#featuring angst

[angeart]

a very fun hunted hybrids au art collab with @linkito <3

---

He curls up, just a little bit—his healthy leg pulls to his chest, while the injured one stays as still as his tremors allow. His head dips, and he’s still keeping his eyes tightly closed, as if that could help him wish all this away. As if that could help him pretend he’s not suggesting this—insisting on this.

“Scar, I can’t— You won’t be able to run from them, if you’re with me.” 

He’s saying, please, be reasonable. He’s saying, you should go. He’s saying, I care about you too much to drag you into the depths with me. 

He’s saying, please, I don’t want you to be in danger because of me. I don’t want you to hurt because of me. I don’t want you to die because of me. Please. Please, Scar. You need to go.

His heart beats  a contrary, frightened rhythm against his ribs: Please don’t leave me.

[baconcolacan]

What sort of relationship has the gang now? (Ew stay au) what does Tord think of them?

Okay it would take me wayyyyy too long to make new visuals to explain this au so I'll just write it down. Also keep in mind, this AU IS very self-indulgent so expect some ships I like:

The Stay AU is just a little thing I made for self-indulgence reasons. I wanted to explore the gang's relationships through a softer, albeit complicated, lens.

These designs I have for them are versions of them in their mid to late 20s. They did have a phase where they all wore their signature matching hoodies, but I place that timeline somewhere in their early twenties to late teens. In the Stay au, I'm focusing on them mostly in their late 20s onwards.

Brief summary of their history before my timeline: Edd was friends with Tord first, because during their first day of school he was the only other kid who was drawing by himself instead of outside during recess. Tom and Matt are childhood friends, their parents knew each other but they had a falling out, only later-hesitantly- reconciling when they all became friends with Edd and Tord. They all grow up together afterwards. Since you asked about Tord's point of view, here's his thoughts about his friends throughout the years until his 30s, keep in mind I'm not gonna be able to explain it thoroughly enough without it devolving into a 200k word fanfic: Edd - (childhood to late 20s) Arguably his best friend. He thinks the world of Edd since he approached him first and showed genuine interest in getting to know him. Edd's the first person he made friends with in England, which makes it special since the move had been so jarring for him. Growing up with Edd was pretty easy, despite him being snarky at times he always made sure to include Tord in everything he did, it was touching how much he cared. Tord had never met a person who was as excitable as Edd was, even if it often led to harrowing situations. Edd always seemed to want him to be part of his life for a very long time, it was the first time Tord had ever felt like someone cared and wanted him to be there. It pained him to leave when he did, out of everyone in the group, Edd was the one he couldn't look in the eye when he left. (30s) He had cut off contact with the group, but he still felt guilty the first few years when Edd would try to call or send him emails. He switched his phone number and abandoned his old email to make it easier. (mid 30s) Met him again but on the battlefield. It hurt him a lot to see him there after he tried everything to not get them involved. He never got to explain himself as a bomb, aimed for him, came screaming towards them. He thought Edd had died that day. (late 30s) Found out that Edd was alive, tried everything to reach him, even so far as visit England under pretense of a meeting with the PM. Found Edd after scouring London for a week, got into a fight with him, couldn't explain himself due to being overwhelmed. Edd said he hated him. It shattered him. Hasn't contacted him since. Tom - (childhood to late 20s) He wasn't sure about him when they first met, Tom got pretty attached to Edd when he first met him- mostly to make Matt jealous at the start, but then he started to genuinely like Edd and follow him around like a puppy- this caused Tord to get jealous and insecure, his kid brain thinking that Tom would take away his first friend in a scary new country, thus began what would become a lifetime of bickering and fighting. Tord admittedly feels a bit ashamed that he started their petty squabbling by essentially trying to bully Tom away from Edd. Of course, Tom fought back every step of the way, by the time they were teenagers they forgot why they started disliking each other in the first place, just seemed natural for them to be on opposing ends. Funky teenager stuff happened, and it ended up with them being on again off again lovers up until their early 20s. Then the incident happened, Tom was drunk and he decided to pick a fight with him, but this time he might have pushed too far, Tom managed to injure him with a broken bottle, causing the scar on his eyebrow. It was tense between them for a while, eventually they stopped fighting, sometimes even curling up together on the couch, but they never addressed what happened even when Tord was going to leave. (mid 30s) Met him on the battlefield. The bomb happened. He managed to save him but Tom still got injured in the process, costing his eyesight. Tord had been beside himself and wracked with guilt every time he looked at Tom's bandaged eyes. He broke down crying, apologizing for what happened. Tom didn't speak to him for a while, but later on slowly began to talk to him again. They restarted their relationship, this time "without the baggage" as per Tom's request.

(late 30s) His relationship with Tom is nice, cozy even, but he still feels guilt and shame even when Tom smiles at him and calls him "Elskede". He tries to make it work, but he doesn't know if he genuinely can, Tom wanted to try again "without the baggage" but Tord wanted nothing more than to finally address all of the ugly things they had done to each other. Though, hes scared of losing the only good thing he seems to have at this point. Matt - (childhood to late 20s) He's not as close to Matt than the other two are. When they were kids, Matt didn't seem to really want to be in his company, especially after he made up with Tom and Tord started antagonizing him throughout the years. Tord might have been a little scared of Matt, especially when he would glare at him every time he made Tom cry. He really didn't want to be around Matt for a while, he was a bit intimidating from their childhood to their early 20s. After the incident with Tom, Matt had been the one to approach him first, scolding him for the things he said, but relenting about how far Tom had taken it. Matt admitted he never really liked Tord, but was willing to set his feelings aside because it seemed like he finally got some sense knocked into him (pun intended). Unexpectedly, he would spend sleepless nights out in the backyard with Matt, and just...talk about the things that worry him and make him insecure. Matt is really good at self-love talk, and has helped him through darker moments. Matt had actually been the one to encourage him to leave, not because he didn't like him, but somehow Matt understood he couldn't grow into "himself" if he was just stuck there in London, it wasn't healthy for him to be stagnant, and Matt understood that. He was the only one whose eyes he could meet when he left, Matt had looked sad, but he smiled at him nonetheless. (mid 30s) Met him again but on the battlefield. The bomb hit. Matt had been the most mutilated out of all of them, but Tord managed to save him. Matt was in a coma for a while, leading Tord down a depressive spiral, worried that Matt would never come to. He spent almost every day visiting his ward, just to stand watch for a few hours and talk to him. (late 30s) Matt eventually woke up, but with complications, his memory became shoddy and mostly jumbled. He remembers things sometimes, but sometimes he doesn't. This became something of a heavy point of guilt for Tord, and he became extremely devastated when Matt forgot him. While true that he didn't become close with Matt in their early years, he treasured the moments he managed to have with him later on. Now he was back to being a stranger. It felt like he had lost Matt on that battlefield anyway.

[eldrtchmn]

黑水 Black Water

[nattikay]

No Angst AU - sister talk ;)

[edit] whoops, got a word mixed up: kämolunge should've been zamolunge! 😅 that's what I get for not double checking

[originalartblog]

[Storm Bringer]

My lips could not help but automatically curl into a smile as I watched Master Chuuya walk with a spring in his step.

[kimchikrust]

bkg slowburn partners to lovers excellence

fyi: aged up, drinking, not beta'd, deal w it

Cupid's Chokehold (3.7k)

"I'm falling in love with you."

It rolls off your tongue without a second thought, and you relish the relief of your confession. Katsuki can't control his surprise, and you can read his answer off his face, and for a brief moment, you regret making your move.

The sting of rejection is quickly numbed purely by willpower, and you laugh airily.

"You have a terrible poker face," you tease lightly. You steel yourself for the next part by deeply breathing through your teeth. "You aren't interested in me."

"It's not like that," Katsuki mumbles quietly, his ears turning pink. "I need to focus on my career. We both do."

"Gotcha," you whisper, looking off into space, head turned away from him. "No, you're right." You clear your throat and begin to wrap up your trash from your forgotten lunch.

Katsuki seems to want to stop you, but he's silent as he watches you step out of your seat and make a quick visit to the nearest trash bin.

"Look, we're good," you assure him as you prepare to end this shared meal. "Nothing's changed. We're partners."

Katsuki raises a brow at you, remaining in his seat. "Then how come you're leaving?"

You respond with a dry laugh, fighting down the pit in the back of your throat. "Give a girl a second to wallow, Bakugo," you huff. Shrugging, you awkwardly shift your weight back and forth between your stance. "At least I won't be so distracted during patrols anymore."

It's your weak attempt to lighten the mood. Although, it's hard to commit when trying to come to terms with your rejection. Unfortunately, Katsuki doesn't find it amusing, and his expression remains a combination of surprise and confusion.

"I won't be as weird tomorrow," you brush off sheepishly. "Get home safe." With a single nod, you turn to leave before anything can stop you.

You feel like you can breathe again once you shut your door and feel your car engine rumble to life. Before you can shift gears, a wave of embarrassment and shame washes over you, and you throw your head back against your seat.

Pressing your hands against your face, you let out a sound of anguish, feeling like a fool. Raking your fingers back through your hair, you sigh.

"You just can't shut up sometimes, can you?" Your voice is quiet as it disturbs the otherwise silence in your car. "Brush it off. You're not dying." You shake your head and quickly note where the alcohol in your apartment is for when you get home.

-

Katsuki doesn't notice anything different about your dynamic in the days following your confession. You make eye contact easily and banter with him like nothing has happened. You're civil and, for the most part, stay on task during patrol.

You're the perfect partner, and yet, Katsuki can sense something has shifted.

"You're late," he grumbles, glaring at you as you stride to your desk with a compostable coffee cup in your hands.

"Would you relax," you dismiss him with a flimsy wave of your hand. You drop your bag onto your chair and start peeling off your layers. "We don't start for another ten minutes. I'll be right back."

You disappear to change into your uniform, and Katsuki takes this opportunity to invade your privacy.

"You don't drink coffee," he states skeptically after bringing your cup up to his nose and taking a whiff. The stench from the coffee is strong but not enough to cover up the scent of your lipstick coating the mouthpiece. He didn't even realize you wore makeup.

"Hey, don't drink my drink," you chastise as soon as you return, adjusting the sleeves of your uniform.

"You don't even like coffee," he accuses, setting your cup back on your desk. You respond with an incredulous laugh.

"No, you don't like coffee," you correct him. "I'm perfectly happy drinking coffee."

"Why would you need to drink it anyways? Didn't you get enough sleep?" Katsuki's glare softens as he gives you a quick scan, picking up the exhaustion clouding your eyes and the tentative way you handle your stationery. "Did you at least eat something? I don't need you passing out on me during a fight."

"You almost sound worried," you say with a dry tone, covering it up with a hollow chuckle. "Where's the trust, man?"

"There is none," Katsuki bites back quickly, but the humored glint in your eyes relieves him. "Are you almost ready to head out?"

"Can we ever just start when our shift starts?" You groan with a roll of your eyes as you return your stationery to their respective spots on your desk.

"Being on time is being late," Katsuki reminds you of what feels like the millionth time since he's met you.

He can hear you poorly imitate him behind his back, but when he turns to glare at you, you're inspecting your nails and obviously feigning innocence.

It's all too normal for his liking, and he's unsure why. He should feel grateful that you're not awkward after your confession and that you've moved past it and carried on your professionalism, but he's not. Not entirely, at least.

A little part of him can't stop hearing your confession.

"I'm falling in love with you."

Every time he meets your eyes, there's a brief pause, and Katsuki can't tell if it's imagination. You glow whenever you smile, even if it's not directed at him, and he can't look away from you.

You still grab lunch with him after your shifts, although now there's a thin blanket of tension veiling your conversations. And, outside of work, there's no contact from you.

Katsuki misses the days when you'd message him in the morning before your shifts, asking if he wanted anything from the shop that you stopped by for quick meals. He'd never take you up on your offer, but now he'll see you walk in with a to-go cup and wonder if you forgot to text him. He knows the truth, though.

You're trying to get over him. He can see right through your efforts, no matter how subtle you're trying to be. Katsuki notices the way you freeze up whenever he brushes his hand against your arm or grabs at you to check for injuries.

Every time, without fail, you'll clear your throat and yank yourself away from him, avoiding his accusing glare.

"I'm fine," you grit out, holding your arm that's obviously in pain. "I'll be good. Thanks."

Just let me take care of you, Katsuki will think bitterly to himself, watching you stagger away and doing nothing about it. You never used to be this difficult when he was just trying to do his job.

You'd argue that caring for you wasn't part of the job, and he'd find every fiber of him disagreeing with you.

"What are you doing this Friday?"

You're obviously surprised once you comprehend what Katsuki is asking towards the end of your patrol. You look flustered and waging an internal battle in your head.

"My idiot friends are having their monthly get-together," Katsuki explains, uncharacteristically mumbling. "They asked if you wanted to join."

"What?" You laugh, amusement washing away your nerves. "You're inviting me? What are they holding over you to do this?"

Katsuki glares at you, irritated that you guessed correctly. Mina threatened him to invite you, otherwise, she'd show up unannounced at the agency and introduce herself.

Normally, he'd go unphased by her threats, but ever since your confession, Katsuki's felt a shred of anguish that you'll disappear one day.

Even if he couldn't give you the relationship you hoped for, he wanted to provide for you somehow. And, if he had to expose you to his personal life a little more, then he was okay with that. As long as it meant you'd stay with him.

"They threatened to ambush us during a patrol if I didn't."

You fail to stifle your laugh, and Katsuki hopes to elicit more of that from you.

"I appreciate the offer," you eventually answer, and Katsuki feels elated at your initial positivity. It quickly dissipates when you reject his invitation. "I have plans this Friday, actually. For once." You laugh at your deprecating allusion, but Katsuki maintains his aloof expression.

"Suddenly, you're too good for my friends?" It was meant to be a joke, but his abrasive tone reveals his vulnerable ego.

You visibly hesitate to respond, and Katsuki wonders what you're fighting yourself on. What are you holding back from him?

"I have plans already," you repeat with more force, finalizing your explanation, and Katsuki feels irritation bubbling in his stomach.

You didn't make plans that required you to leave your apartment often – Katsuki knew this. You lived with your best friend, so most of your time outside of work was spent at home. Whenever you managed to come across real plans that involved wearing nicer clothes than sweatpants, you'd normally chat Katsuki's ear off about your anticipation.

"Do you have a date?" He blurts his question out before he can comprehend the thought, and he can feel the tips of his ears get warm with embarrassment.

You can't fight back the surprise from reaching your face, and Katsuki knows the answer before you nod.

You laugh sheepishly at getting caught, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear – a nervous habit Katsuki has caught on to after two years of working with you.

"Yeah, I do," you murmur, looking everywhere but at him. "My roommate set it up with her boyfriend's friend."

How come you didn't tell me, he wants to ask, but he already knows. "Is he nice?"

"Yeah, he's..." He watches your eyes glaze over as you get stuck in your head before clearing your throat. "He's nice. Why?"

Katsuki shrugs, feigning indifference. Inside, he's frustrated, but he knows he shouldn't be.

You're his partner. His work partner.

As long as this random head that's taking you out doesn't distract you during your patrols – when you're with him – then he can't shouldn't complain.

"Will you tell me how it goes?" His question is quiet because he's embarrassed to ask, but he wants to know. He knows not knowing will bother him, and he can't explain to himself why.

"Um, sure," you hesitate to answer, almost questioning yourself.

You keep details of your date private from him after Friday comes and goes. The curiosity eats at Katsuki whenever he catches you glancing at your phone or smiling at yourself at your desk, but he keeps it to himself.

-

Your shift today was harder than usual. A few minor misdemeanors followed up with a villain attack.

You could tell that Katsuki was frustrated throughout the whole time, keeping quiet and growling to himself more often than usual.

After, when you were packing up your things to leave for the day, you noticed Katsuki sitting at his desk with his head hanging low. His arms are relaxed against the chair handles and you think he looks defeated as people walk past him without a glance.

"Trying to get food?" You pipe up, sliding past him to lean back against his desk. You keep your demeanor light, resting your hands against the surface and keeping your chin up. "I'm starving."

"You head out without me," he mumbles, flicking his hand.

"Nah," you hum, smiling at him with encouragement. "Come eat with me."

"Wouldn't that make your boyfriend uncomfortable?"

Boyfriend? You frown at your partner, tilting your head with a curious look.

"My nonexistent boyfriend would probably be more concerned with my obnoxious partner giving me attitude when I'm hungry."

Katsuki finally looks up at you, and you widen your eyes in exaggeration.

"Oh my god, finally," you rasp, holding your hand against your chest. "I was planning on getting you a vest for your birthday to help you with your posture."

"You don't even know when my birthday is," he answers with a sneer, but it doesn't phase you.

"Of course I know when your birthday is, Bakugo," you tell him. "Now, can we please go eat?" You bounce off of his desk and pat his bare shoulder, shortly relishing the satisfying warmth that emits from his body.

Katsuki catches you by surprise when he holds your hand against his arm, squeezing gently.

"Are you okay?" You ask him, knowing what his answer will be but hoping for a rare moment of vulnerability.

"Just tired," he mumbles, not looking at you. You smile softly, understanding where his exhaustion might be coming from, and use your other hand to pat his spiky head.

"You're working hard," you remind him with sympathy. "You did a good job today."

Katsuki doesn't say anything, just responds with a nod.

You start to pull away, but he holds you in place for another moment. Your heart stutters in your chest, and you're hit with a familiar wave of infatuation that you've been desperate to avoid.

"We did a good job today," he finally says. "We're partners."

"I know, Bakugo." As badly as I want to be more, we're just partners. "You're not getting rid of me, unfortunately."

You're forced to yank your hand out of his, avoiding his glare when he turns back to look at you.

"Let's head out already," you plead, creating some distance between you before checking back to see if he's following you.

You can't fight back your smile when you find him out of his seat and pacing over to you.

-

Katsuki hates seeing you in Mina's apartment. It's like his worlds are colliding, and he's still not mentally prepared after a week.

He's grateful you let him pick you up and take you instead of finding your way there. He's also quietly pleased that you're glued to his side because you don't know any of his friends.

"I hope your friend likes this wine," you nervously babble in his ear, and it makes his skin vibrate with how close you are. "How do you not know what alcohol your friends like?"

"Cause I don't care," he bites back, arms crossed over his chest and sending you his normal glare. "And you shouldn't either. Not like they're your friends."

That was obviously not the right thing to say, and Katsuki immediately regrets it when he watches your expression fall.

"Then, why did you invite me?" You sound frustrated and lean away from him slightly. "What am I doing here?"

"Saving me from a night of nuisances."

Katsuki thinks he hears you mumble "Typically," but doesn't respond because Mina and Eijiro approach.

"Hey, Bakubro," Eijiro greets with a wide smile, clapping a hand against Katsuki's arm. "And hello to you too!"

You give them your name with a polite smile and present Mina with your gift. Katsuki has to fight the urge to put his arm around you – to protect you from his friend.

"I didn't know what to bring, but I hope you like this wine."

Mina squeals in delight, taking the bottle from your hands and inspecting it before throwing herself at you. Katsuki's skin prickles at the sight.

"I love wine!" She cries with glee. "You're so considerate! Bakugo never brings me anything."

"When do you ever bring me anything?"

"When do you invite me over?"

The glare Katsuki sends Mina is fatal, but she's unbothered, much to your apparent satisfaction.

"Let's open this right now!" Mina drags you away by the arm, and your panicked expression is enough to bring a soft smile to Katsuki's lips.

"So, she's the partner?" Eijiro takes your spot next to Katsuki and nudges his arm. "Think she's into you?"

The question makes Katsuki scoff, sending his friend a silencing look.

"She is? How'd you find out?"

"She told me," he answers gruffly. "Over a month ago."

Eijiro's eyes almost bug out of his head with how surprised he is.

"Why didn't you say anything? That's awesome, dude."

"Why would that be awesome?"

"Because it's obvious you're into her too?" Eijiro's brows furrow as he looks at Katsuki, who feels a burning fire in his chest light up.

"Excuse me?"

Eijiro sighs, scratching the dark scruff under his jaw. "Come on, man."

"What?"

"You invited her to Mina's shindig," Eijiro points out. "You've been her partner for, what? A few years now, and you're finally bringing her around to meet us?" Katsuki just glares at him.

"Maybe you should mind your business," he tells his friend.

"You're defensive because you know I'm making a good point."

"When have you ever made a good point?"

Eijiro feigns offense when he puckers his bottom lip out in a pout. "I've been known to have good insight occasionally."

"This isn't one of those occasions." Katsuki notices you reappear from the kitchen with Mina, carrying four glasses of wine between you. He clears his throat obnoxiously, successfully silencing Eijiro with a look this time around.

"Hey, here's a glass," you tell him, handing him one from your hand. Katsuki takes it but isn't sure what to do with it.

"I didn't ask for this," he mentions as Mina hands Eijiro his glass.

"He means, 'thank you'," Eijiro answers for him.

"You don't speak for me," Katsuki barks, but your soft laughter kills his irritation.

"Don't worry, I know how he works," you tell his friends as you sip your drink. "He's actually holding my second glass for me."

Mina giggles at your statement, but the smile on your lips tells Katsuki that you aren't joking.

A short while later, after Mina moves on to her other guests and Katsuki has resituated you and him on the couch, you swap glasses with him.

You're invested in a conversation with Sero, angled away from Katsuki, but your legs are curled under you, and the fabric of your socks flick against his legs.

"I'll be back," he mumbles as he rises to his feet, empty wine glass in hand.

He finds himself in Mina's kitchen, a few guests lingering around and chatting. He comes across the wine you brought, empty in an ocean of half-drunk bottles.

Before returning to the couch, he refills your first glass with another wine he finds himself hoping you'll like. You're alone and on your phone by the time he comes back.

"Decide to join in on the fun?" You ask with a beaming smile once you realize he's returned. Katsuki finds himself pleased at the sight of you dropping your phone into your lap without hesitation as he falls into the cushion next to you.

"For you," he says plainly. "For when you finish that glass."

You frown at him playfully, taking another swig from his original glass. "You trying to get me drunk?"

"God, no," he exasperates. "Wanna make sure you're having a good time."

"Good call filling up another glass then," you laugh.

I know how you work too, he finds himself thinking.

"I am having a good time, though," you confess, resting your hand on his leg and giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Thank you for inviting me. I like your friends."

"I think they like you more than they like me."

"Everybody likes me more than they like you. That's how our dynamic works."

Our dynamic. Everything you tell him comes out more meaningful than he assumes you intend. Katsuki doesn't know when that started to happen.

He cherishes the dynamic between you, and for the first time, he's worried that it's in jeopardy. That it's been strained since you confessed to him, and, right now, he's on borrowed time with you.

"Thank you," he tells you. "For coming. You didn't have to."

"I did, though, " you correct him. "Mina tells me she would have shown up unannounced at the agency if you kept me from her any longer."

"Well, she's an idiot."

You give him a knowing smile, leaning against his arm. "Then, you're an idiot by association."

"Shut the hell up."

Your gentle laughter is muffled by the wine glass against your lips. You finish your drink in a single sip and immediately hold the emptied glass to Katsuki. He wordlessly switches your glasses.

He watches intently as you take an experimental sip from the wine he chose for you, and the satisfied hum you release tells him you approve of his choice.

"This is really good. Nice choice," you tell him, holding it out for him. "Did you try it?"

"I'm driving us, remember?" He glares at you for your ridiculous question, but you roll your eyes.

"It's a sip, Katsu-" You stop yourself midway, and Katsuki notices the flush in your cheeks, but not without actively searching for it. "it's just a sip, okay? Try it."

You're shoving the rim of the glass to his lips before he can call you out on your mistake. He reluctantly takes a little sip and his face twists in disgust.

"I don't like wine," he tells you, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after you spill some against his face.

"Well, that's a shame," you sigh dejectedly, throwing back the remaining wine with a few swigs. Even Katsuki knows wine isn't chugging alcohol. "I'm gonna run to the bathroom."

And when you return a few minutes later, Katsuki notices you curl up in your seat a little further from him.

an: wrote this for @/sarahlovesseb ♡

[mediumgayitalian]

part one

———

Nico’s memory is…screwy.

The Lethe warped things, but the body stores memory in strange ways. The only image he has of his mother is the gentle swish of her skirts as Zeus incinerated her, the echo of her fond scoff and curled r’s. Even that memory was shown to him. Most of his childhood memories are from the Lotus Casino, really, running after Bianca through the flashing games and then running away from her, laughing, when she forbid him from driving on the racetrack. His sister is the centre of his memories. He keeps them under lock and key, buried in the same place he keeps Mythomagic stats and his constant string of fear.

(The key is rusted and the lock is loose. He sees her in every mirror, now, in every mirror. She was pretty. Beautiful. He always thought so. She hid herself in too-large sweaters and shapeless skirts, crooked stockings and her floppy green hat. Kept her hand curled around his, turned away from the boys who smiled at her, touched her shoulders. She was his entire world, and he is beginning to realize that he was her world, too, only she had no one to care for her. It makes Nico ache to think about, the tears he sometimes saw welling up in her dark eyes, the creases in her angular, beautiful face. Her pain is as familiar in his reflection as the shape of her nose, identical to his.)

(Gorgeous, Will called him.)

Warped as his memories are, Nico isn’t completely stranded — he has dreams.

His dreams, although rare, are clear. He is a spectator of himself, and voyeur of his own life. He does not remember Venice, does not remember his bedroom, the country side, the kitchen table. But he remembers every dream he has.

Including, embarrassingly, a lecture that had both him and Bianca red-cheeked and scowling.

“You-a smart, bambina,” Maria had said to Bianca, squeezing her chin with flour-covered hands. “Una belladonna giovane, si, Niccolò?”

Nico had snickered into his hands, legs kicking, looking at his sister cross-eyed with his tongue sticking out.

“Bianca è una picchia,” Nico had teased, repeating his mother’s words from the last time she’d been scolded. “Una piantagrane!”

Bianca’s eyes had flashed. “Nico, I’m gonna sell your stupido toys —”

“Sonno worries forra my Bianca,” Maria had interrupted, eyebrows raised. “Ragazzi comma running. But you, Niccolò.” She dragged him back by the cuff of his shirt, cutting off his escape attempts. ““È importante, capisci? Lookame. Niccolò. Lookame.”

He spent a lot of time fidgeting, he remembers. Bouncing off the walls.

His mother was patient.

“You gonna be uno marito, un giorno. Gonna marry a nice-a girl. You gotta sai come fate.”

He wakes up from the dream embarrassed.

He knows why it was brought from the depths of his subconscious. He’s not dense. But he wishes, as he rips the sheets off his sweaty body, that it had stayed in those stupid trenches.

His mother’s raspy, cigarette-smoker voice twists with Will’s smooth rumble: You gonna be uno marito, one day. I’ve had a crush on you for forever.

He buries his burning face in his knees. What is Will’s problem. Who says that?

Nico has had crushes before. Telling Percy made him nauseous for three days. And Will just — said it. Said it!

He rolls onto the floor, refusing to think about it any longer. He has things to do today. Children to humble. He cannot afford — distractions.

Of course, he is distracted anyway.

He hears the kids in his sword fighting class whisper to themselves. They usually do, but there’s an audible difference to it; they sound more like the giggling naiads than nervous kids. Nico spends all three of his classes tense as a rod, stiffer than he usually is a suffering for it.

He dismisses each one of his classes early.

By lunchtime, he’s exhausted. He’s tempted to skip all together, but yesterday he ran out of snacks, and if he skips two days in a row Will’ll come marching, which is the last thing he needs. He lingers in the amphitheatre, biting the inside of his thumb, weighing his options. Eat with a crowd of people, go hungry.

In the end, the choice is made for him.

He startled when his name is called by a group of people, each with similar levels of enthusiasm. Leo, Piper, Jason, and Annabeth — Percy is with his mom this week, Nico recalls — approach him, waving.

“We are flagrantly breaking the rules and eating at Jason’s table,” Piper says, smiling. “Sit with us.”

She says it like an offer, but Nico has a feeling it’s more of a command. He nods, hesitantly falling in step with Annabeth.

(His friendship with her startled him. So many years seething with jealousy, simmering with misplaced hate and pain; only to find out she’s stubborn, like he is, and kinda cagey. She knows what it’s like growing up glancing over your shoulder. They stand the same, shoulders loose but knees locked; and eat the same, like they’ll never see food again. She knows when to let him have his silence. He knows when to let her have her space.)

She nods at him, smiling slightly. Her grey hairs are dyed with pink, today. It clashes horribly with her camp shirt. It suits her.

“Kids do alright today?”

“Yeah.”

“Harley blow anything up?”

“Yeah.”

“Impressive, that one.”

Nico smiles. “Yeah.”

They’re the last ones to the dining pavilion. Most tables are already full, conversations rising and lulling, food disappearing from plates. Several people duck close to their friends as they walk by, whispering. Nico pretends not to notice, pretends not to see Annabeth’s frown.

“Nico! Hey! I was just about to come find ya!”

Tripping in his haste to get up from his table — or maybe over his snickering sister’s extended foot — Will bounds up to meet him, hair flopping into his eyes, grin wide and blinding.

Nico’s palms begin to sweat.

“Will,” he acknowledges, after a beat too long.

Will doesn’t seem to notice.

(Everyone else does.)

“Just wanted to let you know that I was up last night digging through the records, and I found a hymn that’ll fix up your face faster. Not that it needs fixing.” He winks, or maybe tries to. What he really does is blink both eyes, beam so bright it forces smile lines. Nico goes bright red. “So just drop by whenever! I’m not on duty today, but it’s cool, just come find me. Better sooner than later, right?”

He doesn’t wait for Nico’s response, already half turned away by the end of his sentence. “See ya!” he shouts, too loud for the limited size of the dining pavilion, already stumbling back to his table, halfway through a new conversation with Austin. He watches him, amused, indulging.

“So,” says a teasing voice, dragging out the vowel, gleeful. Nico turns to find four identical smirks. “He sounded eager.”

“Nope,” Nico says immediately, turning back the way he came. His face continues to grow exponentially more red, which at this point must be some kind of hazard. “Food is overrated. I’m gonna —”

“Oh, no you don’t,” and then there’s a hand clenched in the back of his jacket, pulling, and four echoing cackles, and he’s dragged over to Jason’s table kicking and hissing. “Time for you to spill.”

———

part three

[babulekbabayaga]

I did him (I have to redesign his face).

[silverwhittlingknife]

good coping mechanisms [not pictured]

nightwing 116 & red robin 12

[starofhisheart]

Love...TRIANGLE?

WAKE UP BOYS DAD SAID STEDDYHANDS REAL

[worlds-oldest-teenager]

Day 12: Revenge Served Cold 😈🧊❄️

Meg gets revenge on Lester by letting him get his first ever brain freeze.

[artandbrimstone]

morally dubious women of riptide save me pls save me

these were done at 1am i was going to draw kira and jay angst and then i got silly

[petricorah]

i'm. so excited

[njere]

You're long gone, but I can't move on.

And I miss you, like the deserts miss the rain.

[delicrieux]

𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫  | autumn features (october edition)    

pairing—aemond targaryen x f!reader summary—before flowers can grow they must be nourished, and where is better if not under the gentle care of the red keep? history and prophesy mix into a trigger (29) of horrible things word count—6.7k tagging @thesadvampire​ since they asked nicely !

written for the october prompt list ♥ masterlist. ☕.  autumn features. back to part 1. part 3.  extra.

When you found the princess crouched in the gardens, her hands sullied and fingernails black from scuffling dirt, you had schooled your expression into that of politeness. The rumours you have heard prove to be true:

Prince Aegon, your husband-to-be, has idle hands and an appetite for lust.

Prince Aemond, second born son, dragon-less and meek, follows shamefully in his brother’s shadow with nothing to his name.

Princess Helaena, is, by all accounts, an idiot.

The entourage of servants behind you whisper yet one lift of your finger and they all shush, “Wait here, please.” Your voice is sweet as honey-wine, impossibly supple. It’s not an order, only a gentle request. They bow and lift their dresses cordially as you saunter over to the girl playing in the mud. In horror you watch her admiring the vermin she dug out – nasty creatures with many legs and blacker than the night. She does not flinch at the sight of them, or when they try escaping by crawling down her hand. You surpass a shudder as you kneel beside her.

It’s a sunny afternoon, warm, rosy. You tilt your head curiously with a small smile, “…Do you collect them, princess?”

Helaena startles, as if only now noticing you there. She glances at you then promptly looks away, and her tranquil composure is shattered under your watchful eye. Her fingers tremble and cheeks glow red; she releases the critter and it scurries away into the grass, “…I should never wish to harm them,” She says, and her voice is as soft as you had imagined it being, “My apologies, Lady Tyrell. I was unaware that you had already arrived.”

Truly, there had not been an impressive greeting, but only by your family’s request – you are to befriend these children, leave an impression of compassion and sincerity, and impose, onto the King, a show of loyalty.

That was all it was, a show. Having the approval of the King’s offsprings was integral for the safety and prosperity of the Tyrell lineage, of the future Queen.

“Nonsense,” You utter, airy and lovely and Helaena’s eyes bear into the dirt, ears burning behind strands of snow-white hair, “I must admit I am much fonder of meeting you so than in an exchange of curtsy at court.” Your hand finds her dirty one, holds it, “It is my greatest honour to meet you, sister.”

Her expression shifts to a one of almost panic, and both of her hands suddenly grasp yours as she stares into your eyes, “They feast on foals at dawn.”

You hear a giggle from your entourage and shoot them a sharp look. They quiet met with your ire. When you return your attention to Helaena, you offer her a most charming smile, “Come, sister,” You pull her up, glance at the hems of your dress in dismay that such expensive pretty fabric has been ruined. But the varnish does not wear, “I’d like to walk with you. Tell me more of King’s Landing and your brothers – I should love to know more of them before I meet them.”

They are training; passing blows as the courtyard full of men watch them. Aegon, taller, meaner, laughs at the attempts his brother makes to strike him – he evades easily, languidly, as if it were nothing but a game. Only Aemond takes every match as if it was his last, and the cry he lets out when he swings his sword is fearsome, if not desperate.

It’s Ser Criston Cole that notices your appearance by the Princess’ side, arms linked in solidarity. He dips his head in greeting, and hollers for the boys to stop, “Lady Tyrell.” He addresses as the princes spring away from one another. Aegon’s fingers tighten around the hilt; Aemond, in surprise, drops his sword. Distractions do not bode well in battle: his brother’s foot collides with his chest and he’s sent flying to the ground.

“…Idiot.” Aegon snickers, throwing his sword next to his gasping brother. Taking off his gloves, he flashes you a smile, “Lady Tyrell,” He approaches steadfast, though winded. Once close enough, “well met, I hope?”

“The weather is lovely and I’m in high spirits to finally be here.” Your hand steadies onto Helaena’s with a smile; she’s pleased to be included, “I had been especially—“

“--excited to meet me, yes yes, I know.” He sounds bored, seems even more so. Quick eyes wander to your servant girls and stay fixed there for long enough to consider it a slight to your honour, “We shall get to know one another quite well I think in the upcoming days.”

He’s pigly, just as you had been warned, “I look forward to it, my prince.”

He exits with that, and all is left is for Aemond to collect his pride from the ground and dust off his robes. His steps are not as steady and nor is he as composed as Aegon had been, but there’s a certain underlying charm to him, a gentleness that coats his cheeks and nose and ears in deep red. Tilting his chin up he tries to look you in the eye, but never quite manages. He’s more like Helaena, a pliant thing – getting his favour will be easy.

“Prince Aemond,” You bow, “an honour to finally make your acquaintance.”

“…Likewise, Lady Tyrell.” He utters hoarsely, still reeling from Aegon’s blow.

The boys of Princess Rhaenyra, round faced and curly haired, rush to introduce themselves – courteous, though excited. Aemond melts away, unwanted, as the boys, and Heleana, exchange pleasantries and inquire if you had the chance to taste the sweetcake yet.

“It’s good that you did not join them,” It’s your mother’s voice, a song-like, quiet tune that floats through the balmy night air; she sits on the foot of her bed as the moon hangs outside her window like a frozen tear, “for cake.” There’s a lovely smile on her lips, one you mimic often – one that, as time passes, will become your signature, a half-smile, with the corner of your lips turned downward. Faintly amused, somewhat unassuming – it’s a disarming thing, and the greatest armour a lady could wear. A smile, “Be cordial, though its best you make it clear that you came to court not for them. Though I suppose next time they offer, you must agree to avoid suspicion. Take the princess with you. These small sacrifices must be made.”

Its weeks after your ten and third name day and barely half a year into your stay. You stand by the door, with your hands hooked behind your back and a white linen dress covering the curves that are slowly moulding on your body. Hair unmade and eyes droopy, you glance at the waxing candles, the flickering flames emitting syrupy aromas that make your head spin. It’s an early hour, “But I came for Prince Aegon.”

Her face twitches, as if you have wounded her, “Prince Aemond will do.” She fiddles with the silk shawls draped around her neck, her shoulders, lets the silence stretch and sleep seep through you. Then, alerting, like a chime of a bell, “…Perhaps it’s better yet.” She stands suddenly, as if she can’t bear to sit for longer. She’s still wearing her jewellery; long fingers cast in heavy glimmering rings cup your cheeks, “A fine match, indeed.”

You scoff, “He doesn’t have a dragon.”

She tuts, “The Lord Hand had found the most…fitting compromise.”

“Father will not be pleased.”

“Father is not here to council you, child.” She reminds you, gazing into your eyes, “I am.”

“But Prince Jecaerys and Prince Lucerys have dragons,” You tell her, “surely they’d be a better—“

It’s that smile again, and her eyes sweep you like a frozen tundra, “Don’t jest.” Her hands drop from your face and she turns away, leaving a cold spot, “It’s unbecoming of a lady such as you. No, Prince Aemond is a fine match, indeed.”

“But—“

“No more of this, (Name).” She voices, “The hour is late and I am tired. You will read and play chess with Prince Aemond and ask of his interest. You will sit and marvel at Princess Heleana’s collection and you will not complain. And you should never find yourself in a room alone with Prince Aegon. The fate of our house depends on it. Such is your duty.”

Scorned, your eyes glare into the ground, “…I understand, mother.”

The funeral of Lady Laena and the quick betrothal between Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon had silenced the walls of the Keep, as if they had gone to mourning. You did not attend the funeral, and what you have heard only came from rumours whispered between prayers and ceremonies honouring the dead.

The King’s Hand had found you in the gardens picking flowers to bring to the Sept for the memorial of Prince Daemon’s late wife. The evening was golden-orange and King’s Landing was burning in the embers of the setting sun. Your entourage of servant girls were dismissed promptly upon his arrival, and when he, feigning innocence, had confessed that Prince Aemond had returned and had been injured gravely by the savage acts of Princess Rhaenyra’s children, you did not need to ask what was expected of you.

So you smiled, dipped your head in a nod, and as if sensing your retreat the maids flocked and collected white chrysanthemums and  black lilies from your hands. Another servant, one of Lord Hightower’s, appeared by his side and passed you a small, heavy box that clattered from within.

“Prince Aemond will be delighted by your company.” The Lord Hand smiled, though it was hard, stroppy, unused.

“Surely no more than I at the news of his safe return.” You said, and the words sounded so hollow, so deeply displeased underneath the sweet coat of a white lie, “Do excuse me now, my lord.”

The empty halls echo with your footsteps, and despite being alone, you feel as if you are watched: by the Lord Hand, by your mother’s all Seeing Eye, by the servants hidden beneath arches and pillars and the righteous glare of the Seven. Your pace is quick and shoulders tense, and when you reach Aemond’s door you halt for only a moment. It’s the last of your hesitation, drained, slowly, as you knocked on his door.

No guards patrolling, as if they had orders to make scarce upon your arrival. You knew that if you were to tend for Prince Aegon, then the spike of anxiety gripping your chest would be well founded. But Prince Aemond is gentle, and it is hardly the first time you visit his room on drawn-out evenings with a book in hand.

But those meant nothing, were simply part of a journey and a built-up to an expectation that was too far into the future to care.

This… is not.

The door creaks open and the face that greets you is gaunt, terrified by your appearance. Pale even in candlelight, Aemond seems to turn to stone, one good eye staring at you, through you, as his hand grips the handle tightly.

Your lips twitch into a lovely smile, like a mask pulling itself into place, “My prince…” There’s a hurtful note in your voice as you regard him, eyebrows pinching, worried, and it’s only partly untrue, “I’m glad to…” You quiet, think, continue, “I’m glad you’re home.”

“Lady Tyrell.” He mutters.

You motion to the box in your hands. His gaze burns there, contemplating, before he curtly nods and steps aside.

His room is clean and well aired, dim and full of dancing shadows. Unlike Aegon’s unmade bed or Helaena’s butterfly collection, there are books and parchment scattered. A broken quill and a spilled bottle of ink lay on the floor, untouched. You take in the sight, and there’s a pang somewhere deep within your chest that you recognise as pity.

You clear your throat, set the box down not minding the ink you step on, or that it slowly soaks into the hems of your dress, “Sit, please.” You offer gently, and he does so after a moment of loitering by the door. His approach is taut and awkward, and when he takes a seat on a plush armchair, he sits rigid, “May I?”

His voice sounds harsh as it says, “You came here all this way for that, didn’t you?”

It takes you slightly aback, but you sparsely show it, “Indeed, my prince.” You murmur, lifting the lid of the box and taking out gauze and some glass bottles with shiny liquids inside, “I wished to confirm for myself that you had returned. And that the maesters treated you well.”

“Surely they’d know better.”

“That they—“

“Or do you doubt the skill of the best maesters the Citadel has to offer compared to your own?”

It’s a brash thing festering within him, one that was not roused by his brother’s taunting, but awoke after the blade—oozed out of the cut. He had not yet learned to pick his words, delighted, even, perhaps, to show his thorns. It’s a frightening thing to grow so cold overnight.

“That I do not, my prince. I know my skills can seldom compare to even a novel scribe at the Citadel.” You admit, but it’s a gracious defeat, a light-hearted statement of simple fact, “But I see no maester here, and if you would prefer him to check your wounds, I would gladly fall back and watch for all I care for is your…” You pause, “…safety.”

He hasn’t learned to master his emotions yet. They play on his features as if in broad daylight – a wave of reluctant emotions that gradually fade to submission, “…My apologies if I offended you, Lady Tyrell.” He doesn’t look at you as he says this, “It was not my intention.”

You merely hum in response, your fingers working on untying the knot on the back of his head. His face slowly flushes red, and once you gently peel away at the gauze he comments, bitterly, “It’s an ugly thing. I would rather you not see it.”

It runs deep, pulses red with barely scabbed skin, pink at the side blooming purple-green. The socket is empty, a mushy crevice that’s tender to air and he flinches once the wet fabric is discarded. Your heart stutters in your chest and the placid smile slowly draws to a thin line, “…It must hurt.” You mutter, “I’m sorry it had come to this.”

“It’s fine.” He mumbles, though clearly it is not, “I gained a dragon. Vhagar.”

“A wonderful beast, I’m certain,” You say, cleaning his wound. His fingers dig into the armchair. He trembles, but does not cry, “The biggest dragon alive, correct?”

“Yes. You should see her, she’s magnificent.”

“I would very much like that, if you were to take me to her.”

Finally, there’s a smile on his lips, one you missed seeing, and he’s gentle again, same as he had been, reluctant, almost, to express his desires, “We can go in the morrow. I’ll tell you all about her.”

“The visit can wait till morning, but I’d like to hear of her now. If you would indulge me.”

“…If you care to listen.”

“I do.”

“Then I will always indulge you, Lady Tyrell.”

You smile, “We are to wed, my prince. Surely you needn’t be so formal.”

You figured it would cheer him up somehow, remind him that your companionship is promised, that you are bound, but it does the opposite. He quiets as you finish cleaning, and remains silent when you wrap a fresh cloth to hide the wound.

Only when you put away your instruments and shut the box does he utter, “I know that I’m not the husband you wished for.” He gulps, “…And I understand that you must feel slighted.”

You don’t answer.

“But know that,” He continues, “I shall treat you with nothing but respect and I shall remain faithful to you only, as a husband should.”

You produce a smile, lovely and heartfelt and almost real—whether he notices, whether he can notice with only one good eye and no true clue to your nature, you can only guess. You snatch his hand, cradle it in your palms, “…I shall be happy to be your wife, my prince.” He stiffens at the affection of your tone. So rehearsed, so refined, yet so affective.

He made well on his promise, made no advances that would defile your honour, and the most he had asked was for your favour.

It was his tenth and seventh name day, a bright, sunny afternoon in which even the ever solemn Queen Alicent seemed joyful. Wine was passed and trays full of food were carried by servants. Lords and ladies mingled, your family among them, chatting idly, though you know they kept their eye on you.

Donned in your best dress and finally free of Helaena’s clutches, you saunter to fill your cup.

“Fancy a joke, my wife-that-never-was?”

It’s hardly a subtle jab, but Aegon had never been much for theatrics – on the contrary, you found him to be quite transparent, vile with his intentions, but he never hid behind his name or the marble carvings of his face. Nursing a cup and chewing on a grape, he leans close to your ear, “Though I suppose your engagement to my brother is humorous enough.”

You smile, “It’s good to see you, Prince Aegon.” You say lightly, “We missed you at the starting ceremony. Seems you have been…occupied.”

He snorts, taking a sip and glancing at his brother, “Not that you’d know. Has he bed you yet?”

“This joke you speak of,” You continue, “I would very much fancy hearing it.”

He grins, “So he hasn’t.”

“How would you know?” You inquire with a raised brow, “Do you spy on your brother and I when we’re alone?”

He laughs, loud, boisterous, drunk—it catches the attention of a few nobles and Aemond alike, “Please, (Name).” He snickers, “I only need my eyes to see it.” You would slap him if you could, and so your hand grips your cup just a tad tighter, “Do you like it, by the way? The one-eyed look. Does it tickle your fancy?”

“I suppose the joke had been you all along.”

He shakes his head, still grinning, “Do you know why my dearest I’m-bored-to-fuck-of-tourneys-brother decided to host one on his name day?” He bites the rim of his glass, like a cat waiting for a treat.

“Do pray tell, brother,” You mutter, noting Aemond’s steady approach, “since you seem beside yourself to speak it.”

He draws closer again, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “Because I asked for your favour on mine.”

“Aegon,” Aemond’s curt voice cuts the air like a knife. The older brother pushes back, smiling to himself, “try not boring (Name) with your nonsense. Surely she’d rather listen to something else. An execution, perhaps.” You hide your laugh beneath a poorly disguised cough.

“Apologies.” You murmur.

“I should like to speak with you, (Name).” Aemond offers his elbow.

Your hand wraps around it easily, like many times before, “Lead and I shall follow, Aemond.”

“How quaint.” Aegon comments. The two of you easily ignore him.

Out of the Red Keep’s mess hall and in the lush garden, Aemond stops, “What had he told you?”

“I would truly rather speak of the weather.” You state dully.

A smile slips onto his lips, “I imagined as much.”

He’s grown – once a boy barely reaching your shoulder now towers over you. His hair is long and soft as Helaena’s. You would know, you had spent many nights braiding it. Aemond insisted that the servants never got it right.

“Did you wish to discuss something or just save me from your brother?” You ask.

“I doubt you’d need saving, though I would not miss the chance to try.” He responds, “But there is something I wished to ask you.”

“Must be important.” You note.

“It is.”

The two of you wait for the servants to pass, dipping their heads in curtsy and lifting their dresses, offering a passing dessert or a refill for wine. All is declined cordially, though affectively. The garden is vacant, besides you, Aemond, and the flowers. So many had bloomed, opened their petals in celebration. Mother had said it is a sign of good things to come.

“I wish to ask you for your favour during the tourney.” He states.

You blink, “And I shall give it without question, you needn’t ask in advance.”

“I wish for one now, as well.”

You grin, “…I suppose princes make their own rules.”

“You shall be a princess, too.”

“Then I hope to write many decrees that work in my favour.” You say, “But very well, my prince. I shall give you my favour, and if no one asks for it during the tourney, I shall give it again.”

He frowns, “Do think that’s not what I requested.”

“And yet,” You draw closer, “that is what you shall get.”

Your hands land on his shoulders and your lips brush a chaste kiss on the taunt skin of his scar.

He does not move once you pull away – stunned, perhaps, or distraught. Reading him had become difficult. He enjoys his secrets and reveals what he’s thinking only when faced with a challenge. Your wittiness had withstood the test of time. Your mother was pleased.

“I will be most disappointed if you lose.” You tell him.

He hums, “Then I will simply not.”

In the break of dawn you’re back in the room of melting scents; the hot air sticks to your skin, makes it difficult to breathe. Once a waxing moon you slip away from your chambers quietly, masked by shadows, carrying a secret that’s weight had become heavy over the years.

“Well?” Your mother’s voice is rasp, and there are lines around her lips and eyes that had shown more over the years. She’s still beautiful, wrapped in her opulence, drowning in her jewellery and riches, “Any news?” She ceases brushing her hair, puts away the comb and smiles at you – you are no longer young enough to be fooled by it, “He asked for your favour during the tourney, surely he has paid you a nightly visit.”

“No, mother. He has not.”

“And what of you?” It feels as if she struck you, “Did you not knock on his door at midnight?”

Your throat closes – there’s shame swirling in the pits of your belly, a great discomfort that makes the hands behind your back grip tighter, “No, mother. I did not.”

A harsh exhale comes through her nose. Her reaction is expected, yet it hurts all the same. Her gaze slices you – you’re stepping on glass, “…This won’t do.”

You’re quick to speak up, “I do think he likes me—“

“It is not the question of like, my daughter.” She scolds, and suddenly you are young, six or seven, and staring into the depths of the floor where a gem had shattered from your clumsy fingers, “He must love you.”

Something’s burrowing deep within you – a doubt, an irritation – and you try to keep your chin up so you would not appear weak in front of her. She has asked you for many things over the years, but now you feel as if you are privy to knowledge that had been kept from you, part of an unravelling scheme that you had not been an active participant to, but rather a passive rook pushed by an omnipotent hand in the direction of victory.

“What does it matter if he loves me or not?” It was supposed to sound hard coming from your lips, a displeased grunt let out from between the teeth. But it’s pliant, confused, childish. You had outgrown your old dresses, but it seems you had not outgrown this.

“Be wise, daughter.” Have you not been anything but? “A man in love is a man that listens. And there may soon come a time when a request will need to be heard.”

“A husband will support his wife.” You state with quick, anxious blinks.

“A husband will not care for her if he loves her not.” She bites back, and you have never seen her so visibly restless.

Your throat feels scratchy. Nails bite crescent moons into your palms, “And what of honour? My honour, as a lady?”

“And what of duty?” She inquires, “Of sacrifice?” She steps closer and you would step back if the door was not already ghosting your fingers, “Or do you plan on sabotaging what we have spent years trying to create?”

There’s a crack somewhere – your jaw from a harsh bite or perhaps your heart – one that shows through a treacherous tear that rolls down your cheek, “…No, mother.” You reply hoarsely, eyes red but head held high. You stare onward somewhere behind her shoulder, unable to look at the face that looks too much like your own and not enough, “I have no such plans.”

“Then we shall speak no more of it.”

It’s a sombre dawn, wintry – pale and unforgiving, as though the sun reflected from a glacier. Once out of your mother’s bedchamber you release a ragged breath, fold into yourself, and grip at the linen underskirt. She sits there, behind the carved wooden slab, unperturbed by your shakiness, and it feels as if one of her silky shawls had wrapped around your throat and kept you leashed.

You move cautiously after you collect your bearings, mind reeling, tears still falling, and you wish you could gather them for her – she would, in her hands, crush them, cool them, make them into pearls for her to wear, or perhaps give them to you as a token of misery. Had you not done enough? Had it not been years of playing servitude to these lords and ladies, prince and princesses? They adore you, all of them, just as it was meticulously planned, laboriously executed.

Perhaps it hurts because you had grown to love them – the Targaryens and Hightowers and the in-between; perhaps this feeling is but a passing spell and will abate once you’re fully rested, and you’ll be able to think clearly once more.

You move in the direction of your chambers quietly, aching and lost in thought, and you had always been keen to note the mistakes of others and even more so of yourself. This playground is dangerous, and distractions end in losing one’s head. Yet you fail to hear the jarring steps of an approaching knight, and only notice him once he calls you over.

Ser Criston Cole seems rested. His armour glints in the rising sun and his eyes promptly shift from your form to the wall beside you, “It’s an awfully early hour, my lady.”

You are aware of your state of undress, the unmade hair, and waxen eyes; aware of the tremble in your body, both from the cold and from the despair clawing from within. And for the first time in many years, you stare at him and your mind draws blank of an excuse, numbed from shock. But silence frames culprits, and when a smile lifts the corners of your lips your back straightens along with it, “Indeed. I could not sleep after such festivities – and what better way to call forth sleep if not to actively dismiss it? Do excuse me now.”

“Allow me to take you back to your bedchamber, Lady Tyrell.” And he moves with conviction, still not gazing in your direction.

“A kind offer, but surely given the hour you need to meet your own matters. I shall have no trouble navigating the Keep on my own.”

“I insist, Lady Tyrell.” He says, “You must be tired. It would be unwise to wander in such a state.”

He may frame his words as care, though he lacks the poise to make it believable. He is set to make sure you wander nowhere else. He’s not an escort, but a guard, and the hilt of his sword glimmers as a warning. Surely he would not draw it, not unless he felt that you were a threat to the sanctities of the royal family.

You have heard much of him and his shield of righteousness – behind it hides a vexed, easily tempered man. A wrong push and there may be your blood coating his hands soon enough.

“…Very well, ser.” You concede, walking beside him, “You are most generous.”

“I am from the Queens guard,” He starts, and the pride in his voice is unmistakable, “and the Queen cares deeply about you. It would be a terrible misfortune if something were to happen.”

A terrible misfortune.

“It brings me great joy that the Queen cares for me, as I for her.”

“You have her trust,” He says, “and certainly a lady such as yourself would never think to break it.”

“Careful, Ser Criston,” You remind tartly, “for if I were not a lady such as myself, I might mistake your tone for suspicion.” But you smile, “Though, surely it is not for a White Cloak to speak with such insinuation.”

“Forgive me, Lady Tyrell,” He utters, “it must be the hour. I did not mean to offend you.”

He did, and once you are safely in your room he will run with his tail between his legs to tell the Queen all about this encounter. The conclusions they will draw will be anything but the truth, and none will be in your favour.

You had never been more glad to see the entrance to your gilded prison.

“This is where I leave you.” He mutters, bowing, “Rest well, Lady Tyrell.”

You say nothing, already half-way shutting the door.

You are neither cornered nor executed. Weeks pass, and you almost convince yourself that the encounter with Ser Criston was nothing but a waking dream, an omen of what was to happen if you did not focus, entirely conjured by a frightened, sleepless mind.

“Do you ever wish you could go home, sister?” It’s Helaena’s voice that draws you way from the game of chess. Carefully, you move your knight to A6. The marble figures clatter as you strike down Aemond’s pawn. She’s stitching by the window, under the warm afternoon sun, “Back to Highgarden, that is.” She bites her lip, sets down her needlework, “I must admit!” There’s such light, carefree enthusiasm in her voice – you envy it, “I would like to visit Highgarden. We never visit it enough.”

“It’s a long journey, my princess,” You tell her. Your eyes shift to Aemond, “though, I suppose it is considerably lessened on dragonback.”

“Would you go? On dragonback, if we were to organise a trip?” Helaena inquires, “I sure would love to visit Highgarden. It’s so beautiful.” She turns back to look out the window, “Much more beautiful than King’s Landing, I think…” She adds to herself, going back to her stitching. This rendition is of a pale rose, “White from fire.” She says.

Aemond is silent on the other side of the board, contemplative. He assesses the pieces, and his brows are crinkled in concentration. The sun turns his hair to liquid in its glare. He’s beautiful, almost impossibly so.

“Perhaps.” You say, “But I’m not ashamed to admit that Vhagar frightens me.”

Aemond glances up from the board. You meet his gaze with a smile.

“Oh come now,” Helaena laughs, “Vhagar wouldn’t hurt you. Aemond would never allow it.”

His gaze then slides to his sister, and by now you know him well enough to realise that something is amiss. He is resigned to silence often, but with Helaena he has words to spare, and often many. He’s quick to entertain her, mostly for the sole reason that no one besides you does. His silence and the tick of his jaw unnerve you slightly.

“…Helaena,” His tone is light, but the way he regards you implies trouble, “would you give me and my betrothed a moment?”

Tension spikes in the air. Helaena’s laughter slowly dies in her throat as she moves, uncomfortable. Still keeping a cordial smile, she stiffly sets down her embroidery and, before leaving, declares, “I should check on Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. There’s never enough time.”

You stare at the rose she left, the game momentarily forgotten. Aemond moves his bishop across the board, “Would you consider yourself a traveller, (Name)?”

“I would not, no.” You say easily, your palms brushing out the creases of your dress, “I get sick on ship and terribly bored in a carriage.”

He picks up his queen, bone-white, almost the colour of his skin, and admires her for a moment, “…See, that’s not what I heard at all.”

Your smile does not waver, but the warmth in your eyes dissipates, “I did not expect you being interested in idle gossip.” You grasp your pawn and when you set it back down the sound echoes bleakly, like a crack of thunder, “I figured it was beneath you.”

“Where else would you like to go, Lady Tyrell?” He leans back in his seat, watching you closely. He seems genial almost, if not for the smiting look in his eye, “No need to exhaust yourself with options, let’s stick to the King’s Landing. Or better yet, the Keep. Especially on the hour of the owl when everything’s so…” He looks around, “…quiet. It must be quite curious, no?”

“It can be calming after the calamities of a day at court.”

He smiles – it’s a sharp, harsh thing, “I would seldom know since I stick to my quarters. Perhaps you could enlighten me?”

“Of what?” You raise a brow, “A walk to clear one’s head? The maesters recommend it, even. But surely you know that already, my prince.” You try to soften him, appeal to the nature that you know hides behind a hard shell that rarely ever opens. But the varnish is coated in layers and hard and long since dried – your pliant hands can’t do away at it, and your words move him even less.

“Humour me.” He says, “Pretend I don’t know that. Tell me, what is there to see at the Keep when the rest are sleeping.”

You sit just a bit straighter in your chair, “The lonely corridors, silent halls, deaf statues and others of the sort. There’s a certain splendour to it all on late nights or early mornings. Like a vacant Sept. It can almost be…eerie, but I suppose even that eeriness has a dangerous charm to it.” Your eyes don’t leave him, “Frightening, in a way… though undoubtedly beautiful.”

“And this beauty you speak of…” He draws in, “is it tied to a particular location?”

“There’s no one part. It’s all of it. All of that cold loveliness. You wouldn’t understand.”

He hums, tilting his head to the side, “…Perhaps you are correct, Lady Tyrell. That I wouldn’t. But I am curious to what sort of secrets you uncover late at night, if you were to indulge your betrothed still.” He slowly comes to a stand.

You crane your neck to look at him, “Unlike some, I prefer my secrets to be mine alone.”

“Surely you don’t mean me, Lady Tyrell.” He says as he moves closer, so casual that a stumbling servant may think that you’re simply discussing the weather.

“Of course not, my prince.” You breathe out, “It is only…an expression. One I hope did not offend you.”

“I believe that all words coming from a liar have a certain offence.” He halts suddenly, and before you can blink, his hand grasps your jaw harshly. Your heart thunders in your chest, eyes wide, “I would speak now, Lady Tyrell. While I still had my tongue.”

“My prince—“

“You must admit that your secrecy is a cause of concern, no?”

“Aemo—“

“Tell me, where were you headed, undressed and untidy like a common—“

“Don’t.” The voice that leaves your lips doesn’t sound like your own. It’s angry and sharp, like a whip. He swallows down what he had almost uttered, and his grip loosens, enough to wrestle free and come to a stand, “As I am well-mannered, and endlessly forgiving, I am willing to forget what you have just done. But know that if you are ever to treat me so again—“

“What will you do?” He questions, “You’re a lady from a noble family, one of many—“

“Then you are free to marry whichever one of them, seeing as there’s a line of them waiting for me to be replaced.” You state, “I have served in your court for years and never slighted you. I have done all that was asked of me and more, and even now, faced with such contempt, I chose to forgive you, for we are to wed. But so be it. Call it off and I shall return home and you can find yourself a lady one as I from the Stormlands, or better yet, if it’s a common whore you fancy, no need to exhaust yourself with options, my betrothed. For you are sure to find even more of those in the Keep and beyond it, as your brother had.”

He smiles, but it seems cold, cruel, defensive, “…Even cornered you don’t lose your composure.” There’s a hint of admiration as there is a hint of mockery. He stands tall and imposing, but he does not move to touch you again, “Though you insist on playing dumb. Very well, then. Act dumb all you please, it is sure to humour my brother. But you must know, Lady Tyrell,” He’s close now, by your ear, “that now I see you as you are.”

It seems as though from that day forth, you and Aemond had engaged in a different kind of chess – one that’s stakes seemed almost endlessly higher.

notes: thank you everyone for the kind comments! <3 and yes, before you ask, when reader was describing the vacant halls of the keep and their almost sacred beauty, she was actually talking about aemond

also im president of i hate ser crispin club

[gomzdrawfr]

[tags: angst, implied mcd, post mw3]

I see you when I close my eyes

until I don't.