the next day. 

The night after Vaemond’s beheading, Kyrion had tugged on your skirts and asked if you could accompany him to the library so he could return his book.

“Alright,” you told him with a small smile. “But we must be quick about it—the hour grows late, and I can see how sleepy you are.”

The purple-eyed boy nodded, taking your hand as the two of you made your way down the dark corridors, to the library. When the both of you turned the corner, you nearly ran straight into Lucerys, jumping back in surprise.

“Oh, Gods! My apologies, my Princes,” you exclaimed, flustered at the sudden appearance of Rhaenyra’s sons. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

Lucerys tilted his head. “No need to apologize, Lady Tully.”

“Targaryen. Tully is my maiden name—I’m married to Prince Aemond now,” you gently corrected. 

“Evidently so,” said Jace, glancing at your son with a polite smile. “This must be my little cousin. Kyrion, isn’t it?”

The white-haired boy stared up at him with his pale eyes. “Ice and fire. Arrows and seas. Pacts and death. I saw you in my dreams.”

“Kyrion,” you hastily reprimanded, mortified that your son was speaking of death in front of Princess Rhaenyra’s eldest son, gathering the small boy up in your arms. “Sorry, he must be tired. It’s his bedtime—” 

“He doesn’t look much like you, does he?” Lucerys observed, finding it eerily strange to be staring at a little boy that was a near carbon copy of the bane of his childhood. 

Brows furrowing, you hesitantly replied, knowing the stale animosity between him and your husband, “I… I suppose not, my Prince. He takes after his father. My daughters, too.”

“Ah, then we must arrange to meet them. I’m sure your children would enjoy playing with my little brothers, Aegon and Viserys. They must be around the same age,” said Jace in an amicable manner. 

Before you had a chance to respond, a familiar voice spat, “And why, pray tell, do you think I would ever allow my children near you and your filthy kin?” 

Aemond appeared from out of the shadows, features set in one of cold fury. Both Jacaerys and Lucerys took a step back, shoulders stiffening. They had seen him training earlier today—it didn’t go past their notice that he had become incredibly skilled in combat over the years. In no way would either of them be a match for him. 

Wary not to allow a fight to break out, you reached out to place a calming hand on his arm. “Aemond—” you gritted out.

“Leave us,” he growled.

Teeth gnashing together, you shook your head and whispered, “Aemond, I don’t want there to be any bad blood between us.”

“Take our son and go,” he said, more gently this time. To you, Jace and Luke were just boys—sweet boys with kind hearts. To Aemond, however, they were the monsters who took out his eye. They were a threat to him and his family’s safety.

Exchanging a worried glance between him and Jacaerys, who nodded at you to take your leave, you blew out a frustrated breath, before hastening away with Kyrion in your arms. It seemed the two of you would have to take a trip to the library another day.

Lowering his voice, Aemond calmly told the two brothers, “Speak to my wife or my children again, and I’ll have the both of you fed to my dragon.”

Luke swallowed nervously, but Jace stood his ground. 

“Is that all, Uncle?” he challenged, eyebrows cocked. 

Aemond fixed a sharp glare on them, nose upturned. With an irritated grunt, he turned and strode off after you, leaving the two bastard boys stunned and mildly confused in his wake.

Once he had made sure his girls were safely tucked in their beds, Aemond paid his son a visit, sitting by his side.

“I apologize for interrupting your trip to the library, water dragon,” he murmured, patting down the boy’s messy white curls. 

Kyrion chewed on his bottom lip in thought. “Why don’t you like them, Kepa?”

Aemond’s single eye searched his son’s gaze, completely sincere in his curiosity. “A story for another time, when you’re older,” he replied. “Your mother said you’ve been drawing what you see in your dreams. Can you tell me about them?”

“Which ones?” he asked.

The one-eyed man felt sick at the thought of his little boy having to watch a thousand lives pass by in his visions, most having to inevitably end in death. It was a curse to be a dragon dreamer, he thought with a grimace. A burden.

“Whichever you want to tell me about, tresy.” Son.

Kyrion’s pale eyes seemed to mist over, and he fixed his gaze on a random candle across the room. “I see you wearing a crown. You sit on the Iron Throne.”

A beat of silence. “What?”

It seemed his son had mistaken Aemond’s befuddled expression for anger, as he shrank away from his father with a frown. “I’m sorry, Kepa. Don’t be angry with me.”

Aemond softened. “I’m not angry, Kyrion. I was just… shocked.”

Not all of Kyrion’s visions came true, did they? Aemond tried his best to wrack his mind for the dozens of times his mystic ramblings lead to nowhere. 

“I also see mother sailing away on a ship with Syraena and Myra. She looks sad,” he quietly spoke. “I don’t like that dream very much. Can I go to sleep now, Kepa?”

Blowing out a small breath, Aemond mustered a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach his worried eye. “Yes, of course. Sleep well, little dragon.”

Hastily, he stood back up on his feet, blowing out the candles around Kyrion’s chamber, before striding out the door. His head was spinning with a million thoughts at once, his son’s wispy voice echoing within his mind.

A crown on his head. His wife and his girls on a ship. Seven hells… what was to become of his family?

Myra was humming a sweet song of summer, chubby cheeks rosy with the warm breeze that blew through the Godswood. She was seated in front of you over a yellow blanket situated on the ground. In your hands, you were weaving the little girl’s golden hair into an intricate braid, small wildflowers slotted in between the crevices. 

A little ways away from the both of you, Syraena was running circles around the Weirwood tree, fighting off invisible enemies with a long, wooden stick she claimed to be her sword. 

“There you go, darling,” you said, patting Myra’s shoulders once you were done. “Syraena, come here! I want to fix your hair!”

Your eldest girl huffed and puffed as she stomped over, her short silver strands sticking up every which way. “What’s there to fix?” she grumbled, plopping down in front of you.

“Perhaps if you hadn’t foolishly sliced it all off with a shard of glass, it wouldn’t resemble an uneven rat’s nest sitting upon your head,” you reprimanded. 

Giggling, Myra clapped her hands. “Rat’s nest!” she parroted.

Syraena scowled. “It’s not fair. You let Kyrion have short hair. I want to be a boy, like him.”

“If you wanted short hair, you could’ve just asked. Lailena would have gladly cut it for you,” you said, brandishing a wooden comb to gently run it through Syraena’s thin silvery strands. “Do you want to know what your father said when I was first pregnant with you?”

Syraena shifted with a grimace as you yanked at a knot in her hair. “What?”

“He said he didn’t care whether you were a boy or a girl. That you were his blood, regardless. His tempestuous sea dragon,” you said with a small smile, mimicking a sour face at her nickname. “And Kyrion came next, our tranquil water dragon. Then lastly, Myra, our sweet river dragon.”

When you were done, you had Syraena turn around so you could inspect her hairline, brushing back any stray bits of hair that escaped your comb. “All finished. Beautiful, handsome… I’ll call you whatever you want me to call you, sweetling.”

She chewed at the inside of her cheek, nodding. “Can I go play knights with Jaehaerys now?” 

“Go on,” you lightly nudged her away, an exasperated smile tugging at your lips, knowing full and well her hair was going to be all mussed in no less than half an hour of playing. 

Before Syraena could get up and scramble away, however, a figure approached the three of you. She was clad in a black cloak, detailed with fine red thread in embroideries of flames and dragons. Golden jewelry decorated her pale skin, her long hair like sheets of pure snow.

The Princess Rhaenyra.

“Princess,” you breathily greeted, mind flashing back to last night, when you had bumped into her sons. 

You were about to get up to bow, but Rhaenyra quickly said, “No need, Lady Y/N. My apologies, I wasn’t aware the Godswood was occupied. If you’d like to be alone—”

“Oh, no, it’s quite alright, Princess. It’s a space to be shared, after all,” you said with a courteous smile.

Rhaenyra studied you carefully, her purple eyes taking in your form. It was a strange thing, she thought. You were married to her half-brother, and mothered her childhood friend’s grandchildren. A childhood friend that was her friend no longer.

With you, however, perhaps the story could be different. 

A genuine smile graced the Princess’ lips. “These are your girls?” she asked.

The taller and older of the two most certainly took after her father, with her sharp features and silver hair, though she bore your eyes and your smile. The younger was plump with a softer face, and had more blonde than white hair, her large eyes a deep shade of violet.

“Yes, this is Syraena, my oldest. And this is Myra,” you told her. “My son Kyrion is in the library at the moment, with his father.”

“His father,” Rhaenyra echoed quietly, voice distant. The memory of little Aemond in front of her, eye slashed out, and Luke cowering behind her with a bleeding, broken nose flashed into her mind. Clearing her throat, she reeled herself back into the present by saying, “Your children are very beautiful. Have you considered any potential suitors for them yet?”

Your eyes widened simultaneously as Syraena’s head whipped up to stare at you.

“No,” you replied, a tad too quickly. “I don’t think I’d want to subject them to that until they come of age. Or until they want to.”

The Princess tilted her head to the side with a mild laugh. “If your daughters were anything like me when I was a teenager, then you’d find the latter quite a challenge.”

“Yes, Queen Alicent has told me of your youth… how you rejected nearly all the contenders for your hand,” you replied. “I can’t say I could relate. Aemond was my first and only suitor.”

She hummed in thought. “I only asked because I just had my sons betrothed to their cousins.”

Right. Jacaerys and Lucerys were to wed Baela and Rhaena. 

So that was why she asked. She wanted to know if Alicent was scheming, just as she had been. Betrothals and weddings were equivalent to political currency in times of war.

“I don’t plan on wedding my children off any time soon,” you reassured her. From the corner of your eye, you could see Syraena’s shoulders loosen up. The prospect of marriage was not one she was particularly interested in.

“I see,” Rhaenyra said, though her face was much more relaxed now than before. “I shall go wash myself before supper tonight. I look forward to seeing you there.”

With that, she turned to take her leave. Myra looked up at you with a toothy grin. “Can I come with you to supper?”

“It’ll be past your bedtime,” you said, rising to your feet and picking her up to place on your hip. “But I promise we can spend the entire day together before that. Come on, Syraena, I’ll drop you off at Jaehaerys’ room.”

That evening’s royal supper was a disaster.

It started off well enough, with several toasts from the adults, and an additional one from Jacaerys dedicated to his uncles and his cousins’ good fortune. The King gave one long, hunkering speech on unity and the togetherness of the dragon’s house, wheezing through his words all the way. 

Only then did the feast begin, consisting of a large assortment of roasted meats and soups and plates of steaming bread. There were also cold platters of appetizers passed around, full of cheeses, figs, and grapes. Viserys had barely eaten a bite before he had to be escorted back to his chambers, past his point of exhaustion.

Aegon had spent most of the dinner tormenting Jace and Baela on their future marriage. When he grew bored of his nephew’s stoic demeanor, he turned to you, his good-sister. It was evident the Prince was quite drunk as he blathered on and on about the most trivial topics as you gingerly drank your hearty soup, though you didn’t have much of a stomach for it anymore. 

The last of the toasts came from Helaena as she congratulated Baela and Rhaena on their betrothals, subtly dunking on her husband before she drank with a dreamy grin. 

Not too long after, music started playing, a symphony of strings and bells, and Jace had offered his hand to Helaena, much to Aegon’s dismay. 

In an effort to retaliate, Aegon leaned close to your ear, placing a hand on your thigh beneath the table. You had jerked away from his touch, glancing at Aemond, who sat on your other side. 

“Care for a dance with me, good-sister?” He smelled of wine and a general foul dampness.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “That’s quite alright, my Prince. I don’t think you’re in a state to dance with me.”

“Nonsense, Lady Y/N, I am as sound as the day I was born!” he drunkenly hiccuped, words slurring together. His hand found its way back to your thigh, fingers gripping tighter this time. You tried to yank your leg away, nearly standing up with the effort.

Sensing your discomfort, Aemond growled out, “Leave my wife alone, brother.”

The song drew to a close, and Helaena returned to her seat, beaming brightly. 

“Or what?” Aegon cackled, clearly enjoying seeing his brother get riled up. Thankfully, his hand slipped away from your leg to grip another chalice of wine. “What will you possibly—”

Before he could finish, Jacaerys stood between you and Aegon, offering his hand.

“If I could have this dance, Lady Targaryen?” he asked, emphasizing the family name in memory of your correction last night. His expression bore one of concern, obviously coming here to offer you an escape from Aegon.

Sparing a glance to your husband, who had taken to silently bristling, you nodded once.

“Of course, my Prince,” you said, taking his hand. Much to your satisfaction, Aegon had looked like he was struck across the face. 

Off the two of you danced—spinning and twirling and laughing the entire time. Aemond was never too fond of dancing during the celebrations, always cautious of the stares, much preferring to dance with you in the privacy of your own chambers. Watching you openly have such fun with Jacaerys, however, made jealousy coil tight within his abdomen. You were smiling so widely—a smile that he had the joy of seeing every morning. To see it elicited because of his bastard nephew kindled an envious, green flame inside him.

Then came the pig. 

And Lucerys’ none-too-discreet giggling.

Something in Aemond snapped.

The music halted as he slammed his fists onto the table, and his wife hastily stopped dancing with Jacaerys to see what the commotion was. 

Of course, Aemond simply couldn’t help himself. In front of the entire family, he called his nephews Strong boys.

Pandemonium broke out. Jacaerys had let go of you to storm forward and land a punch on your husband, which seemed not to affect him in the least, shoving the brown-haired boy to the ground. 

Aegon, eager to join the chaos, had grabbed Lucerys by the scruff of his shirt, shoving him into a searing platter of fish. “A gift for the new Lord of Driftmark!” he announced with a wild, manic grin.

In the end, Daemon had been the one to put a stop to the scuffle, staring down Aemond with raised brows. With a frustrated hum beneath his breath, your husband stormed out of the mess hall, making his way upstairs to your shared chambers.

You scrambled out after him, lifting your skirts to give you space to run. It was improper to leave without bidding the rest of the family goodbye, but then again… nothing about the dinner had been proper at all.

Once you had rushed into the room, Aemond roughly slammed the door shut, pushing you up against it. His fingers were already undoing the laces on your back, his lips sealing shut over yours.

“Aemond,” you murmured against him, lightly pushing at his chest. “Stop, for just a minute.”

Your husband pulled back at your request, single violet eye ablaze.

“What… Gods, why would you do such a thing? Why would you go out of your way to torment them?”

“You know very well why,” he quietly gruffed, reaching behind to pull off his eyepatch, tossing it onto a small table by the door, the sapphire in place of his lost eye gleaming dully beneath the moonlight. Your lips parted to ask him something else, but he cut you off by gripping your chin, whispering in a possessive fashion, “Hush, ñuha dōna embar. Seven hells, you’re more beautiful than ever. And you’re all mine.” My sweet sea.

“Don’t hush me!” you hissed, brows knitting together. “Aemond, Jacaerys will one day be the crown prince when Rhaenyra ascends the throne. It is not wise to provoke them in such a manner.”

Blowing out a heavy sigh, Aemond stroked your cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “They’re bastards, my love. The throne is not theirs to take. And my sister… the realm will not accept her as their ruler. You know this, jorrāelagon.”

“They swore an oath! Our families swore oaths to her. I don’t know about you, but I’m not too keen on becoming an oathbreaker,” you reminded, softening beneath his touch. “Aemond, I don’t want to fight with you. I just don’t want you to do that again. If not for me, then for our children. Don’t go picking fights where it’s not needed.”

Aemond shut his weary eye. If Myra had seen him tonight, she would surely be afraid of him.

“I’m sorry, my love. I’m sorry. I got caught up in my anger.”

You leaned forward to kiss him, soft and gentle, and Aemond wasted no time in reciprocating, pressing you back against the door. Off came your dress and down came your styled hair with Aemond’s skilled fingers. In no time, Aemond had your legs wound around his waist, his coat unbuttoned and shirked off somewhere behind him. Your drenched core was pressed right against his throbbing length, rock hard and leaking with pearly beads of precum.

“I love you, more than anything, more than life itself,” he murmured against your throat, gently nipping at the skin there. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Aemond,” you moaned wantonly when one of his hands snaked down to thumb at your clit. “Please, I’m yours, please fuck me.”

With a satisfied hum, Aemond planted a deep kiss onto your parted lips, a groan rumbling from his chest when you bit into his bottom lip, eyes hooded. He lined his cock up, before sinking into you with one smooth motion, his forehead falling into the crook of your neck.

You held onto him for dear life when he began to rock into you, scratching faint crimson lines down his toned back. The pain seemed to only spur him on, and he shifted his angle to pound into you deeper, your eyes rolling into the back of your head at the pleasure.

“Fuck!” he bit out. “So good, ābrazȳrys. Feels so good around me.” 

He moaned when you clenched around him, his breath hitching when you slid your hands up into his hair and yanked with no abandon. In no time, he could feel you coming undone around him with a litany of colorful curses, shaking almost violently in his hold. In turn, Aemond came inside you with a shout of your name, rocking into you once, twice, thrice more.

Slow, he pulled out of you, watching the cum drip out of your spent cunt with great satisfaction. He kissed you sweetly, nose nudging against your cheek.

“I’ll get you cleaned up,” he softly said, carrying you across the room to set you down on the bed. “Go to sleep, love.”

“Mm, I love you,” you murmured. A ghost of a warm smile etched into the corner of his lips. He repeated the sentiment to you, but you had already drifted off to sleep before you could hear it.

King Viserys was dead. Rhaenyra and her children were gone, having flown back to Dragonstone earlier in the day.

And already, Aegon was to be crowned King.

You were none too happy about the turn of events, but you were to turn the cheek and play the part of the faithful wife, for the sake of your family and their safety. The lords who had refused to bend the knee to Aegon were either thrown in the dungeons or hanged, labeled as treasonous traitors to the realm. It was just like Kyrion had drawn, as he claimed to have seen in his dreams.

“A beast beneath the boards,” Helaena had constantly murmured, which frightened you to no end. 

It was only worsened when Kyrion would reply with, “Bursting red, red in the sky, the sun in her mouth.”

Syraena was rupturing at the seams with a constant stream of questions—questions you had no such answers to. And your youngest daughter was crying the entire day, sensing the tense, fragile atmosphere. Your husband had gone to find Aegon in the slums of King’s Landing, who had unsurprisingly disappeared in thin air. 

Not before long, he was dragged back into the Keep, and the coronation commenced above the Dragon Pit. The beast beneath the boards broke out only minutes after the crown was placed on his head. Hundreds of commoners and smallfolk were killed in the commotion. Princess Rhaenys rode her scarlet dragon, the Queen That Never Was mounted on the Red Queen of Dragons.

Aemond had shoved you back, protectively standing in front of you, though there was very little he could do. The both of you were immensely grateful the children were left in the castle with Lailena, safe from the chaos and the havoc. If you were to die today, you’d be dying in Aemond’s arms, knowing your children were safe for the time being—what better way was there to die?

But neither of you died that day, for Meleys had only screeched out a shrill warning, before clambering out of the Pit, and absconding to the clouds. Red in the sky.

Aemond had ushered you to the Keep, before hugging you tight in the secluded privacy of your chambers, genuinely terrified that he could’ve lost you. 

The next day, he was already leaving again. He was to go to Storm’s End to broker a deal with Borros Baratheon: a marriage proposal between his brother Daeron and one of the Lord’s daughters. It seemed that betrothals truly were the realm’s political currency now.

“I want to come with you, Kepa,” Syraena said, staring up at her father with narrowed e/c eyes. “Let me come with you!”

Expression softening, Aemond ruffled her already-mussed hair. “It’ll be a quick trip. You can come to the next one, Syraena.”

The next goodbye was for his son, who hugged his father loosely. “An eye for a pearl,” he mumbled, too quiet for Aemond to hear. 

Clutched to his leg, sobbing hysterically, was Myra, her cheeks damp and her dark, plum-hued eyes red-rimmed. “Oh, river, don’t cry for me. I’ll be back tomorrow, I promise.”

Finally, he turned to you, his hand on the back of your head as he kissed you, chaste yet passionate, and rested his forehead on yours. “Stay safe in here, my dear sea.”

“Storm’s End is wet and cold and… obviously stormy. Keep yourself warm. Don’t get struck by lightning, is all I ask, husband.”

“As you wish, love,” he whispered, before ducking his head to kiss your cheek. With a laugh, he pried his sweet girl away from his leg, lifting her up to chastely peck her forehead, and then handed her bawling form over to you. She was always this way when Aemond had to leave for longer than a day.

The four of you watched Aemond head out of the Keep. Unease roiled within your stomach with his absence. 

“Three days for the pearl to wash ashore,” said Kyrion. There was a pallid tone to his skin, and he glanced at you with his large, pale eyes. “Mother, I’m scared.”

“Come,” you quickly said, ushering the children to their chambers. “Let’s go play with Auntie Helaena and Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, yes?”

It was late the next night when Aemond returned. The moon glowed in a sliver of its regular size, the crescent unnaturally bright in the dark sky, void of any stars. You were standing out on the balcony, sleeping shift rustling with the warm wind when the doors behind you creaked open.

Rainwater dripped from his cloak as he stepped in. 

Drip, drip, drip.

His single eye was wide and haunted, expression so far that it seemed like Aemond wasn’t even in the same room as you. 

“Aemond?” you called out, stepping back into the chambers and crossing the room in quick strides to greet him. “Gods, you're sopping wet. Are you alright?”

It was as if he didn’t hear you, staring at the ground with parted lips. There was an unfamiliar, raw sort of terror blanketed over his features, you could see it clear as ever. Your brows indented together, and you reached out to softly graze your fingers along his damp face. 

At the gentle touch, Aemond snapped his gaze to you. His hands were shaking.

Finding yourself at a loss for words, you roped him into an embrace, clutching his drenched form tightly against yours, uncaring that you were getting soaked in the process. This seemed to break him out of his reverie, as he began to tremble violently, and his chest thundered with silent sobs. His nose went directly to your neck and you hushed him with your free hand stroking the back of his head.

“Aemond, my love, what happened?” you asked again.

This time, he tried his best to answer you. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean it.”

“Didn’t mean what, darling?”

“Vhagar didn’t listen to me. I tried to stop her,” he croaked, pulling his ashen face away from the junction of your neck, searching your comforting face frantically. “I… I killed him. I killed Lucerys.”

Your lips parted in shock. There was little you could find to say—for what could you tell your husband, now a kinslayer? No amount of comforting words could fix a situation such as this.

When Rhaenyra would inevitably find out about her son, war would rain down upon you and your family.

With a thick throat, you tightly hugged Aemond again, tears gracing the corners of your own eyes.

The days passed in a blur. Aemond was quieter than ever before, regret painted over his sharp features each and every time you glanced at him. Once he told his mother, she had nearly gone down the same manic spiral, but steeled herself to deal with the Green council. 

When Aegon heard of his nephew’s death, he threw a large, grand feast, inviting all the Lords and Ladies at court.

Neither you nor Aemond attended.

The fourth night after Aemond had returned from Storm’s End, you were in Kyrion’s chambers, brushing away his ivory curls with tender hands as he settled beneath his fleece blanket to go to sleep. Aemond was putting the girls to bed by reading them a story, as the both of them were more restless than usual as of late. 

“Kyr, baby, I have a question for you,” you said, voice soft and hesitant. Should you really be asking your son this? When Kyrion tilted his head in a silent motion for you to continue, you cleared your throat. “In your dreams… Did you see what happened to your cousin, Lucerys?”

Your son nodded once, biting at the inside of his cheek, a habit that he seemed to share with you.

Before you could ask him what he saw, there was a sudden, dull thud heard outside, followed by the familiar screech of steel. Fear wound its cold, dark hands around your pulsating heart.

The door flung open so quickly that the hinges whined in protest. Your eyes fell upon the two guards in front of Kyrion’s chambers, sprawled over the cobblestone floor, dark ichor leaking out of slit throats. Two looming figures stood in the doorway. One large and burly, the other short and thin as a twig. 

You had no time to react, for a second later, the small one had darted forward, seizing you with surprising strength, brandishing coarse rope from thin air and binding your limbs together with tight knots, doing so with just one hand as his other was tightly sealing your mouth so you wouldn’t be able to scream for your husband, for more guards, for anyone. The other large man slammed the doors shut and barred them with one of his many swords he was carrying. The one holding you roughly gagged you with a cloth as soon as he pried his hand off, tying the ends around the back of your head. You gagged when your tongue registered the taste of coppery, day-old blood and sweat. 

Despite the hindrance, you screamed your throat raw through the cloth anyway, kicking furiously and struggling in desperation against the small man, who was adamant on keeping you rooted to one spot. Your yells came out muffled and guttural, but not nearly loud enough to alert anybody outside, seeing as the closest people to the chambers were now dead.

Your son whimpered out for you, but he remained quiet after that, his pale mauve eyes wide as he fixed his gaze upon the large, brutish man who slowly approached him.

“Don’t be scared, little fish,” the mousy man sneered gripping your cheeks so you’d be forced to watch your little boy cower further beneath his covers. “We’re simply debt collectors, you see. An eye for an eye, a son for a son. We just want ‘im. Won’t hurt one hair on your pretty lil’ head, ey?”

“NO!” you sobbed, struggling thrice-fold against him, to no avail. “Take me! Please, not my son!” you screamed, though it sounded like nothing but incoherent wailing through the dirty cloth.

You could do nothing but watch in horror as the large man tightened his grip on his longsword. The other hand reached out for your son, dragging him out of bed by the scruff of his sleep shirt so he dangled nearly a meter away from the ground.

“Don’t look, mother. I don’t want you to see it,” he whispered, just loud enough for you to hear through the thundering of your pulse in your ears, making your knees buckle. “I saw it in my dreams.” 

With one strike, the man lopped Kyrion’s head clean off.

Your heart seemed to stop for a moment. You screamed through the cloth, sobbing as you painfully crumpled to the ground, the gangly man finally releasing you. The blood… your son’s blood… his bed was covered with it. The walls behind him, the floor, the books on his desk…

Red, everywhere…

The two monsters had taken Kyrion’s head, the large man’s crimson-flecked fist gripping your son’s pearly-white curls, both fleeing the chambers in a blink of an eye. 

You sobbed against the ground, inching your way to your son with your bonds digging into you. You didn’t care. It was nothing compared to the pain within your chest.

“Kyrion,” you wailed through the cloth, using your shoulder to roughly shove it down your lips, letting it fall around your neck, tearing the corner of your mouth in the process. 

The entire Red Keep seemed to awaken with your grief-stricken scream. You kneeled your head against your little boy’s decapitated body, sobs wracking through your entire form.

That was what Aemond had rushed into, hearing the echoes of your cries from far away. He’d locked the girls’ rooms before coming, fearing the worst.

Upon seeing you on the ground, hovering over his murdered son, Aemond collapsed to his knees beside you, gathering his broken, shaking wife in his arms as he tugged you away. With trembling fingers, he undid the ropes around you, allowing you to throw your arms around him freely.

“Look away, jorrāelagon,” he said, voice uneven as he began to cry with you. “Look away.”

His words made you sob even harder… your son had told you to do just the same.

When Criston Cole came rushing in with Alicent Hightower, Aemond had immediately got to his feet, murderous revenge painted across his features. He helped you up, still crying hysterically.

“Mother, escort Y/N to our daughters’ chambers. Get a dozen guards to man the door. I’ll find our son’s murderer, and I’ll kill him myself.” He began striding away, Criston hot on his heels. 

You called out for him, voice hoarse with overuse.

Pausing in his steps, Aemond turned his head ever so slightly, but didn’t meet your gaze. He blamed himself, of course he did. He was ashamed, because it was his fault his son was dead. It was his fault he couldn’t protect him—that he couldn’t protect you.

It seemed that Aemond was far too blinded by his rage to learn from his mistakes.

“I need you here, please! Please, Aemond, please don’t go,” you sobbed, leaning your weight against Alicent, who had taken to cradling you against her chest.

A muscle in your husband’s jaw jumped. A tear slipped down from his only eye, and he continued to walk away, determined to bring justice to his son. It felt as if a searing hot knife had pierced through his chest and twisted when he heard your despaired cries ricocheting off the stone halls of the Keep.

Revenge, was all he could think of, cold anger dancing along the dark shadows of his face. If it is a war they want, it is a war they shall have.

a/n ; hey !! thank you for reading this fic until the end <3 means so much to me! i made some picrews of what i visualize the kids to look like so here you go !! they're all aged up, ofc.

[shanastoryteller]

happy valentine Shana!!! I can't believe i made it finally jgfcjjcgjgx i would love to see some fma (Sacrifice is free/ed&ling betrothed/What They Expect) or more of Lord Arthur De Bois, or time travel Jiang Cheng/drarry, or Avengers' Three Faced Goddess! (can anyone tell I Cannot choose favourites? They're all so gooood) and if none of those sound appealing, dealer's choice! thank you!!

continuation of 1 2 3 4 5

It's sort of awkward, because Eden insists on thick tights and long sleeves and keeps her gloves on, but Catherine takes it in stride and doesn't react with anything more than a single raised eyebrow. Maybe she thinks she has some sort of terrible skin condition on her limbs, or something, because she's perfectly fine with plunging necklines and the lacy bras Catherine shoves at her.

She hasn't worn anything besides a sports bra since she's had breasts. They're not exactly comfortable, but compared to the constant, background ache of the automail it doesn't even make a blip on her radar.

Besides. They make her look like a girl, shoving her breasts up front and center, and their size had been an annoyance when passing for a boy and a comfort when she looked at herself naked in the mirror, searching for the girl she was rather than the boy everyone saw, but this is different.

"Wow," Catherine blinks, tilting her head to the side.

Eden flushes and wishes that at any point she'd learned how to talk to pretty girls outside of life or death situations. "I hadn't realized they - I'm not used to wearing, um, girly stuff."

"You look good in it," she says, touching Ed's back and shifting her to face the mirror.

She's in black tights and boots with a chunky heel, taller than the ones she normally wears and sleeker, stopping just below her knees. She's wearing a dark green dress with a deep neckline. She's used to be hard lines and sharp edges, but she looks soft here, her hips and breasts curving out from her waist and the dress somehow minimizing the breadth of her shoulders, or maybe it's just that with all the skin on display in the center, her shoulders just don't get as much attention. She'd had to build them up, to make the automail balanced, to make sure her body could support it, and she'd always hated how masculine it made her look. But looking at herself now, she wonders if that just wasn't in her head.

Green's never been a color she gravitated towards, but the dark color makes the gold of her hair shine, brings out the warmth of her eyes and the pink of her lips.

"You're really good at this," she tells Catherine, throat tight.

Catherine grins. "You are a beautiful canvas, Eden. It was not difficult." Ed's face burns. "Do you have plans for dinner? We could have it at my home. I am, honestly, dying to curl your hair."

Ed hesitates, because her shade of blonde is rather distinctive, then takes a second look at herself in the mirror. No one is going to think she's the Fullmetal Alchemist looking like this. "Okay, yeah. Sure. That'd be great."

~

Catherine knows that Eden is military at first glance, seeing her elder sister in the way Eden stands and moves. She looks young, but she can't be that young, not when she has the stance of someone who's been enlisted for years.

She figures that Eden is looking for clothes to wear outside of her uniform for the first time and something in her softens at how insistent Eden is on keeping certain parts of her body covered. Her siblings have scars too.

When they get to their home, Eden seems slightly surprised at the grandness of her home, but gets over it quickly, which Catherine almost expected. She hadn't looked at a single price tag as they'd been shopping and had paid for her bags of purchases with a nonchalance that spoke of a familiarity with money, although that leaves Catherine to wonder how she ended up in the military in the first place. She hadn't gotten a last name out of her, but Catherine is familiar with most military families, and she would have heard if any of their daughters had enlisted.

"Your bedroom is so pretty," Eden says, looking around at her pink, frilly room filled with flowers and clothes and gilded in gold with a soft wistfulness.

Catherine loves her. "Thank you. Here, sit at my vanity, let's play."

Eden laughs and pulls her hair out of the hasty ponytail she'd pulled it into, letting Catherine run her hands through it and carefully brush out every knot. It's gorgeous, thick and silky and the most wonderful shade that Catherine's never seen on anyone else.

People always act so oddly with her because of her family, even those similarly situated looking down at her for her choices, to be neither an officer nor married to one, but that's just not what she wants right now. It's nice to hang out with another girl that just treats her like a friend.

"MY BELOVED SISTER HAS RETURNED!" booms from what sounds like the first floor.

She sighs.

Eden goes rigid in her chair, eyes wide. "What - why-"

"It's just my brother," she says soothingly, concerned with how pale Eden has gotten. "He's harmless, really."

"Brother," Eden repeats. "Fuck. Fuck! I'm so stupid-"

"It's okay," she says in alarm, "Eden, what-"

She gets to her feet, grabbing her hands and looking at her a desperation that Catherine doesn't understand. "He can't know I'm here. Who I am. Do you understand? It's important."

She doesn't understand. "Eden-"

There's the sound of heavy footsteps heading their way and Eden wrenches herself away, bolting for the other side of the room. She claps her hands together, then presses them against the wall, and in flash of light she's disappeared.

Catherine stares. mouth agape.

She's familiar with alchemy. The skill has been passed down her family for generations.

Eden didn't use a circle.

"I HEAR YOU HAVE MADE A FRIEND, DEAR SISTER!" Alex shouts, flinging open her door and flexing in the doorway. "I WISH TO MEET YOUR NEW COMPANION!"

She picks up a pillow from her bed and lobs it at him, hitting him right in his stupid curl. "We're having girl time, go away!"

"Ah, girl time!" he says. "A storied tradition that has been passed down the Armstrong family for many generations!" He looks around, seeing her empty room, and his eyebrows dip together.

She grabs a makeup brush, holding it up threateningly. "You know what else has been passed down our family for generations? The art of knocking! Go bother Momma!"

"Where's," he starts.

Catherine throws the brush, pointy end towards his eyes.

He ducks, retreating to the safety of the hallway and closing the door just in time for the brush to hit it.

She takes a deep breath, calming her racing heart and smoothing her hands down her skirt. She crosses the room, knocking against the wall and whispering, "Eden? He's gone."

There's nothing for a moment and then there's light and heat and she's looking at the the inside of her house, pipes and insulation, and Eden standing there in the center of it, eyes blown wide and lips trembling.

Eden, who won't let her look at her limbs and doesn't know how to wear girly things and uses alchemy without circles and recognizes her brother from his voice alone.

"I'm sorry," Eden whispers, arms wrapped around herself, trying to make herself small. "I just wanted-"

Catherine interrupts her, reaching out to place her hand over the arm Eden had been careful not to let her touch and is unsurprised to feel hard, unyielding metal. "The art of secret keeping had been passed down the Armstrong family for generations."

Eden's eyes snap to hers and Catherine smiles, squeezing her arm and hopes that she can feel it. Slowly, wondrously, Eden returns it.

[genshin-impact-updates]

Grace and Power Resound, Feathered Wings Skybound

"...We have come to a full and thorough understanding of the folly and recklessness of our recent actions, and agree to set aside our differences and move forward as one... This statement has been drafted entirely of our own free will, with no objections whatsoever. Additionally, we would like to thank the Peacemaker for her outstanding contributions with respect to facilitating this reconciliation."

— A "heartfelt" joint statement of reconciliation, made by a pair of chiefs after an inter-tribal conflict

◆ Name: Chasca

◆ Title: Skyborne Arbiter

◆ Peacemaker of the Tlalocan

◆ Vision: Anemo

◆ Constellation: Vultur Gryphus

"...There's no hope for the child... You know I can't accept that either! But, please... just give up."

This was the first "conflict" that Chasca experienced in her life.

"...Just what's wrong with this kid? Was she raised by a Qucusaurus or something? No wonder she's so wild..."

This was one of the countless "conflicts" that Chasca faced after returning to the Flower-Feather Clan.

Though her childhood memories were already blurry, Chasca still remembered the emotions stirring beneath those words: disappointment, pain, bitterness, and frustration... People were caught in a web of emotions, forever entangled in "conflict."

But "conflicts" can eventually be resolved. All it takes is a turning point.

"...Kraa?" A Qucusaurus, soaring high up in the sky, just so happened to catch sight of the helpless "child" crying piteously for food down below.

"At least give me a heads-up next time!" A young girl, after practically having searched the length and breadth of the mountains, puffed with anger after finding her runaway "sister."

...Perhaps many "conflicts" weren't as deeply rooted, or as difficult to "transcend," as people imagined?

Gear packed and bullets loaded, Chasca — who was now a fully-fledged Peacemaker — stepped through the door to embrace the morning breeze.

"This time... it's my turn to resolve some conflicts." Lowering the brim of her hat, she smiled to herself.

[daosies]

the divine disorder

this piece is part of the spring & swag event!!

Sunday dislikes frivolous people, and yet, here you are: divine.

sunday ♡ gn!reader

warnings: graphic metaphors for eating & descriptions of food (+ chewing), sunday story spoilers, post-penacony sunday, pre-established relationship

notes: instead of stuttering hearts, sunday has twitchy wings MUEHEHEHE (also pls pls pls be warned if u r sensitive to graphic descriptions of chewing & eating bc i really went bananas when describing sunday and mc having a meal together o(￣┰￣*)ゞ)

Sunday’s dream is complex: create a utopia, a perfect world where there is nothing but dreams and hope and flight—a perfect world where no one must weep, where no one must feel sorrow or pain. But how is that possible? To feel joy without understanding sadness? To never weep again if one has never wept? 

Sunday’s dream is complex, terribly so. But he, of all people, knows that fact the most poignantly. 

After all, who would know the pain of falling better than Icarus himself? The grief of the limitless expanse; the touch of the sun, just within reach; the crash of the waves, slamming against his spine. Sunday’s dream is complex. But that doesn’t mean he won’t don those wax wings again, that he won’t reach for the sun once more, wondering if this time, the warmth will be tender. 

Maybe it’ll be worth it. Maybe the warmth of the sun will be incomparable, and it’ll be shared, and everyone in the whole, entire universe can feel its gentle embrace. 

The sun. The warmth. The ocean, below, its harsh waves blending into the point where it looks stagnant. Because from the sun, everything looks tiny—everything looks kind. 

And maybe it won’t be. Maybe the sun will remain as it is: striking, ravenous, inevitable. Maybe the sun will sear him again, maybe the fall into the ocean will be harsher than the last—but, after arriving at the Astral Express, and after experiencing what little bits of the Trailblaze that he has been privileged to have, Sunday thinks that it’s a possibility that he must prepare for. 

But not a possibility that he will resign himself to; you taught him that.

When he had first boarded the Express, debt-ridden, suspicious towards the IPC, leaving everything that he had ever known behind (his sister, his home, the Order), Sunday thought that there was nothing left for him. He thought that it was over. He was scared. 

The unknown was scary—and space, oh, space! Space is a vacuum of the unknown! The cosmos, the world, the universe—it was all so much larger than himself, larger than Penacony, larger than the venues that his sister performed at; it was scary. So, so scary. 

Everything overwhelmed him. Like the windows of the express (it wasn’t really the windows that scared him; that’d be absurd, it was more like seeing the quiet, limitless expanse of the universe through just a pane of glass that really worried him), like the constant appearance and disappearance of different individuals from a myriad of walks in life (one day, he’d see someone from the Xianzhou Alliance, and the next, some wandering man who was searching for the Aeon of Beauty).  

There were always so many things happening. What overwhelmed him the most, however, was you. 

You, who seemed to make the breadth of the universe pale in comparison to your colossal existence. You, who never once doubted him and his complex dream; you, who didn’t seem to mind his desperation to maintain order and disorder all at the same time. It was embarrassing, really. 

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he had said one night, after rearranging the utensils which surrounded his plate, organizing the forks and knives in descending order before scrambling everything once again when he realized how important it was to embrace imperfection. 

“It’s fine,” you replied, shrugging. “Want chopsticks?” 

Sunday felt the feather of both his wings twitch, his face feeling warm—like the breath of the sun, like the radiance of the light—from embarrassment. While he had been rearranging his utensils, you had simply been staring at him, holding a single pair of chopsticks, waiting. 

“That would be preferred,”—he had did everything in his power that night, as your fingers brushed with his, as he held the chopsticks in between his defeated fingers, to not avert his eyes from yours, to maintain decorum and calm the flutter of his wings—“again, my apologies.”

You hadn’t even responded. Once he had held the chopsticks, and once he had seemed to let go of his personal gripe with the order of his utensils, you had started eating. All Sunday could do was watch. 

In between mouthfuls of your food—which, of course, peeved Sunday a little (he was taught all his life the etiquettes of table manners and one of them, the most basic one, was to not talk with food in your mouth)—you had asked, “Why aren’t you eating?”

“I prefer to wait a little,” he had paused before saying, “to savor the moment.” 

“Oh!” you exclaimed. “That’s deep. Maybe I should do that too…” Your gaze trailed back down to your food (and something within Sunday, maybe it was his heart, maybe it was his blood, he didn’t know it at the time, what it was—but something trembled, mourning the loss of your eyes which, for but a brief, but lovely moment, belonged wholly to him). 

“On second thought,” you said, still chewing, “nevermind.” 

It is true that Sunday likes to wait before eating; it’s a way of paying respect to the privilege, a way to relish in the sensation, the enormity of taste. But Sunday’s habit goes beyond just taste itself; it’s about the moment, it’s about the act of dining with someone else, the act of trusting and being in someone’s presence to the point where he feels safe enough to ingest something; to survive in front of someone else, to satiate in front of someone else.

Eating is grotesque. To be fueled by consumption, to feast and fuse chemicals with his cells, to do it in the presence of someone else—That, he thinks, is what must be savored. The trust. The companionship. The love. The grotesqueness is what gives eating its divine sensation, its incomparable significance.

To be grotesque together. To survive together. To love together—is that not perfect?

Before that time, Sunday had thought that the act of eating in itself was imperfect. The grotesqueness was appalling, nauseating, even—he didn’t want to eat in front of anyone that wasn’t his sister, the only person who he would allow to witness his act of survival, his insatiable ingestion.

But there you were—eating. Surviving. Loving. You were chewing, and Sunday could hear the crunch of the carrots, the pop of the grapes. And you were drinking water, your lips against the glass, satiated. And, and—and not once did he think you were grotesque, and not once did he perceive the notion of the imperfect. 

You were as you are. Frivolous, disorderly, imperfect—and somehow, Sunday thinks that you might have been sculpted by an Aeon, that you might have been kissed with life rather than conceived by it, that you might have been tenderly adored before you were graced in front of him. Tangible, divine. 

He wanted to savor that. The moment, the grotesqueness, the divine sensation; but Sunday was, is, greedy. At the time, he was afraid to even utter the thought. Now, he doesn’t mind. What he wanted to savor most of all was you, not just the divine sensation, but rather, the enormity of the divine, the colossal significance—you. 

You. 

It was an inconceivable notion to him, really. 

Because when he first met you, he was stunned, not necessarily because you weren’t there for his great Penacony downfall, but rather, because your entire being emanated disorder. 

Your clothes were wrinkled, your head struggling to remain upright as fell forward on multiple occasions, sleeping while standing. It looked as if you were teleported from your bed to the lobby, hardly conscious as you mumbled a couple of incoherent responses whenever you were addressed.

Sunday thought you to be frivolous. 

And yet, there he was, sitting across from you in one of the seats of the Party Car. Enamored by the divine, the disorder. Your words were muffled by the food in your mouth, your chopsticks clanging loudly against the bowl, your mannerisms defying every bit of etiquette he had ever learned. 

And yet, there he was, staring. And yet, there he was, not once sparing his food a glance—how could he afford to look at anything else, when you were right there? Divine? Perfectly imperfect?

“Sunday?” a voice calls, interrupting his prolonged stupor. Sunday cranes his head over his shoulder, bewildered, wondering when he started standing here, staring mindlessly out the windows of the Express Car without a single star entering his eyes, the windows to his soul. 

(There is no room in his soul for anything but you. No star, no universe, no limitless expanse—for you have owned the entirety of it, disorder.)

When did this begin? Sunday wonders, unable to contain the stutter of his wings when his lemon eyes behold your existence. When did the disorder become so palpable? His gaze trails over your shirt, ruffled; your shoelaces, untied; the popsicle in your hand, melting. 

Before he had met you, Sunday would have contained his smile. It wouldn’t be courteous to laugh at someone, especially when they were frivolous, especially when Sunday disliked frivolous people. 

But here you are, disorderly, tangible, frivolous—and here Sunday is, smiling. Wholly. With the crinkle of those lemon eyes, with the upturn of his lips, fervent and wild and free and oh, so imperfect. So lovely, so divine. 

After he met you, Sunday thinks—maybe not consciously, or fully yet—that imperfections aren’t too bad after all. Maybe imperfections can coexist with his decorum. Maybe imperfections can be a part of his paradise, of his simple, yet unfathomably complex dream. 

A world where no one must weep, a world where no one must feel sorrow. A world where there is nothing but dreams and hope and flight and, and—and you. Disorder. Divine.

“[Name],” he greets, his courteous tone not matching his amused smile, “have you perhaps noticed something?” 

You blink owlishly, scrutinizing his form. “Uh, did you get a haircut?” 

His wings twitch. 

“I’m afraid not,” he says, unable to contain the chuckle which escapes his lips; maintaining a semblance of decorum, Sunday points in the direction of your hand. Half of your popsicle has fallen to the floor, its red color staining the ground like some sort of cartoonish crime scene.

“Oh, shit—! We need a mop!” 

Sunday crosses his arms, tilting his head to the side as he observes your panic in real time, offering you nothing but the gentlest of smiles, and the entirety of his soul. 

It’s yours. Like how the sun’s warmth graces the world, you saturate his soul, filling every crevice, illuminating the darkness, warding away the cold—But this, Sunday thinks, isn’t enough. He needs more. Because the sun’s light is intangible, because his fingers phase through its rays. 

Sunday jumps—his wings, sealed by wax, fueled by fervor—and he soars. Towards the sun. Towards the warmth, towards his very own soul. 

This must be what paradise is like: being yours.