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the-modern-typewriter · 1 year

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The Blue Key

On her first night in her new home, after a lavish dessert of strawberry cheesecake and cream, her new husband handed her a clinking set of keys across the dining room table.

“You can go anywhere in the house,” her husband told her, “except the basement.”

He showed her the key to the basement. It was midnight blue.

“Why? Is the basement where you keep the bodies?” she asked, with half a smile.

He didn’t smile back. “Do you promise me?”

She studied him carefully, feeling the weight of the basement key in her hand.

There were many keys to the house - hefty ornate keys for their front and back doors, a pretty gold one for their bedroom, a dozen little silver and brass ones for any other lock in the house that she might come across. Windows and cabinets and the like.

The basement key was almost insubstantial against her palm. Negligible. The sort of key that was easily lost, that looked like it might belong to a doll house more than a proper estate.

She couldn’t read his expression.

“You can’t tell me what’s in there?”

“I will know if you open the door,” he said, “and everything that we are will end.”

She laughed again, uncertainly, because the words were surely absurd and certainly not like him. He could have simply told her it was dangerous and so best avoided, or not given her the key to the basement in the first place. She doubted she would have given it all that much thought among all the other rooms.

Yet, his words instead piqued curiosity.

Once again, he did not smile. He stared at her solemnly, with a hint of something haunted that she had only caught flickers of during their courtship.

The laughter died in her throat.

He had been like something from a fairy tale from the moment they met; Prince Charming to pluck her out of the ashes of her drab life, even if she knew he had been married before. Everyone knew. Just as none of them had expected him to pick her. She had no experience in the running of manor houses, and no especially outstanding beauty nor fortune of her own to make up for that fault. In short, she was nothing like his first wife.

But, she had made him laugh, and she had liked him. God, how she had liked him – and liked him still – with such blushing ferocity that it almost made her dizzy.

Her new home was enormous, and beautiful, and filled with the kind of impossible luxuries that she had never even dared to dream of having. It was filled with him. She was nothing, and nobody, and he had given her the keys to be something and somebody else. Someone better. What was one small forbidden key against all that?

She knew the preciousness of privacy. Sometimes a secret could be the only thing that was really yours.

“Okay.” She bit her lip, and started to unhook the key from the ring. “Would you like it back, then? Just to be sure.”

He recoiled as if she’d drawn a knife on him and shook his head.

“Keep it,” he rasped. “Keep it safe. Keep it locked. Let it be forgotten.”

But from that moment on, though, she never really forgot about the blue key for a moment.

***

The library was probably her favourite room in her new home. It was astonishing to be able to have an actual personal library, stocked from soft-carpet and gleaming hardwood floor to cavernous ceiling with walls upon walls of books of every kind. The orphanage had maybe three books, worn and ancient, each crumbling a little more with every reading.

There were lots of stories in her husband’s books about girls with keys, girls with curiosity, heroes with something they were not supposed to look at under the pain of death or something worse.

Psyche with Eros, who was told without explanation not to look upon her perfect and mysterious host, for there could be no love without trust.

Orpheus, forbidden to glance back at his love, lest he lose her for good.

Pandora, with her strange once unopened box of evils and hope, told it was hers.

Eve, with her curiosity, with her knowledge, lured into plucking that shining forbidden fruit.

Bluebeard too, of course, with his many murdered wives, all told not to seek out their bloody predecessors behind his secret door, because – why?

Because it was a game of female obedience? Because it gave a predator an excuse to do what he did best, when he knew from the first instance that his victims would have to know? He chose them, after all. And why did they look, those wives, against all warning?

Because the uncertainty was unbearable? Because it was their home too? Because they loved the man they married and wanted to know everything there was to know of him? Maybe they wanted to save him. It was never cruelty.

The two of them were happy, her husband and her, as blissful as newlyweds were want to be.

In the evenings they would cuddle before the roaring fires, night caressing the windows, and he would read aloud from his favourite passages or play music. In the days he would work, or leave on some business or other, and she would wander the labyrinthian corridors alone and explore the many treasures tucked away behind his many locked doors.

The library could have lasted her years, but she found a room with a ceiling made of magnifying glass by which to observe the stars, a swimming pool built into the rock beneath the entrance hall, a lush garden bursting with colour that she could tend to in the sunshine.

There were servants to take care of the day-to-day running of the building, and so he did not seem to desire any particular purpose of her except to be his wife. Except for her to live in his home, in their home, and enjoy his easy company and the gifts he gave her. She found ways to keep busy. To contribute.

Thus, it took her many months to walk down towards the basement, to first look upon the door that she was not allowed to open. Spring had turned to the first icy breaths of winter.

The door was painted the same midnight blue as the key, and immaculate in condition. The lock was tiny. A dark slither, a crack, in something otherwise quite lovely.

She pressed her hand against the door and the wood was warm compared to the cool, slightly stale, underground air that filled her chest.

She dropped a hand into her pocket, fingers closing unerringly around the blue key. She tried not to touch it, not to think about it, but she had come to know it instantly by shape and feel alone. It was simply so odd to have a key so small. She had half expected the door would be in miniature too.

How could he possibly know, if she opened it? In some tales it was magic. The key would betray her. He would know by seeing it. But her husband did not want to look upon the key, he had never even mentioned it once after their first dinner.

What then was in the basement? Something so terrible that she could no longer love him? Or perhaps it was empty. Perhaps it was structurally unsound. Perhaps it was simply a test on if she would allow him that one thing that was his and his only.

She leaned down, and pressed her eye to the keyhole with a hammering heart. She didn’t know what she expected to see inside, exactly – a skeleton, or some ghoul staring back at her, or some hidden vault even. There was only darkness. Nothing to see. She straightened again, unsure if the painful feeling in her lungs was breathless relief or airless disappointment.

She walked back up the stairs.

She turned over the pages of stories in the library, and turned the key over and over in her palm, and wondered which of those many tales she was in.

***

“I think,” she said one night, as they lay in bed. “That it bothers me more that you will not tell me, than anything that could possibly be in the basement.”

He stiffened on the mattress next to her.

“Is there something I could do,” she rolled onto her side to face him, “so that you would know you could trust me with the truth?”

His expression was half-hidden in the dim light, his body made unfamiliar by slashes of moonshine slicing through the curtains. His blue eyes were open, staring up, away from her.

“You promised me that you would not dwell on the door.”

“No.” She reached out, tracing her fingers gently along the curve of his jaw, coaxing him to meet her searching gaze. “I promised I wouldn’t open it. There’s a difference.”

He snorted, but tipped his head towards her hand, planting a kiss to her knuckles.

“Can you at least narrow down the possibilities?” She pressed into the silence, because kisses were sweet but they were not an answer. “Is it something I shouldn’t see? That you don’t want me to see? Something that – I don’t know – can’t be let out? Are you the secret guardian of a nightmare world?” She attempted another smile, but it wobbled shaky. “Just give me something, and I’ll leave it alone. I just want to know. I need to know. Whatever it is – whatever it could possibly be – you don’t have to carry it alone. We’re supposed to be a team. That’s what marriage is.”

“Is my word not enough for you?” He sounded tired. “Is everything I have given you not enough?”

She scrunched up her nose at him. “You’d be happily blind, if it were you?”

“Ignorance can be bliss.”

“If you wanted me ignorant, why tell me about the key in the first place? You know me.”

They’d met on account of her curiosity, of her straying to places that she wasn’t supposed to be. He’d been visiting the library of one of the great colleges, reserved for great men like him, and she’d snuck in aching for a glimpse of the world.

Her husband said nothing.

“When you first gave me the key…” She swallowed. “You looked scared.” Her fingers, which had often brushed his in the library stacks once upon a time, grazed his pulse. It was racing. “I would fight monsters for you. Even if you’re the monster.”

As the silence stretched, she thought he might say nothing again, until the silence had grown so large that they might never reach each other across the abyss of it.

“I love you,” he said. His voice cracked. He caught her hand, entwining their fingers together, and squeezed. “Goodnight.”

The seconds ticked by into minutes, into she didn’t know how long.

“Is it a curse?” she whispered, into the dark. “If you’re not allowed or able to tell me, squeeze my hand twice.”

“Oh my god.” His voice was muffled, then, as he pulled a pillow over his face and wrenched free of her. “It’s two in the morning, darling. Go to sleep.”

***

She watched the door diligently for about a month. She didn’t think her husband had some poor creature locked up in the basement, but if he did then one would assume that either he would have to visit, or have the servants visit, in order to provide his victim some form of sustenance.

Nobody visited the basement door except her. There could not be anything living on the other side.

At least, not unless there was some other second secret door and tunnel system, hidden somewhere on the grounds. She didn’t see anyone vanish to one of those either, though. Would she, if it wasn’t on the grounds? How large a conspiracy could a little blue key possibly hold?

Would it count as ‘opening the door’ if she made a hole in the wall next to the door?

She remembered her husband, in the college library the first time they met, spying the collection of ghost stories she’d been straining to reach. He’d grabbed it off the top shelf for her, easily, a glimmer of amusement curling his lips.

“I never really got these stories,” he’d mused. “If it were me, I would simply not have gone into the haunted house in the first place. Or, one look at a ghost and – no, no thank you. Goodbye! Have a nice life.”

She’d gaped at him.

He’d shrugged at her, and handed her the book. “But I can see that you’re a braver soul than me,” he said. “Sneaking into a place like this uninvited.”

She’d accepted the volume, clutching it protectively to her chest.

“Well,” she’d managed. “People like you are already invited everywhere, aren’t they? So you don’t have to be brave.”

He’d startled into a laugh.

She’d wondered if he would expose her to security, wondered if she should have denied it, wondered how he’d seen through her so swiftly and –

“Don’t worry.” He’d already been turning away, with a last lingering glance at her. “I can keep a secret.”

She’d only learned later who he was, and that it had been a month since his wife had died.

How, exactly, had his first wife died? The papers had said ‘tragic accident’, but there had been no witnesses. He didn’t talk about it, or about her.

No. She was being ridiculous. Maybe she had only imagined the flicker of terror on her husband’s face, the way he had flinched from the key, the rough urgency in his voice. Whatever it was, whatever it could possibly be, was not worth sacrificing what they had. There were other rooms; a dozen of them!

She buried the damn key in the garden. Out of sight, out of mind. Better that than completely losing her mind over something that probably had a completely rational explanation. Love was a leap of faith.

She woke up the next morning to find the blue key back on the key ring, still covered with a fine sprinkling of dirt.

***

Her least favourite stories in the library were the ones about fate.

Maybe some people found such notions encouraging, comforting even in their reassurance that all of the suffering in the world was for a reason and that people could have some incredible purpose laid out for them. She’d always found the idea to be like quicksand beneath her feet, sucking her down down down trapped.

For, if it was fate, there could be no real escape. No chance. No hope.

She kept returning to the story of Bluebeard, tracing variations and retelling with the blue teeth of her blue key.

Maybe, if she was Bluebeard’s final wife, she would open the door and ultimately inherit a grand fortune, and recover from the trauma of falling in love with someone who wasn’t what they said they were.

What if she was only the second wife though, or the metaphorical third? What if her fate was to be some dead thing written only to add background colour to someone else’s happy ending?

It was all well and good of her husband to claim he would never go into a haunted house, but such declarations only really worked if one knew they were in a horror story instead of something else.

“Do you think, maybe,” she asked her husband as winter turned back to spring, “that we could go away somewhere?”

They strolled through the gardens, his arm wrapped protectively around her frail shoulders. Ever since the key incident she had found it difficult to sleep, to eat, to not find herself worrying about the door like worrying a hangnail until she tore off bloodied scraps of her own skin.

The house, which had once seemed so large to her, had turned into something suffocating. She had no friends in the area, and however far she went along the grounds in the lonely hours of her husband’s working, the door would always be there for her and the key would always be in her pocket. The questions, the creeping doubts, would buzz in her brain like flies swarming a corpse.

“Go away?” He seemed surprised. “Is there something else that you need?”

She had tried simply hiding the key, then stayed up all night staring at the key ring laying on her bedside to try and catch the culprit who’d dug it up from beneath the roses. One of the servants must have brought the damn thing back, right? Perhaps, the housekeeper? She got the impression that the severe woman had never really approved of her, never liked her. She was not as impressive and perfect a candidate as his first wife had been.

She had seen nothing, but when she fell finally into an exhausted slumber, the key had been waiting for her.

“I just thought it might be nice for us both to get away for a while,” she said. “A holiday. You’ve been so busy with your work.”

She had tried burning the key. It did not burn.

“There is a lot to do,” he said. “This is a large estate. It takes – management, a lot of care.”

“Perhaps I could help you?”

“It is not your burden, darling.”

“But it’s yours? A burden?”

The key, whatever it was, had to be of some supernatural origin. Of that she was increasingly certain. Well, the ghosts were in the house, so to speak, and he wasn’t leaving! He wouldn’t look at her, his attention fastened on the first snowdrops shoving their heads from beneath the hard earth.

“Tell me,” she said. “Or come away with me, please.”

He glanced at her, then.

She reached into her pocket and held up the blue key.

He turned away, quickening his pace as if he couldn’t wait to get away from it too.

“Where,” he said the next morning, “would you like to go, love?”

At the sea side, she tossed the key into the water when he wasn’t looking. If it was the servants, if there was any chance that something in the house was messing with her, with them, then even its evil reach could surely not reach beyond the borders of the property?

It was better for a while, after that. They were both lighter on holiday, away from his family home, with all of its history and responsibility.

The house on their return, waiting for them as it always was and would be, felt new and full of possibility again. They kept laughing over their first dinner back and fell asleep still high on love and freedom and everything they were supposed to be.

The next morning, impossibly, the blue key was on the key ring again.

She started to cry.

“I’m sorry,” her husband said. The colour had leached, stricken, from his handsome face. He looked older. Exhausted, too. His eyes were dark. “I wish—” He fell silent. He reached out to her, and she recoiled. “I’m sorry.”

“You wish what?” It came out whip sharp.

He said nothing.

She shook her head, the laugh on her breath not really a laugh at all. Of course, he would still not tell her.

“If you don’t tell me,” she said, “everything that we are will end. You understand that, don’t you?” She fumbled the key off the ring and hurled it onto the sheets between them. It sat there, so disgustingly innocuous looking, a glint of blue among the white. “This isn’t fair. This is – sick. Take it back.”

“I know.” He folded his arms, less great man, more frightened child hugging himself. He stared down the key like an old enemy. “I know.”

“Or,” she said. A plea edged into her tone. “We could leave. For good. Let this house, let that door, be forgotten. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

He shook his head, less ‘no’ and more ‘I can’t’ and more ‘I’m sorry’.

She squared her shoulders, even as his slumped. “Tell me, at least, if I should go. You love me, right? If there was something rotten in that basement, you would want to protect me from it, wouldn’t you?”

“You can go,” he said. “If that’s what you want. That’s always been your choice.”

She stared at him.

He looked haunted, hunted, and he had known all along that the key would always end up back on the ring, hadn’t he? That was why he hadn’t simply taken it off when he first gave them to her. She would have thought he didn’t trust her if he’d never given her the keys to her own home at all too, wouldn’t she?

She debated leaving him. She debated walking out the house and – what?

He looked so broken.

She sighed, the defiant fury sluicing off her shoulders too. She rounded the bed and craned up on her toes to kiss the lost furrow of his forehead.

“Just ignore it,” he said, clutching her hands. “Just ignore the door, and we can be happy.”

“Darling,” she said. “You don’t seem happy here.”

She kissed his lips, like packing up a suitcase, and snatched the blue key back up off the sheets.

Then she went down to the basement and opened the door.

#idk a story of mine I don't know what to do with #short story #fiction #bluebeard #fairytales #writeblr #writing #my writing #creative writing

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ladyloveandjustice · 29 days

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A Ranking of the '4 Days of Ohtori: Someday My Revolution Will Come' Revolutionary Girl Utena Game Endings

I was commissioned to do a post ranking the endings of the Revolutionary Girl Utena dating sim based on quality and enjoyment! I did a liveblog for it for it a while ago, see here. If you know nothing about the game, I think you should read it and then come back to this post. It's a fun liveblog!

I was also asked to talk about if any of the endings work out well for the main character (who I call Purple Pigtails).

Basically all of the endings aren't ideal for Perfect Pigtails. Her dad is sick enough she has to leave Ohtori to help him iirc, she doesn't ever get to reconcile with Chigusa even though she badly wanted to (it's implied she had a crush on her despite everything, but she had to basically kill her). She also knows her dad's a piece of shit now, and that both her parents lied to her. I doubt she'll ever trust them again. She may even hate her Dad now. Her family was a lie, and that's very sad. On top of that, several of the endings imply she may come back to Ohtori which is honestly not a good thing for her!!! So none of them really work out for her, but I'm going to talk about which ones work out for her the least and the most as I rank the endings.

My favorite endings of the Utena video game, from best to worst:

Juri Ending

So, after much deliberation my favorite ending is the Juri one. The fact that her response to Purple Pigtails falling in love with her is "sorry, can't just enter a healthy lesbian relationship because I am super committed to this toxic one. You know that girl I painfully pine over while starting at her in my locket? That locket I wish I could throw away? Well I'm giving you your own pining locket to torment you with MY picture. We can be sad lesbians together."

It's just so Juri. Has to spread her unhealthy behavior everywhere. I don't think she knows any other way to deal with this stuff except to put it in a locket, keep it a secret and stare at it longingly. So she assumes Purple Pigtails needs that too. It's just...incredibly funny but also incredibly sad.

Does this ending work out for Purple Pigtails? Not really, no, she has to leave her crush behind and mirror Juri's unhealthy behavior. As long as she has that locket she can never move on or find a girlfriend. I will say she's better off than Juri though, because at least her crush doesn't try to actively torment her every chance she gets. I also think she's more likely to eventually put away the locket than Juri. She only knew Juri four days and isn't quite as fucked up as her. But then again, I could see her go on a similar quest to find Juri someday, like Utena did for her prince...but I don't think Juri will ever be in the position to be what she needs, even if she's healed and moved on. Because no real princes exist.

Then again, the fact Purple Pigtails was able to leave Ohtori at all means she was able to grow up and move on herself. She's accepted that her childhood was never what she thought it was...so maybe such a quest is unlikely. Maybe she will move on pretty quickly. Or maybe being obsessed with Juri means she will be welcomed back to Ohtori soon...

Anthy ending

My second favorite ending is the Anthy ending. The only reason it's lower than the Juri ending is that the washing each other's back scene is a little uncomfortable to watch, knowing Purple Pigtails has no trouble coercing sexual favors from Anthy. Whether this is all part of Anthy's plan or not, she is likely not enjoying this...and yet it's framed fairly comedically, which feels weird.

But otherwise? God it's perfect, so wonderfully absurd, so wonderfully Anthy. Her plan here is so elaborate and there are so many layers. There's also the question of why the hell she even did all this, which is so intriguing.

The way she's so direct with Purple Pigtails, her resentment and cynicism coming out, is great. Purple Pigtails is pretending she wants her, but she only wants power.

She also actively sabotages Utena in the fight in order get with Purple Pigtails. Why?

But after that, she also sabotages Purple Pigtails, deliberately keeping her up all night with uh. possibly sex, (again, uncomfy) to ensure she'll be too tired to concentrate the next day. But she does this so PP will lose to Utena even though Utena doesn't have a sword anymore.

Anthy played PP so thoroughly, but again, why? My theory when I first played this was Anthy was feeling guilty about her inevitable betrayal of Utena and was trying to get with Purple Pigtails, only to immediately realize there's no way PP could become a prince so she goes back to Utena.

But there are a lot of options. Maybe Anthy and/or Akio needed PP to be taken out. She was upsetting their plans somehow, so she needed to be defeated so humiliatingly she'd never try to get with Anthy again. It could explain why PP eventually left in the other endings, maybe she actually hadn't moved on, maybe Akio felt she was too much of a risk (possibly by how things got so complicated with Chigusa, too much of a distraction for the duelists) and kicked her out.

Or maybe this was all to test to find out where she was a prince candidate, and she was found wanting...considering you have to order rose tea as a prerequisite, this one's very possible.

It's all so fascinating. Maybe I should have put it as favorite...ok, let's say it's this and Juri tied.

Obviously this doesn't work out at all from Purple Pigtails Perspective. She becomes a supervillain, she's humiliatingly defeated, and she very well may be stuck at Ohtori for a long time...and fact she doesn't appear in the anime implies she's no longer friends with any of them. Maybe Akio made everyone forget about her. Maybe she was so bitter she rejected them all.

Utena's ending (Romantic Version)

(As a PS... it's very obvious the girls aren't allowed to kiss on the lips in this game, likely because of outside pressure, both Saionji and Miki get lips, while Utena and Juri do the princely forehead kiss (but you could also argue it's because they are the most "princely characters...and imitating the prince kiss is 100% in character for Utena. Also kissing a girl on the lips at this point in the story would pretty much short circuit Utena. Send her into such a lesbian crisis her heart might give out)

This ending is so sweet on the outside, but then you peel a layer back and see how fucked up it is. Utena very deliberately imitates her "prince" here, and that will someday horrify her, that she imitated Akio and got another girl obsessed with princes. And obviously that's very bad for PP too, since the thesis of Utena is the chivalrous prince who will save you is a lie.

Utena's words imply they will meet again and there's not a lot of outcomes that are good for that. One outcome is that PP goes back to Ohtori to find Utena, only to find she's already gone. But then Akio has a replacement Utena, right there. I'm not sure that would even matter, with Anthy gone, there's no way he can like, use her for anything...but he might take his anger at Utena and Anthy out on her. The better option is PP finds Utena in the real world, and sees that she and Anthy are officially girlfriends and have become healthier people. That might be good for her, actually--I'm sure Utena would encourage her to move on, find her own identity, and Utena would still want to be friends. Or she could ignore Utena andsink into bitterness and jealousy.

One of the most screwed up things about this ending is that PP basically loses her individuality and has become a copy of another person. It's not great for her that she's so wrapped up in Utena that it's her identity now. It's very sad just like it was with Anthy in the manga.

So no, I don't think this ending goes well for Purple Pigtails at all. She loses who she is, becomes obsessed with something that's just a false patriarchal idol, and that makes her vulnerable to Ohtori. Her only hope is finding Utena in the real world, and Utena making up for her past mistake.

Miki's ending

It was such a chore to get to this ending, but it's worth it for how funny it is. Purple Pigtails immediately deciding she actually wasn't in love with Miki after all (hint it's because she's a lesbian hint) and just. blowing him off, pretending she has a boyfriend back home. Legendary of her, and honestly Miki kind of deserves it. From his perspective it must feel like she really played with his feelings, though.

Because it doesn't exist, Miki!!! It was never real!!!!

She does say she "likes younger boys" after this, but that's just what she's telling herself. Someday she'll realize. Hopefully.

I think its interesting that Miki is the only one in this game who explicitly actually has feelings for her. He is able to move on from his sister (sort of. I mean at the very least iirc he never compares PP to Kozue that I can remember. Which is HUGE for him), but none of the rest can move on past their obsessions.

I actually think this works out pretty well for PP. She's not too attached to Miki, so she's unlikely to go back to Ohtori, and it doesn't break her heart to leave him, she's still herself, and I think she'll be able to move on.

Touga Ending (italicized since I haven't seen the whole route)

I haven't fully watched this route, so I don't know what it takes to get there. If I did it might affect my opinion, so take it with a grain of salt. But while this ending is so mean and horrible, it is also so darkly funny. Touga distilled. He's such a asshole that it is impossible to get any thing positive from your ending with him even in a dating sim, and that's amazing. You think you've won but you lost. You lost the second you decided to date Touga.

Basically, Touga promises he will write PP every single day, and he will come visit her too, and she's ecstatic.

And then he goes and burns her address, calling her stupid, because of course he fucking does. Thus PP is totally ghosted, left despairing and wondering why.

It is also very interesting he's the only love interest she does NOT get a kiss from, unexpected since Touga has not problem kissing girls he does not give a shit about. Either he just, genuinely hates her guts THAT much or he's ---

ahhh shit. I just looked it up. You can have PP have sex with him. In fact you have to actively avoid it if you don't want to. So that's why he doesn't need a kiss. Her already got what he wanted. That actually makes this ending so much more heartbreaking, a lot of girls place a lot of importance on their first time, and PP was treated so cruelly with hers. This goddamn prick.

It is horrible, but it is exactly what I'd expect Touga to do (esp since this is set so early in the story) and I think it's incredible the game was so true to his character that you just get a straightforward unhappy ending when you date him. The others at least APPEAR a little happy, though they're quite sad when you think about them for long, but the game makes no pretenses with Touga. It just goes "no, you got nothing good out of this relationship, this man is trash, he played you like he does everyone"

Obviously this is pretty sad for Purple Pigtails, who gets manipulated and ghosted, and, depending on your choices, gets to have the lovely experience of a horrible older boy manipulating her, fucking her, and throwing her away at the tender age of 14. But, assuming she is able to move on (I hope so?) this might be happier than others for her in the long run (especially if she avoids having sex with him). Touga ghosting her means he won't be able to torment her further, and that's better than any other option with him. Unless, of course, she goes back to Ohtori to get an explanation...

Perfect Ending

I do like the perfect ending bc of the funny interactions the council get in--Juri teasing Miki about liking older girls and Miki getting extremely flustered, Touga being so fucking annoying especially when he insists on calling Saionji BEST FRIEND over and over until Saionji is like "can you shut the fuck up''...

The goodbye with Utena is fairly generic though, just the tiniest bit gay. One thing that is interesting for this ending is PP wanting to learn fencing.

It's ambiguous who she's talking about here, she could even mean Chigusa despite the fact she's deader than dead, or it could be "we don't know which person she's most attracted too ooooh".

As far as working out for Purple Pigtails? She escapes romantic trauma, which is great for her, but she seems really determined to go back to Ohtori in this one, and as has been said many times, that is not good for her.

Akio Ending

I considered rating this higher bc it's so funny how PP calls Akio on his bullshit.

But there's the fact that PP's particular Akio ending is even more uh, rape-coded than any other Akio car ride, IIRC? It's not only the fact she's underage, but she actively begs Akio to stop. But of course that motherfucker doesn't listen.

It's honestly so sad so that kind of ruins any fun. Which doesn't make it bad, but i don't like thinking about that part.

This is the second worst ending for PP. Just like the Black Rose and Anthy endings, she's still at Ohtori and has no friends, but there's the sexual assault aspect on top of that. She will be so traumatized, and on top of that she lost humiliatingly, while Akio basically called her worthless.

Saionji ending

Saionji's ending is both kind of boring and vaguely interesting. (And I'm ranking it like this on the assumption Saionji never hit her, which I assume he didn't from the Youtube comments. While he would definitely be cruel to a gf in multiple ways if she stuck around enough, I think it's possible the only person he would physically abuse while dating is Anthy. which is. something to analyze.) Saionji is (blessedly) silent during most of this ending. only saying "I owe you a lot" when he gives her the present (implying she's been kind of for caring for him, wet pathetic dog that he is, which does fit with the snippets I've seen of this route and echoes his relationship with Wakaba)

Saionji does give her his little leaf (apparently the only present he's capable of making?? like if he can carve this leaf he must know how to carve other things, right??? maybe it's just the carving he's best at) but PP knows he's too obsessed with Anthy (and Touga. the obsession with Anthy is just an extension of an obsession with Touga lets all be honest here) to return her feelings and they're both pretty honest and open about things. But THEN she claims she'll come back and make him look her way someday.. AND THEN she just plants one on him out of nowhere. Girl, you forget about consent!

Honestly Saionji just seems extremely confused and freaked out about it, even his expression afterwards, which makes me feel bad for him, something I'd never thought I'd say in my life. It's kind of interesting to see him like that. But...it doesn't stand out too much other than that. It's kind of just like. okay girl. calm down.

This one does not work out perfectly for PP since she seems pretty determined to come back to Ohtori and make Saionji love her, which is definitely never going to happen. But she doesn't lose her identity, doesn't get a pining locket, Saionji is surprisingly nice to her, unlike Wakaba she knows she doesn't have a chance right now, so she wasn't hugely disappointed...so it could be worse.

Utena Friendship Ending

Basically the same at the perfect ending, except we never get to see any fun interactions between the group. Boring.

Black Rose Ending

This one claims PP is obsessed with books, which has never come up in the game before, so it feels out of nowhere and like it wasn't properly developed. There's not much to dig into, when there should be. And her defeat is basically the same as the Akio endings, so it doesn't add much.

(Utena is being so mean here!!!! You know she's brainwashed why are you being an asshole about her skill!)

One the worst endings from PP's perspective, her mind is messed with, she literally has no friends, and she's stuck at Ohtori.

Game over

Obviously a Game Over is pretty boring. The game just ends. Bye.

I think PP would disappear from the world in the game over ending, just like Chigusa wanted. So this is the worst ending for her, she not only dies. she's erased from existence. At least in the other endings she gets to live.

(also I think either this one or the perfect ending are canon for the anime. The game over ending makes a lot of sense, since they would all forget PP and all that happened with her ever existed, and that would be the explanation for why she's never mentioned in the anime. But the more optimistic take is that the perfect ending is canon, and nobody ever mentions her because she just doesn't come up.

So there's my favorites ranked from best to worst.

NOW let's rank the endings from worst to best for Perfect Pigtails!

Game Over (she dies)

Akio Car Ending

Black Rose Ending

Anthy Ending (it's possible for her to have friends in this one)

Touga Ending (provided a) he has sex with her and b) she is unable to move on from what happened. Without those two factors though, it's under Utena's in the long run)

Utena Ending

Juri Ending

Saionji Ending

Perfect Ending

Miki Ending is the best one for her, weirdly! (Or at least my interpretation of it. She got out unscathed and has no desire to return to Ohtori!)

---

And those are my rankings! I hope everyone who read this far enjoyed the rambling.

#revolutionary girl utena #utena game #utena tenjou #anthy himemiya #miki kaouru #juri arisugawa #touga kiryuu #kyouichi saionji #akio ohtori #shoujo kakumei utena

188 notes · View notes

fuctacles · 4 days

Text

Just like Cinderella

happy bday to my Prince Charming @blasvemous M | 3.3k | crack treated seriously, meet cuteugly something, idiot4idiot, humiliation kink mentioned | Ao3

"Shit, fuck!" Steve lets himself have one last glance at his wristwatch, and of course, it instantly proves to be a mistake.

He runs straight into someone's back, and it punches all the air out of his lungs. He's stunned for a second, and can barely hear a rushed apology. He thinks he mutters back 'No, it was my fault', and by the time he blinks back into reality and crouches to pick up his bag, the guy is gone.

But not all of him.

On the pavement, right under his bag, he finds a... something.

It's made of metal and intricate, and not his. He picks it up and straightens up quickly, in hopes of seeing the guy he ran into. There are a lot of people rushing about, though.

"Hey!" He picks up his pace again, hoping to spot the person he ran into. He remembers long hair and a mix of citrusy shampoo and cigarette smell. Not much else. Nobody turns their head as he runs through the morning crowd, so he stuffs the item deep into his bag and focuses on the initial goal of rushing to work. He can worry about this all later.

On his break, he takes the thing out of his bag to take a better look. It looks well-made and could be expensive, but he has no idea what it could be. It reminds him of old egg beaters, but he doubts that's what it is. Maybe a toy? One of these educational puzzles for nerds, like a Rubik's cube? Or! It could be a replica of some sci-fi movie gadget. Like the sonic screwdriver that Dustin made.

He probably should just ask around.

His usual go-to, the self-titled oracle and part-time scholar Robin Buckley, had no better ideas than him. She turned the thing in her fingers, cradling it delicately like an eggshell, while humming and hemming.

"Looks like a tiny brace. Maybe for a york's paw? The guy could be a vet," she offers.

"Maybe," Steve nods, not convinced at all. He doesn't want to think about a little dog with a broken paw somewhere out there, its bones unprotected. "I was thinking it could be a kitchen utensil?"

Robin puts it on the desk between them and stares at it intently.

"Like what?"

"I don't know," Steve shrugs, embarrassed to share his idea. "Like an egg beater?"

Robin continues her loud thinking but in the end, leaves him with nothing.

The thing weighs him down on his daily commute, waiting in the bottom of his bag for the day he finds its owner. Steve isn't even sure if he would recognize him. Them? After a week he wasn't even sure it was a guy.

The workload doesn't give him a break either, and once Friday finally arrives, he makes a detour on his route home to grab a drink or two. After his first drink, he checks for any loose change he could put in the tip jar and his hand finds the Thing. He pulls it out with a sigh and puts on the bartop with a small clunk. As he reaches out to put what he's found in the jar, he hears a very concerning and loud choking sound.

To his right, a long-haired guy is wheezing his lungs out, fist-punching his own sternum. Steve immediately leans over the empty stool between them and starts smacking his back to help.

"Jesus, you alright? Went down the wrong pipe?" He looks around the man, but all he sees is a glass of beer, so hopefully he didn't get a peanut lodged in his windpipe.

The man lets out a really gross phlegmy cough, clears his throat, and takes a shuddering breath.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he wheezes out. "Just, uh, you know. Didn't expect to just turn around and see, uh, that." He spares a tiny glance at the Thing in front of Steve.

Steve immediately brightens up, hoping to finally get an answer to his predicament. He swiftly moves to the empty seat, drink and Thing sliding along the bar with him. He sees the man wince while he's still facing forward like he's afraid to take a proper look. He takes a drink of his beer, this time slow and cautious, and Steve can see the redness spreading from his cheeks down his throat.

"You know what it is?" Steve asks hopefully, leaning closer to him.

The man freezes, and maybe it wasn't in his best manners to just sit down next to someone without asking, but it's already happened and Steve is kind of desperate.

He gulps down the beer, no accidents this time, but his voice is still strained, when he asks incredulously:

"You don't?! No, you know, that actually explains it. Take them damn thing off the bar for the love of Merlin."

Steve, while taken aback by the sudden shift and being ordered around by a stranger, stuffs the Thing away from peering eyes.

"Why? What is it? Something illegal?" Fuck, why didn't he think about that?

But the man is shaking his head.

"No, but I'm pretty sure the bartender wouldn't appreciate it."

"What is it?" Steve presses on.

The guy finally turns to him and Steve can see him in all his glory. Black leather, long hair, and a pair of truly soft brown eyes that don't match his overall vibe at all. And they stare right at him like they are trying to look straight into his soul. He's searching for something for a long, drawn-out moment, before he deflates, eyes skirting away, but he keeps facing Steve.

"Really?" he mutters, mostly to himself. "It's a fucking cock cage, man."

"A fucking cock what?" Steve asks once he gets his voice back.

"You heard me. I'm not repeating myself," he says with a scoff, eyes falling to Steve's bag. His knee starts jumping up and down restlessly. "Where did you find it?"

But Steve had questions of his own.

"Is it like, a medical thing?" he asks.

The looks he gets back would make him believe an alien just popped out of his forehead and started dancing Macarena. He frowns defensively.

"What? I've never seen something like this!"

"It's a sex thing," the man responds mercifully, watching him closely.

Now it's Steve's turn to gauge his eyes at the man. He looks briefly down at his bag like the thing could just grow tentacles and have its way with him.

"How? Why?" he asks, mouth twisting at the images flashing in his mind. "How do you know that?"

The knee never stops jumping. If anything, it becomes more erratic.

"Uh, I know guys who are into it." The man looks away again.

Steve rolls his eyes. Sure. He knows a guy.

"So since you know some guys," he plays along. "Maybe they know more guys and they could ask around if anyone has lost one of these?" he suggests. "Now I want it off my hands even more."

The man scoffs, almost amused.

"Could imagine. I could take it from you and just hand it over to them, make things easier for you," he offers, glances at him, and then shrugs.

Steve recoils at the idea.

"That? No, It's my fault the guy lost it, I wasn't looking and ran into him. I need to make sure it goes back to the right hands."

The man hums, drumming his fingers against the bar.

"I want to be there when you ask random people if they are missing their cock cage."

Steve presses his lips together.

"Stop saying that."

"What?" He tilts his head, looking amused. "Cock cage? Like the cock cage you have in your bag?"

"Yes. That."

He raises his hands placatingly.

"All I'm saying is I would be embarrassed as fuck if I was the idiot who lost it. Would be hard to come forward and admit it," he says, raising his shoulders.

Steve huffs, slumping against the bar.

"Fuck, you're right."

"I know," the man murmurs back and they quietly sip their drinks.

"There must be places where it isn't that weird to admit it," Steve thinks out loud. He looks to his bar companion for confirmation but he's frowning at the liquor display in front of him, lost in thoughts. Steve hopes they aren't about him. The guy had a good profile and a cute nose.

"Hey." He nudges him gently with an elbow.

"Hm?" The man turns, his frown melting away so he can raise his eyebrows curiously.

"Do you know any fetish places where I could leave a poster or something?"

The man only stares at him blankly.

"You're gonna make posters," he states more than he asks.

"If I have to." Steve shrugs.

"You sure you don't want me to just take it off you?"

"Nope."

"We could exchange numbers and I'll let you know when I find the owner."

Steve thinks about that.

"You could lie, though," he points out.

He huffs, annoyed.

"I totally absolutely could," he agrees with a resigned nod like using logic pains him. Then, he sighs. "I could buy it off you?" he finally offers.

Steve's taken aback.

"Why do you want it so badly?" He frowns at him.

"I just want to do you a favor, man!" He rolls his eyes. He's almost angry and 100% done with this conversation, it seems, as he downs the rest of his drink and slides off the barstool.

"Tomorrow at ten, in front of the bookstore on John Paul. Bring your silly posters and I'll show you some kink shops and bars."

Steve blinks at him.

"That okay?" the man asks, tongue darting out to lick his dry lips.

Hesitantly, Steve nods.

"I guess that's my best shot. Thanks, man."

The guy nods.

"Don't mention it."

Then he turns and leaves, hands buried deep into his pockets, and Steve realizes he hasn't even asked for his name.

He regrets not taking the guy on his offer to take the thing off him when he had the chance. Because he wouldn't be stuttering his way through explanations while his temporary companion revels in his embarrassment like it's the gods' nectar.

At least now he knows his name is Eddie.

Eddie pretends to be interested in the little display of nipple rings while Steve tries to convince the shop owner to hang his little poster saying "fetish gear found". The man finally yields, as do two others, thus concluding the number of sex shops in the area.

"The bars don't open until late but we can try the Hangover before we part."

"What's that?" Steve asks, following Eddie anyway.

"Also a bar, but they serve hangover food around noon. They have the best bacon and won't tell me where they buy it from." He frowns like it's some personal feud.

"Perfect. I can buy you lunch for helping me." Steve grins at him.

Eddie seems surprised at first but then smiles widely.

"I won't say no to free food. This way, my good man!"

The place is a hole in the wall but really cozy. It seems like the same guy who took their order is cooking it and there's only one other person, with a coffee refill in front of them and a plate of... something unrecognizable under every possible sweet topping.

"I gotta show this place to Robin, she'll love it," Steve comments while looking around. The inside looks like It was never fully finished or whatever purpose it served previously didn't require it. The walls are rough bricks, the windows old and probably drafty, and the only part of the floor that isn't rough cement is the dancefloor.

But the collection of LED signs, mismatched couches, and a sunflower mural softened the rough interior. Steve will definitely come here again.

They get their own jug of coffee and Eddie pours for both of them.

"Girlfriend?" he asks with a raised eyebrow.

Steve rolls his eyes in a very tired way and Eddie almost chokes on his surprised laugh.

"Geez okay, not a girlfriend then."

Steve chuckles dryly.

"Nope, just my best friend. We play for different teams."

Eddie eyes him curiously but he doesn't elaborate on that. He clears his throat.

"Well, in that case, I should tell you that all the places I've shown you today are queer-friendly."

"This included." The chef must have heard that last sentence. He places their food on the counter. "There you go, little gays, bone apéritif."

"I'm pretty sure that's not how it goes," Eddie murmurs, immediately snatching a piece of bacon off his hash browns.

"It is how it goes if you want more free coffee," says the chef as he turns around.

"Your French is immaculate, Benjamine!"

Steve makes an ugly snort at Eddie's terrible French accent. The man seems to be very proud of his little theatrics.

For a moment it's just the sound of forks against plates and the distant radio playing in the kitchen. Eddie finishes first, almost inhaling his food like he's a human vacuum, and pours himself more coffee.

"You wanna go to the bars too? Later?"

Steve chews on his bite thoughtfully.

"I think if you give me the addresses I'll be good to go on my own. You've already done so much, man."

Eddie is stunned into silence. This is not the answer he wanted. He licks his rapidly drying lips, looking for a good excuse to keep tagging along.

"Uh, are you sure?"

"Yeah, don't worry about it. You've wasted so much time on me today. I don't want to completely ruin your weekend." Steve smiles at him.

"It's not a problem, really—"

"No, man, I wouldn't feel okay dragging you around." Steve shakes his head.

"First of all, I'm dragging you around," Eddie huffs. "Second of all, it's the first time a man this pretty spent so much time with me and hasn't run for the hills. Let me have this."

Steve frowns at that information.

"You must have shit luck with men."

"Tell me about it," Eddie murmurs into his coffee.

"So it would be a date?"

Eddie turns to him, eyes wide. But Steve holds his gaze.

"I mean, it would be nice." Eddie tugs on his hair nervously. "We can do the posters thing and then just have fun for the rest of the night, no?" he offers.

"Absolutely." Steve smiles reassuringly.

"Awesome." Eddie grins.

Steve spends hours figuring out his outfit. It's his first official date with a man, he has to look good. He therefore makes the mistake of calling his best friend. He nods along as she tells him what exactly to put on (How she has memorized his wardrobe is a question he doesn't want answered.) and then clears his throat when she takes a breath.

"What if I don't want to attract women?"

There's a pause and then—

"My my, Steven, finally going for it?"

"You could say that."

"Where are you going? A bar? What's the vibe?"

He sighs.

'We're kind of bar hopping, he's showing me around the area."

"Back up, back up!" she yells in his ear. "We?! You're not just going out? You have a date?"

"Yeah," Steve more breathes than says. He has a date. It's slowly dawning on him.

"Who is he?" Robin asks impatiently and he can easily imagine her curling up in her armchair for gossip.

"His name is Eddie—"

"Okay, sounds normal."

"—he has this long, wild hair, and tattoos—"

"Okay, less normal."

"—but he is normal. A bit awkward, kind of dorky, not at all how you'd expect a guy in a leather jacket to be."

"Huh. Okay, maybe I won't find you in a ditch somewhere. I want a call when you get back, no later than tomorrow morning. At noon, I'm calling the police."

Steve rolls his eyes fondly.

"Of course, Robbie. But can we focus on the matter at hand?"

In the end, he goes the Freddie Mercury route, with a tank top that shows off his chest hair, and tight jeans. He throws a colorful shirt over it to fight off the night chill. Eddie looks pretty much the same as earlier, though his band t-shirt looks a bit tighter.

"Steve," he sighs instead of a proper greeting and Steve's face falls. He looks down at himself.

"What? Is it that bad?"

"Darling, you're gonna get eaten alive. How am I supposed to fight off all of the bargoers?"

Steve laughs in surprise, feeling himself blush.

"I guess you'll just have to hold on to me."

Eddie's eyes sparkle under the setting sun.

"Don't have to tell me twice," he says, pulling Steve inside their first location. "I saved my favorite place for last. But we can stay wherever you feel like."

Eddie stays true to his word, parading Steve around like an arm candy, their elbows hooked together. Only on their second bar does he realize something is amiss.

"You didn't bring your posters?" he asks curiously, cocking his head.

Steve hums next to him, sipping on the colorful drink the bartender recommended.

"Do I need them?"

Eddie's visibly taken aback by the question. He frowns at Steve.

"Didn't you want to find the owner?"

Steve nods, unfazed.

"Yeah, and I did."

Eddie's face blanches. He opens his mouth before closing it abruptly, his frown deepening.

"What? When?" he asks, barely containing his panic and immensely confused.

"Earlier today." Steve shrugs. "Haven't given it back yet, though."

"Oh, thank gods." Eddie visibly deflates. Steve raises his eyebrows at that, so he rushes to add: "It's great that you found him so fast." He forces out a smile. "Who is it? Did he know what it was?" The poster was purposefully vague so the person calling in would have to say what they'd lost.

Steve shakes his head, raising the drink to his lips to prolong the suspense just a bit more.

"It's you."

Eddie's brain short circuits. He's stunned for too long for his forced laugh to work.

"Hahah, what?"

Steve smiles at him and since he's feeling extra merciless tonight, reaches out for the man's neck. Eddie looks close to fainting but Steve doesn't relent and rubs a thumb across his jugular, observing him shiver before he pulls him in by his nape. He leans in to press his nose to Eddie's skin, fingers digging into the roots of his hair, where lingers the smell of his shampoo. Artificial lemon and cigarettes. He must have taken a shower before going out.

"You smell just like the guy I ran into that day," Steve explains close to his skin as he traces it with the tip of his nose. Slowly, he moves away. He's a bit worried he moved too fast, but Eddie's cheeks are red and his eyes are fixed on his mouth, so he relaxes back into his seat. "And if I had any doubts, your reaction just now dispelled them all," he finishes with a smirk.

Eddie groans, hiding in his hands.

"This is the most embarrassing date in my life and once I wore my shirt inside out."

Steve laughs but reaches out to put his hand on Eddie's knee to weaken the blow.

"Don't worry, it's working on me."

Eddie pushes his fingers apart to peek at him.

"Really?"

"Surprisingly, yes." Steve nods. "I hope it works out, preferably long enough so I can tell about our first meeting at the engagement party." His smile turns wide and teasing. "We'll put Cinderella to shame."

Eddie groans, but it sounds more pained this time.

"Careful," he says heatedly. "My humiliation kink is flaring up," he says, aiming for humor, but something new wakes up in Steve and he cocks his head with a fake pout.

"Poor baby. You wanna go hide your shame somewhere more private?"

Eddie presses his lips together, breathing deeply through his nose.

"Can we?"

Steve finishes quickly his drink and slides off his bar stool. He feels the pleasant buzz of alcohol and Eddie Eddie Eddie. He leans in for a quick, impulsive peck against his pink lips.

"Of course." He grins. "Let's go."

#steddie #stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #mine #steddie fanfiction #ff #steddie fic #idiot4idiot #steddie crack #Im sorry i cut it off before the good part again

162 notes · View notes

bandgie · 9 months

Text

Hate You So

prince!bangchan x fem!reader

MDNI 18+, fantasy au, enemies-to-lovers (kinda), oral (f!), cum swapping, brief overstim (f!), biting, brief thigh humping

ask here! notes: I am not taking requests, however, I am interested in this one with my own version ofc

3.2k words

There is never a dull moment with Prince Chan. His words are belittling, his eyes are full of scorn when he looks at you in all his ruthless beauty. Sometimes you wish you could ignore his piercing gaze, but he bores his eyes into the back of your head so harshly you feel it burning.

Even without his hatred, it would be hard to turn away from him. With full lips, plump cheeks, and strong nose, it really is hard to think of him as anything below attractive. Still, you know better than to approach him unless you wish to cry yourself to sleep that night.

A masked ball is the perfect opportunity for you to slip away. Pretend to be someone you're not, or perhaps it's to show your true self behind a false face. Not that it matters. A night like this allows you to put the puzzling hatred the prince has for you far behind your mind.

Drink after drink, spin after spin and you find yourself in the arms of the Viscount Felix. You can tell it's him from the way he adorns himself in jewelry, his hair the color of the sun itself. His deep blue robe stitched with silver treading in layers. It must be difficult to dance in heavy clothes, but he twirls you in his arms easily.

"Ah, isn't it the beautiful Duchess," he regards you with a sly smirk. His eyes peek out from his silver mask underneath.

You narrow your eyes, though you doubt he can see much of your facial expressions from your black mask. "How did you know?" To this, Felix's smirk widens to a smile. "Even behind such a clever guise, your charm seeps through the fabric."

You mock the sound of laughter. "Is this a trick of flattery to get my hand in marriage? To help you rise higher than a Viscount?"

Felix's eyes gleam with mischief. "You think too highly of yourself, dear Duchess. I simply wish to lay in your bed."

Now you laugh. Your voice is swallowed from the sounds of heels clicking on the ground and loud chatter. The two of you dance steadily despite the liquor running in your veins. Felix is careful not to spin you too fast or dip you too low. He may speak vulgar, but he is every bit gentleman in every other way.

"I think I'd like that very much, if I'm to be truthful," you say once you're swaying evenly in his hold. "I can't recall the last time I've been properly loved." Felix makes a sound of understanding, eyes darting to the people around you.

It's improper of you to speak in such a way. You are of high status, and talking like this not only in public, but to someone of lower ranking is foolish. Still, it's this potty mouth that gives you and Felix such a close bond. The fact that you can speak freely without judgment.

Chris does not share your sentiment.

He can hear your crass words from where he dances with his own partner. It sickens him to know that you openly express lustful desires, but it disturbs him even more that he finds himself jealous.

His partner is speaking, but he doesn't pay attention to any words she says. He strains his ears to eavesdrop on the conversation with you and the brightly hair-colored Viscount.

"Is that so?" Chris hears the deep voice of the man dancing with you. "Sounds like that is quite the problem. Has no one caught your eye? Do you think no one is worthy of seeing your wholeness?"

You react as if you tire of your dancing partner, rolling your eyes. "Don't be so dramatic. The person I have my eye on would rather see me burn, that's all." The smile on your lips falter. Despite his better self, Chris wonders who would turn down such an opportunity to spend a night with you. What a foolish man.

"And pry tell, who is this person?" Felix speaks as though he read Chris's mind.

"The Prince."

Ah, that makes sense. Chris can't count the amount of times he's upset you, the times he's spewed swears cruel enough to make your eyes water. He brushed it off as you being too sensitive, too emotional. But he knows deep down, it's so he doesn't get close to you.

Felix's eyes widen and his jaw drops. He looks at you with alarm, and some fear, then he hisses under his breath. "I am not one to tell you what to do and how to speak, but I highly suggest you refrain from speaking ill about the royal blood in their own castle."

He has a point, it's treason to speak how you are now. But the alcohol makes not only your thoughts, but your words careless. "So then tell me, what do you suggest? I tire of my lonely state. I think I'm up for any suggestions you have."

Before Felix answers, his eyes dance around the room one last time to spot any itching ears. Chris, despite being a prince, turns his head to finally acknowledge his partner and try to pick up on the conversation. Once Felix determines there are no listeners, he says, "Perhaps you should lure the prince into your sheets. You say you want love, but I argue hate is a much more fun way to spend the night."

A wicked smile finds its way to Felix's lips that you can't help but match. "Now look who's speaking ill" you say. "Plus, that's a terrible idea. I will regret it in the morning."

To this, Felix shrugs. "Then let him make sweet hate to you past sunrise."

☘︎☘︎☘︎☘︎

Chris should know his luck is thin. Only the universe would have him push you away so much so only for you to want him with the same intensity. It mocks him even now as you stand outside of his chambers when he wanted to get away from you as far as possible.

"Did you follow me here?" He questions you with authority. You swoop into a deep curtsy and bow your head, "Yes, your majesty."

You don't have to look up to know he's sneering at you, lips pulled back into a snarl. Felix, along with the bitter alcohol, gave you too much confidence. Sure you may not be of low status, but standing before a prince unnerves you.

Especially when you followed him with intentions.

"If you want me to ask why, you will be disappointed. Leave me." Chris looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to take those steps back. You never do, however, but instead pick your head up and stride deeper into his room, shutting the door.

His eyebrows furrow and a blush crawls its way up his neck. Chris tries to mask his surprise with anger. "Stupid wrench. Can you not listen to simple instructions?" His eyes that are filled with anger slowly dissipates when he sees you reel back at his words.

You fiddle with your hands nervously and you suddenly feel as though you cannot do this at all. How are you, a duchess, supposed to ensnare a prince who hates you so? Doubt clogs your mind, but you are already here. It would be far too shameful to turn away without even trying.

"Why do you hate me so?" That's not what you were supposed to say. You were supposed to sound flirtatious, experienced. Instead, you're meek and quiet. For a moment you doubt the prince even heard you, but the disheartened look in his eyes says otherwise.

He sighs, running his jeweled fingers in his brown hair. A prince is to never be vulnerable, to show weakness in fear of exploitation. In the presence of your teary eyes, however, none of that seems to matter.

Chris takes a deep breath, "I hate you for many things."

Your jaw drops. You're not sure what you were expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. A foolish part of you thought maybe it was a misunderstanding, but there's no time to reply when the prince carries on.

"I hate that I think about you every hour of everyday. I hate that you live freely while I have to act accordingly." He takes a step to you. "I hate how you look at me with those hidden eyes. I hate it even more that I know it's you underneath that plain mask." Chris is close enough to reach for your face and he does just that. Gentle fingers undo the knot that keeps your mask on and he lets it fall to the ground.

"I hate that I know your voice, that I ache to hear it. I hate that I know in which way you walk, should you be in my castle." His fingertips ghost over your skin, sending shivers down your spine. "I hate that I dream of you and I hate when I wake from those dreams."

Chris traces the outline of your lips, watching how your tongue darts out to taste his fingers. He shudders.

"Worst of all," he leans close to your face, a kiss away from you. "I hate that it's only for one night that I will be yours."

You don't kiss him back at first. You can't even register his plush lips on yours. How they move steadily, sickly sweet. The prince tastes faintly of alcohol, but not enough to overpower his kiss. You come back to when his hands find your waist, pressing you closer to his warm body.

A part of you thinks maybe this is a test. That when you begin moving your mouth with his, he'd pull away and laugh. Chris doesn't do that though and instead groans against your lips when you finally reciprocate.

Shaky hands find their way to his styled hair, tugging on his curls to bring him closer. It doesn't take long before you're both chest to chest, one of his legs between yours as you stand, and breathing into each other's mouths. His kiss is bruising, filled with the overwhelming desire he claims to hate.

Chris nips on your lower lip, pulling it back harshly to hear you whimper. Then he kisses you again, messily sliding his tongue against yours. His lips travel down your cheek, your jawline, to your neck. You shiver at his warm tongue tasting your skin, hips rocking on his thigh.

The grip on your waist only tightens to keep pressure on you grinding on him. You feel him smile against your throat. "Humping me like a little bunny, aren't you?" He lifts his head to whisper in your ear, biting your earlobe. "Is my leg enough to satiate your lust?"

You shake your head, "N-no. It's not, my prince." Chris rewards your honesty by moving his hands from your waist. He lifts the many layers of your dress in bunches, holding them above your hips. You take the hint and grasp them in your own fingers, watching him descend lower...

...and lower... ...and lower...

The prince kneels before you, facing your core. You gasp, and despite dreaming about this with your hand underneath your nightgown, it's still an unbelievable sight. No royal blood is to kneel before another, let alone you of lower ranking.

"Prince Christopher!" You sound slightly panicked. "You mustn't! To kneel before...not even that! You must have drunken one too many glasses. I shouldn't have-"

You cut yourself off with a yelp. You feel Chris's teeth dig into the soft flesh of your thighs. He does it hard enough to see his teeth imprints when he pulls back. "You think of me drunk," he says it with accusation. "But how could I be drunk off wine when I could be drunk off this instead?"

Though you can't see him from the frills of the many layers of your dress, it helps ease your nerves when he hooks his finger under your panties. Your hips jolt when the cold air hits your bare cunt, but his warm breath quickly replaces it.

Chris trails kisses just next to your core, his hands planted on each thigh. His fingers makes shapeless figures, dancing closer to where you throb just before pulling away. It's bearable it first, his teasing. But then you start to feel yourself dripping, arousal seeping from your folds. His lips ghost over your clit, moving to the next thigh.

You tremble, trying to move your hips so his mouth catches your pussy. You're met with a chuckle, deep and quiet. It makes you more impatient, whining. "My prince please. I cannot bear it."

The prince pulls away from you completely, leaning back to look up at you. He looks silly beneath where you stand. His mouth red and curls messy from your earlier tugging, but his wet lips are frowning. "Are you, a duchess, telling me, a prince, what to do?"

Shit, you got too comfortable. "Of course not," your voice wavers. From fear or lust, you're not sure. "I didn't mean to offend you, I just-"

"You're quite the nervous talker, aren't you?" Chris's once pouting lips turn into a smirk. His observation makes you blush, though you're sure your face was already a deep shade of red since the beginning.

He smiles at your reaction, teeth gleaming in the candlelit room. "No need to fret, pretty duchess. I told you that tonight I am yours. If my mouth on you is what you desire, then so be it."

You watch as Chris dives forward to the empty space between your legs. His tongue darts out to taste you directly, going under your lower lips to collect your arousal. The warmth from his mouth makes you squeal, but his hands move to the back of your thighs to keep you in place.

It's hot, wet, and a little rough when he licks you. He trails his tongue upwards to rub soft circles on your nub before dipping back down. Chris moves his hands higher until they're under your hiked dress, gripping your arse. His fingers kneed into your soft flesh, forcing you deeper into his mouth.

There's a guttural moan that leaves him, sending waves through your cunt. Chris opts to suck on your flesh, pulling it only to let it go with a wet 'pop!' The sensation makes you shiver, legs buckling for a second before you regain your composure.

"This is..." the prince trails off. He buries his nose on your clit, sticking his tongue out to prod at your entrance. There's no doubt that the evidence of your shame is dripping from his chin, but he acts as though he doesn't mind. He hardly cares how your legs squeeze and how the hair on your pelvis tickles his face when he painfully pushes his face deeper into you.

This is divine.

You want nothing more than to grind on his face, hump on his tongue like the bunny he said you are. But your legs shake so much, your knees lock so often you see your vision go black for seconds. Finishing on the prince's face is something you could have only dreamt of. Yet here he is, seeming to eagerly coax a release from you. Surely he must be flushed himself, straining painfully in his trousers.

"P-Prince Christopher I- oh~ I'm so close. Do you want me to...should I..."

It's difficult to finish your sentence when you're so close to finishing in his warm mouth. You want to taste him how he's doing to you, you want to feel how his length would stretch you out. He must feel the same way, he has to.

But he only shakes his head with your pussy still in his mouth. "You should cum," he says breathlessly. "Let me taste this, drink you in. I've never had a cunt as pretty as yours."

Hot kisses rapidly peck on your clit. The prince spits messily on your already wet core, but he quickly spreads it all over your lips. Chris moves you up and down by your ass, encouraging you to ride his face. The idea of hesitating and passing the opportunity is behind you. You feel as though you might crush his head with the force of your legs, but he takes it all.

It makes sense why you're moaning, writhing under the tongue of the prince. But it makes you wonder why he's so loud himself. Groaning at your taste and whining when your hips shy away from his relentless mouth. You can hear him mumble mostly to himself. Mindlessly babbling soft words of praises.

"So good." "Pretty pussy." "Fuck. Ride my tongue, just like that."

Maybe he's trying to help get you to your high, but it makes you distantly wonder, nonetheless.

You whimper at the feeling of pleasure building in your stomach. It bundles and quivers until you drop the hem of your dress to reach down and grip Chris by the hair. He ignores how the layers surround him like blankets. You feel him gasp against your pussy when you slide your cunt up and down his face.

"S-sorry," you apologize pathetically. "Close. Wanna cum- fuck! wanna cum. Please forgive me." You mewl more apologies before vibrating with pleasure. Chris can't protest as you finish on his tongue, and he seems to rather like it with the way his blunt fingernails stab into the skin of your bottom.

You keep him there on your cunt as your body trembles with aftershocks from your orgasm. The prince obediently licks you throughout it all, collection your cream before loudly gulping it down. Your shaky hands finally release him from your grip, but Chris is persistent on giving your quivering clit final kisses.

Even if you try to move your hips from his mouth, he keeps you in place. "Your majesty," you struggle to find your voice from how much you were moaning. "Please. It's so sensitive."

He licks a fat stripe along your pussy to hear you cry out one final time. "You ask for me to taste you. You practically beg for me to let you finish on my tongue and when I do, you tell me to stop. Tell me, duchess, what is it that you want from me exactly?"

It's a simple question that has a simple answer, yet, saying it would bring complicated issues you know neither of you are able to face.

You. The word is on the tip of your tongue, but you settle for saying, "T-to please you, if you'll have me." It's close enough to what you actually want.

Chris finally brings himself to his feet, reaching for your fallen mask on his way up. He hands you the fabric, but you're so distracted with his face that you gasp.

He's soaked in your juices, his face glistens in the rising moonlight coming from his window. It's almost offensive to look at, reminding you of how you lost yourself so easily.

The prince only smiles at your words, your shocked expression. "Don't worry about my pleasure, pretty duchess." He leans in to kiss you, eyes fluttering closed upon impact. You can taste yourself on him, the bitter flavor settling on your tongue and invading your senses. It brings a new wave of desire, of an aching want.

"There," he gives you a dazzling smile when he pulls away. A string of saliva mixed with your arousal connect your lips. "Have a taste of yourself instead."

#smut #skz smut #skz #stray kids #stray kids smut #skz bangchan #skz bang chan #skz chris smut #skz chris #skz channie #skz chan smut #bangchan smut #bangchan x reader #bangchan fanfic #skz felix #stray kids bang chan

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thelovelylolly · 3 months

Note

Hi. I have a request for a loki x female reader. I love his character so much. I would like it too be a short fluffy one.

Can you write a fic about loki and a reader who likes him but is afraid to tell him that, so she avoids him but he realizes that she likes him because he can read her like an open book. And it ending with them kissing for the first time.

Sorry if this sounds confusing. If you can't write this that is fine.

--sam w

Avoiding

Summary : you're a goddess on Asgard, and you've fallen in love with Loki. Warnings: fem! reader, r has long hair but texture and color isn't desc., some self doubt but it's very brief, let me know if i missed anything! Word count: 1.3k (not proofread) Notes: this is so cute! i did give them some more backstory so i hope you enjoy! (also dividers by @saradika-graphics !!)

You loved Loki.

It was plain and simple. You were a goddess on Asgard and had grown up with him while Frigga taught you how to harness your magic. You and Loki clicked instantly, sometimes getting into trouble together or spending quiet afternoons between lessons together. You helped him with his pranks against his brother, he helped you try new things with your magic.

You had a crush on him when you were both children, but you thought it was just a silly childhood crush.

Then, you grew up and it didn't go away.

If anything, your feelings grew stronger and deeper.

You didn't want to ruin the friendship you had with him and he was a prince. You held no title other than 'goddess' and you had heard about all the suitors his father had set up for him. Loki didn't want any of them and always said he'd rather spend his life with you or no one at all.

Surely, he didn't mean that he wanted to court and marry you, right?

He always went straight to you after meeting with suitors, which is where he found you one late afternoon. You were lounging around in the library, re-reading one of your favorite books, when he slipped through the large library doors. He closed them behind him and let out a sigh as he leaned against them.

You looked up from your book with a soft smile. "How'd it go?" You asked, even though you knew the answer.

"Terrible," Loki answered, walking over to you and sitting on the opposite end of the couch you were on. "I don't think my father understands that I'm not interested in these spoiled princes and princesses."

"Aww, you poor thing," you said teasingly, putting your book aside and scooting closer to him. "You have all these perfect options to choose from-"

"You know I don't want any of them," he quickly cut you off, smiling over at you. "But at least this one brought me a present."

"Oh, did they? What was it?"

Loki held his hand up and used his magic to make the gift appear. It was a delicate, gold crown that looked like a vine full of leafs.

"It's beautiful," you quietly said, leaning closer to get a better look.

"I was nice about it, but I knew it would look better on you than me," he replied, taking the crown between his hands and turning to face you. He gently placed it on top of your head, gently pulling a few pieces of your hair out to frame your face.

Your smile fell when you noticed how close the two of you were, your lips slightly parted as your heart raced. His soft smile made your insides melt and all you wanted to do lean forward and kiss him.

"I was right," he whispered, just loud enough for you to hear, "it does look better on you. You look like a queen."

Your gaze fell to his lips. All you had to do was say three little words and lean forward. But that could ruin everything.

Instead, you pulled away and stood up, clearing your throat awkwardly. You grabbed your book and turned towards him as you walked backwards to the doors. "I-I'm sorry, I have to go..." You quickly said before turning and leaving.

Loki watched the doors close behind you, leaving him alone in the library. His smile fell and he leaned against the back of the couch, letting out a sigh.

Something was up with you, and he was going to figure out what it was.

A few days had passed since what happened in the library and you had done your best to avoid Loki. You felt embarrassed and you didn't want to face him. You started to avoid the places the two of you usually frequented and found a nice beach area to escape to. It was hidden by different types of flora from the palace gardens.

However, you kept the crown he gave you. You only took it off to sleep or do your hair, which was always in a style that let you wear the crown. You had gotten compliments from others around the castle and when they asked where it had come from, you simply said it was a gift.

But it was more than a gift to you. It was a slight bit of hope that Loki requited your feelings.

Yet, you were too afraid to tell him and decided that avoiding him would help. Even with your peaceful beach and your favorite books, Loki still took up most, if not all, of your thoughts. Maybe he did know you had feelings for him because he knew you so well.

He knew you well enough to eventually find you on the beach. The sun was just starting to set and it caused the clear, blue waves to sparkle in the late afternoon light. The sun also shined off of the crown on your head, making you easy to spot for Loki.

When he called your name, your heart skipped a beat. You stood up from where you were sitting and reading before turning to him, watching him as he jogged over to you.

"There you are!" He said with a large smile. "I've been looking for you everywhere the past few days, why have you been avoiding me, dear?"

Dear. Gods, you loved him.

"I...I just needed some space, I guess," you replied softly, looking out at the waves next to you two.

"Space to think about your feelings for me?" He asked with a hint of teasing in his tone.

Your head whipped around and you looked at him with wide eyes. "W-what do you mean? What feelings-"

"Darling, we've been friends since we were children, I know you," he reached for your hands, taking them in his, "I figured out you had feelings for me only recently, so don't think I've been leading you on or anything. I've been trying to figure out how to tell you that I love you."

"You...what?" You were still surprised he found out, but now he admitted he loved you? Your mind was racing and so was your heart as you stepped closer to him. "You love me, too?"

"Of course I do, darling," he said, trailing his hands up your arms to hold your waist as he pulled you closer. "Why else do you think I've rejected all the suitors my father set up for me? Why do you think I gave you that crown?"

He leaned closer, pressing his forehead against yours before saying, "why do you think I spend every second I can with you?"

You took a deep breath, letting out a relieved sigh. "I was scared I was going to ruin what we have," you whispered.

He reached one hand up and cupped your cheek, running his thumb across your skin gently. "You could never ruin it, darling."

You slowly started to lean closer, the gap between you and him closing. He met you half way and pressed his lips to yours.

You had imagined his kiss many times, but none of it compared to real life. He was soft and gently, but still held you tight and close. He knew where to place his hands, how to move his lips against yours, and when to pull away.

It wasn't a short kiss, nor was it long, but you immediately missed the feeling of his lips on yours. However, the look he gave you silently told you that more were to come.

"Would you allow me to court you, darling?" He asked softly, still holding you close to him.

"Of course, Loki," you answered, smiling up at him, "but does your father know?"

He laughed. "No, but I don't care if he approves or not. I want you, I choose you, and he'll have to be okay with that because I'm never going to change my mind."

#loki x reader #loki x fem!reader #loki x you #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #loki laufesyon x reader #loki laufeyson x you #loki laufeyson fanfic #loki laufeyson fanfiction #loki x female reader

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gnocchibabie · 2 months

Text

Desire and Blood (Chapter 4)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen/Strong OC (Jaenara Velaryon)

Tags: AU - canon divergence, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, Targcest (uncle/niece)

Wordcount: 5.3k

Summary:

Against all odds, the love between childhood friends prevails and the Dance of Dragons is avoided.

However, peace comes at a cost. With the unexpected proposal of marriage between Alicent Hightower's son and Rhaenyra Targaryen's only daughter, can love truly blossom between sworn enemies? Or will Jaenara Velaryon be reduced to a mere pawn?

Love may yet arise where enmity once thrived, but Aemond's relentless pursuit of power threatens to shatter everything they hold dear, including each other.

A/N: You can find the previous chapters on my masterlist!

If you are liking this series, please consider showing some love on my AO3 posting of this fic :) thank you x

The day had finally come for Rhaenyra Targaryen to officially ascend the Iron Throne. Jaenara had scarcely slept the night before, anxiety gripping her tight and threatening to plague her sleep with nightmares of all that could go wrong. A last minute attempt at usurpation. An outspoken Lord or Lady laying doubt to her claim during the ceremony. The possibility of her mother’s flesh slicing upon upon taking her seat on the throne.

Jaenara sat by the window in her bedchamber, watching as the sun began to rise in the horizon, vibrant hues of orange, pink, and yellow coating the rooftops of King’s Landing. The young princess already felt exhausted thinking of all the lords and lady’s that would soon descend upon the Red Keep to behold her mother’s crowning. All the smiling and curtseying and pleasantries she would have to afford the visitors. But this was surely a historic and unprecedented occasion for them - a woman sitting the Iron Throne. A woman, they would bend the knee to.

She took delight in the thought. Better her mother than her drunken, spineless uncle, who had never taken any kind of interest in matters of politics. She dared to guess that Aegon would take little delight in sitting in on her mother’s council in the coming days, despite the Queen extending this kindness to him. The most happiness he would find from the crowning of his half-sister was all the wine he’d be able to drink come the coronation feast that evening.

As Jaenara watched the citizens of King’s Landing trickle out of their houses and flood the streets below, readying to begin their days, she recentered her thoughts. Rhaenyra Targaryen would soon mount the most powerful seat in Westeros. And Jacaerys would one day follow suit.

And I will take over Dragonstone. The princess was unsure of what to feel at the thought. It was a position she felt honored to hold, knowing that her mother had entrusted her with maintaining the ancestral seat of House Targaryen. Jace had even graciously given up his claim to it, so that Jaenara and Aemond — though mostly Aemond — would not feel as though they had been slighted during the negotiations that were held when debating the succession.

And Jaenara would make a fine princess of Dragonstone — she had thought at least. For as long as Jaenara could remember, Rhaenyra had made a great effort to raise her children amidst politics and histories of the realm, preparing them to one day hold positions of power themselves. Her mother had always felt bitter about the fact that Viserys had never extended the same teaching to her when she was a young heir. She would not let her children suffer the same disadvantage.

The princess pictures herself sitting on the Dragonstone throne, a seat she had passed by many times, never imagining she would ever actually sit upon it. Jaenara wonders what the cold Valyrian stone which the throne was cut from will feel like under her touch. She imagines Aemond Targaryen, as her husband — the prince of Dragonstone, standing at her side. Her uncle had been taught just as she had, prepared to hold great status. Prepared to rule. Though she dares to guess it had played out much differently than he had ever imagined. But Jaenara understood the intelligence Aemond held and the skill he wielded.

She can almost feel his hand on her shoulder, his warmth at her side, cold steel adorning his hip.

As much as she hated to admit it, Jaenara thought Aemond would fit in quite well at Dragonstone. The castle was quite grim and dreary, though it was rich with Valyrian history and architecture. Something she was sure her uncle would appreciate. That and well — he was quite grim and dreary himself.

The sun had risen even higher in the sky when Jaenara’s handmaidens came knocking at her door, eager to dress the princess for this momentous day.

“Come in.” She answers, without turning from the window, both apprehensive to begin the whirlwind of a day and simply captivated by the morning sky.

Alora tiptoes through the doors of the princess’ chambers, followed by a few other companions. “Goodmorning, Jaenara!” She addresses her rather chirpily. Jaenara thinks she is much more excited for the festivities than she herself.

Jaenara finally rises from her seat by the window and walks over to meet her company, “Good morning, ladies,” she regards them politely, attempting to quell the anxiety bubbling within her, “I suppose we should begin.”

The maids set off to work, running the princess a warm bath. Jaenara lowers herself into the tub, relishing in the warmth that envelopes her. She sinks into the recesses of the bathtub, holding her breath and allowing the water to soak into her hair. When she finally resurfaces, the women start to scrub her head to toe. Her hair is then thoroughly washed, with oils and perfumes being sprinkled onto the black curls. Jaenara steps out of the bath, drying herself and letting Alora brush out the hair. As the young girl brushes out the tangles, Jaenara hopes that the water has rinsed away the unease that is surely evident on her features.

The princess is then covered in a flowing dress adorning the colors of House Targaryen. Scarlet cloth decorated with black embroidery resembling dragon scales adorns her figure. A golden belt bearing the sigil of Jaenara’s house is fastened around her waist. She shakes her hips and hears the belt quietly jingle, a giggle leaving her. She regards herself in the mirror a moment.

“Beautiful, my princess,” Alora’s smiling gaze meeting her own in the reflection. Jaenara offers a small smile back.

I wonder if Aemond will think the same.

It takes Jaenara a moment to truly realize the thought that had crossed her mind. The princess shakes her head, as if to physically shake the question from her thoughts. What had gotten into her? She asserted that it mattered not what he thought.

Her attention turns back to the matter at hand when her handmaidens begin to brush through her hair once more. Long, winding sections of her dark hair are weaved together and made to form a bun atop her head, with some sections of braided hair left to fall below.

Finally, a golden headpiece embellished with gems is placed atop her head, mingling with her curls. “Oh?” Jaenara voices, “What’s this?” She turns once more to face her reflection in the mirror.

“The Queen has picked this out herself, Jaenara.” Alora answers, taking a step back from the princess to admire her work. “She tells us this is the headpiece she wore when she was near your own age — during the ceremony in which the late king named her heir.”

Jaenara can feel her heart swell from the admission. Tears threaten to well up into her eyes, though she forces them back down. She looks herself over, and sees her mother staring back at her.

Letting out a shaky breath, Jaenara turns to her attendants, “I must thank you ladies, you have somehow managed to make me look presentable.” The women begin to laugh together when a knock is heard upon the princess’ door.

“Yes?” The princess answers.

When the door opens and Jaenara sees her mother, she is quick to dismiss her handmaidens. “Thank you all — that will be all for now.”

The maids give a quick curtsy to the queen, with a few muttering a polite “Your Grace” as they filed out of the chamber.

Rhaenyra Targaryen stares at her daughter breathlessly, and wonders how eighteen years had slipped past her so quickly. She sees herself staring back at her, looking like a true Targaryen princess. She sees the ghost of her past lover, Ser Harwin Strong, his features etched onto her face — his spirit intertwined within their daughter’s. And though she shares no blood with Laenor Velaryon, she finds herself wishing the girl’s “father” could see the fine young woman he had helped her to become.

“Mother,” Jaenara’s voice quivers.

Amidst the privacy of her chambers, Rhaenyra Targaryen embraces her daughter. “My Nara, my girl.”

Jaenara’s emotions soar once more and she lets a single tear escape. She pulls back from her mother after a moment, looking the Queen up and down. Her attire and beauty paled in comparison to her mother’s. The epitome of Targaryen elegance stood before her — the only thing that could possibly complete the look would be the crown soon to grace Rhaenyra’s head.

“You look beautiful — like a Queen.” Jaenara expressed. Rhaenyra smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Jaenara quickly picks up on the mounting anxiety her own mother is feeling at the moment. She could not begin to fathom what it must feel like holding the entire realm on your shoulders. Jaenara takes a hold of her mother’s hands, and tries to be her strength.

“You are ready for this, mother. It is your birthright. And when you are officially crowned, the realm will be the better for it.” Lavender eyes meet violet, as Jaenara finishes with, “I am proud to call myself your daughter.”

Rhaenyra lets out a shaky breath, bogged down by emotion. She fiercely looks her daughter in the eyes, “I know I am soon to sit the Iron Throne but…but being your mother — being all of you children’s mother…is my proudest accomplishment.”

She puts a hand on the back of her daughter’s hand, careful not to ruin the braid her servants had diligently crafted, and pulls her forehead to her lips.

“We’d better get going, my sweet daughter.” She smiles down at her.

And so they do.

— — —

Aemond Targaryen stands at the head of the Great Hall, next to his siblings and mother, awaiting the entrance of his half-sister. His half-sister, the Queen. Prince Aemond could scarcely believe the day had finally come, though he knew it was inevitable given their father’s true intentions regarding who should succeed him. There was no denying it — much to the dismay of some people within his court, and even within Aemond’s own family.

Otto Hightower, knowing that Rhaenyra had no place for him on the small council — or rather, knowing he could not puppeteer Rhaenyra as he had her father — had since returned to Oldtown. Aemond found that he felt relieved from the absence of his grandsire, and swore his mother shared a similar sentiment.

Daylight from a cloudless sky now flooded into the Great Hall, illuminating tapestries depicting the histories of House Targaryen. Aemond’s ancestors stared down upon him, and he felt the weight of their unyielding gaze.

He looked out into the crowd, the hall filled to the brim with noblemen and ladies who had all traveled far to attend the occasion. All to see the first Queen of the Seven Kingdoms be crowned.

In truth, Aemond did not know how to feel at seeing Rhaenyra be crowned. He was nothing if not realistic, and he realistically understood that seating Aegon upon the Iron Throne would throw the realm into disarray and plunge House Targaryen into a war — one that would surely have been bloody. But when he saw his half-sister, he saw someone unworthy of sitting the throne — unfit to rule.

If Aemond had been born before Aegon, he would not have yielded his birthright so easily. But there was still time yet to fight for some semblance of power, even if it was less than what he thought he deserved. The sapphire under his eyepatch feels hot. Just thinking about it all, made his scar itch and burn.

“What are you thinking about, brother?” Helaena’s soft voice calls Aemond away from his troubled thoughts. The burning dissipates to a dull throb. His sister stands next to him and regards him with a curious look.

“I am just eager for this ceremony to conclude…I suppose.” He answers Helaena, and it is not entirely a lie.

“You and I both,” she says, adding, “Jaenara said she would stand next to me during the ceremony, so that we may ease each other’s nerves. I think I would quite like her company.”

Aemond hums thoughtfully. It is not so often that Helaena enjoyed the presence of others. Now it is Aegon’s turn to pipe up from the other side of Aemond, “Where are they? Does she really mean to keep us waiting up here so long?.” He whispers bitterly to anyone in his family who cared to listen.

“The Queen and her family will be here in a moment. They wanted to allow enough time for guests to trickle in. I did not think simply standing would be so taxing for you, Aegon.” Alicent tries to defend her friend.

Aegon makes a face and rolls his eyes. “She is not Queen yet.” Aegon’s attempt to demean his half-sister falls upon deaf ears as the doors to the Great Hall are swung open, all eyes in the room following the commotion.

The air crackled with anticipation as low whispers broke out amongst the crowd.

Through the parted doors, a procession of men carrying the banners of House Targaryen walked the length of the Great Hall, parting at each side once they reached the base of the Iron Throne. Behind them, Rhaenyra’s family began to trickle in. Daemon led the procession, looking composed and smug as ever, Dark Sister hung at his side. He takes his place next to the throne, where his wife will soon sit. Aemond looks at the man with great interest, considering how he too will soon stand beside his own wife as she sits upon a throne.

Daemon is then followed closely by Rhaenyra’s bastard children and their betrothed. Jacaerys and Baela walk side by side, as Lucerys and Rhaena march behind them. They take their places on the opposite side of the aisle where Aemond and his siblings stand.

Finally, Aemond sees Jaenara, who trailed behind her brothers. She holds hands with little Joffrey, guiding him through the long stretch of the Great Hall. As his niece draws nearer, Aemond finds it difficult to tear his eye away from her. She looked….

Aemond found it impossible to settle on a word that encapsulated his niece’s beauty.

Bewitching.

That felt as right a word as any — it was the only explanation as to why she had enraptured him so. Looking at his niece filled Aemond with a bittersweet ache.

Amidst her beauty, Aemond watches Jaenara bite her lip — a nervous habit she had exhibited even in their youth. Surely, it would bleed or bruise in time.

He wishes she would not ruin such beautiful lips.

After what feels like an eternity of watching his niece, Jaenara finally reaches the summit of the Iron Throne, and stands next to Helaena, bridging the gap between the Targaryen-Velaryons and Targaryen-Hightowers. Jaenara and her aunt share thoughtful expressions, clearly pleased to be in each other’s company.

Standing with her family at the head of the crowd, Jaenara could practically feel the weight of history in the air, the echoes of generations past and the hopes of those yet to come.

Aemond is still looking at Jaenara, who is clearly still caught up in the moment of the ceremony, when the procession turns his attention to the doors once more.

Rhaenyra Targaryen, a picture of resplendent Targaryen nobility, begins her descent to the Iron Throne. Jaenara feels breathless watching her mother, squeezing Joffrey’s shoulders perhaps a touch too hard. The entire Great Hall has fallen into dead silence, contrasting the tumult the princess feels echoing in her head. As Rhaenyra ascended the steps to the dais, her movements were graceful and deliberate, a testament to the years of preparation and the weight of responsibility she bore.

All heads are turned to Rhaenyra when she finally takes her seat. The High Septon, clad in his flowing robes of office, stepped forward to greet her, holding aloft the ancient crown of Aegon the Conqueror, symbol of the authority she was about to claim. His voice, resonant and filled with solemnity, carried through the hall as he spoke the words of blessing and investiture, reaffirming her right to rule as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. The crown was lowered onto Rhaenyra's brow, its golden spires gleaming in the torchlight, casting shadows across her features.

Jaenara's gaze was fixed unwaveringly upon her mother. The crown seemed to ignite with a radiant light, casting a halo around her mother's head. In that moment, Jaenara felt a surge of pride so strong it brought tears to her eyes. Her mother, who had guided her with unwavering strength, would now lead the Seven Kingdoms with this same strength. Her mother, who had taught her of duty and honor, would now rule the Realm with such values. It was a moment Jaenara had dreamed of, yet seeing it unfold before her eyes filled her with a quiet reverence she couldn't quite put into words.

A murmur of reverence and respect rippled through the gathered nobles, their voices blending into a chorus of acclaim as they acknowledged her ascension.

The High Septon’s voice echoes throughout The Great Hall: “All hail Rhaenyra Targaryen — Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

With the crown in place, Rhaenyra turned to face her subjects, her expression a mix of determination and humility. She raised her hands in acknowledgement, and the hall erupted into applause and cheers, the sound echoing off the high vaulted ceilings.

The Realm’s Delight had officially been crowned Queen.

“Long live the Queen!” someone at the back of the hall shouts. Soon, the entire room booms together in uproarious unity: “Long live the Queen! Long live the Queen! Long live the Queen!”

Amidst the celebration, Aemond Targaryen watched from his place among the assembled nobility, his thoughts a swirl of uncertainty and cautious optimism. Beside him, his siblings exchanged meaningful glances, their expressions reflecting the weight of the moment.

Jaenara shared glances with her party, and soon met Aemond’s eyes. The prince could practically feel the palpable pride and joy spilling out from his niece. He gives her a small nod and returns his attention to the thunderous crowd before them.

Shouts of praise for Westeros’ new Queen continue to swell around them, threatening to blow the ceiling off of the Red Keep.

— — —

Servants of the Red Keep had swiftly reorganized the Great Hall to accommodate approximately a thousand lords and ladies for Rhaenyra’s enthronement reception. Jaenara Velaryon now sat at one of the expansive wooden tables, absentmindedly sipping her wine and wincing when it stung her bitten lip. Beside her was her twin, Jacaerys, and on the other side, Aemond Targaryen. Warm candlelight bathed the chamber, casting dancing shadows across the faces of all the attendees. Jaenara stole a few glances at her uncle, observing how the interplay of shadow and light accentuated his sharp features.

Aemond’s silver-white hair cascaded loosely as usual — the princess once again finding herself envious of the hallmark Targaryen attribute. Her eyes drifted down to his figure. Since the truce had been brokered, Aemond had taken to wearing black instead of his usual green. His cloak, adorned with subtle red stitching, draped elegantly, and a leather belt hung at his waist. Jaenara decided she should redirect her thoughts elsewhere.

The guests — as well as Jaenara and her family have mostly finished with the meal that was set before them. Still feeling high from the excitement of the day, Jaenara turns to Aemond, “You have been awfully quiet, uncle.”

The prince smiles wryly, “It is a…surreal time. I am simply absorbing the day’s events.” In truth, Aemond had been mentally revisiting his plans for what felt like the hundredth time. With his half-sister now officially Queen, his marriage to Jaenara would soon follow. Once they were wed, their fates would be intertwined. And then, he mused to himself, he could deal with Jacaerys...

Aemond imagines the light leaving his nephews copper brown eyes. He blinks and they are replaced with the cool lavender ones beside him.

He grimaces and takes a swig of wine.

Music has begun to trickle throughout the hall, no doubt in an effort to continue the festivities of the day. A surprise to everyone at the table, Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen rise to their feet, making their way to the clearing in the middle of the chamber.

“Mother?” Lucerys scoffs incredulously.

The Queen shoots her children a look, but it is difficult to hide the smile spreading across her face. “Come on, all of you. We should inspire a bit of merriment.”

Balea and Rhaena break out into a fit of giggles, rising to their feet. Jace and Luke share a glance, looking bashful. Lords and ladies seem delighted at the sight of the royal family taking to the floor. Throughout the hall, guests begin to follow suit, flooding the chamber floor.

The music swells as couples dance arm in arm. Jaenara has to take another sip of her wine to hide her shock from seeing even Aegon and Helaena descend upon the floor — her aunt thankfully looking mildly content. The princess winces once more as the wine mingles with the fresh gash on her lips.

“You should put an end to that habit of yours.” a low voice mumbles to her.

Jaenara looks to her right and sees Aemond on his feet, offering her a hand.

The princess lets out a little chuckle and waves her uncle off. Aemond seems to deflate ever so slightly at his niece’s dismissal, though his hand remains extended.

Jaenara’s laughter ceases, “Truly?” she asks.

“Well if you would prefer to remain at this empty table,” he looks around, “we may do that.”

Jaenara feels a surprising nervousness overtake her as she places her hand in Aemond’s. His large hand engulfs hers as he gently pulls her to her feet. She takes a moment to notice the callouses on this palm, surely a result of gripping the pommel of his sword. She runs her thumb over the rough patch of skin and Aemond almost shivers.

The princess feels her heart pounding in her throat as they approach the dance floor. Standing before Aemond, she hesitates, uncertain how to start. He clears his throat and gently encircles her waist with his hands. Jaenara's heart quickens even more—almost unbelievably—as she cautiously rests her hands on Aemond’s shoulders.

A lump swells in the prince's throat as Jaenara draws near, the intimate proximity unnerving him. He worries she might sense his racing heart. He speaks to her, hoping his words betray nothing of his physical turmoil.

“We must keep up appearances, niece. Even my brother and sister are dancing together.” Aemond looks down on her, noticing the quick rise and fall of her chest. He figured that was how Jaenara felt — they were simply playing their part.

But Jaenara feels a twinge of disappointment upon hearing this, and does little to hide it. Her eyebrows furrowed together as she responded, rather quietly, “Oh…yes, yes of course…”

A melody of strings fills the silence between the couple as they clumsily guide across the floor. Jaenara, as Aemond noticed, was much more skilled in dancing than he was. She was able to flit around with a certain grace, while he found himself unsure of where to step. At one point, he steps on her foot.

Jaenara lets out a quick and quiet yelp at the sudden feeling, and she swears she sees Aemond’s cheeks turn pink. “Apologies,” he mutters.

Despite his sore lack of dancing skills and the dull throb in her foot, Jaenara feels a smug grin pull across her face.

“You’re not one for dancing I see. How brave of you to take me as a dance partner…I’m afraid my skills are lackluster as well.” She teases, though she attempts to calm her uncle’s nerves.

Aemond scoffs, “If your skills are unpolished, then mine are nonexistent.”

“Doesn’t all that fancy swordplay make you light on your feet? Surely some of those skills are transferable.” Jaenara tells her uncle.

“This is nothing like that…” Aemond quips.

Jaenara’s laughter echoes through the crowd as she observes Aemond's awkwardness. He feels a twinge of embarrassment at the attention she garners, yet he can't help but admire the joy evident on his betrothed's face.

He savored this. Aemond took pleasure in eliciting genuine laughter and happiness from Jaenara—not the forced, empty laughs she gives when he says things he regrets later. Making her happy brought him joy.

Jaenara was laughing and smiling and happy and warm and in his arms.

And she had no idea the atrocities that Aemond was planning.

And what does that make me? He wonders.

The music permeating through the chamber begins to change, an apparent signal for the couples around them to switch dancing partners.

“Brother!” Aegon’s voice finds Aemond and Jaenara, “It seems it is time to swap!” Without giving anyone a chance to retort, Aegon takes Jaenara’s hand in his. Helaena settles in between Aemond’s arms as they both watch their brother whisk away the princess. .

“Mittys” Aemond mutters.

“I am surprised to see you out on the dance floor, Aemond.” Helaena examines her brother curiously.

“I could say the same to you,” he retorts, coming off a touch too defensive. Helaena raises an eyebrow, to with Aemond then adds, “Jaenara…wished to dance.”

His sister seems unconvinced. “Right…”

Aemond watches Jaenara and Aegon from across the ballroom. His brother's hands are settled on Jaenara’s waist, where his hands once lay. Her own hands are hesitantly perched atop his shoulders. Aemond experiences a hot, uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his stomach as he watches them dance. His gaze is fixed on the couple, his lips pressed into a tight line, brows furrowed. Nearby, Helaena sways dreamily, noticing Aemond's expression and struggling to conceal a small smile.

He watches mouths move, trying best to read their lips. Jaenara appears unexpectedly at ease now, and Aegon grinned wolfishly at his niece. It takes Aemond a great deal of willpower not to leave his sister’s side when he sees Jaenara laugh at some remark Aegon had made. His brother glances towards Aemond's position on the dance floor and sends him a wink.

Must he have everything? Aemond finally finds the resolve to stomp over to Jaenara and Aegon.

“It seems this song has ended, let us return to each other.” He says shortly, glaring at Aegon.

“Why the haste, brother? We were just getting started!” Aegon’s amusement at his brother’s jealousy was evident by the smug grin on his face.

Jealousy? Surely that was not it. Aemond found it impossible for himself to be jealous over such a trivial matter. Jaenara was her own lady, free to do what she wanted — especially when they had established that this relationship was merely transactional.

But he did feel jealous. Especially when it involved his elder brother.

Aemond takes his niece’s hand and guides her back to the other side of the room. He wordlessly reassumes his previous position, placing his hands on her waist and venturing to pull Jaenara slightly closer. The princess’ hands find their rest on his shoulders once more.

"Helaena must have been terribly dull if you returned to me so swiftly for a dance," she muses.

Aemond decides not to meet her gaze, instead focusing on a corner of the chamber that lies straight ahead.

“What did you and Aegon speak of?” He asks quietly, not bothering to respond to her joke.

“Oh,” His niece sounds taken aback, “Nothing really. He asked me what I thought of the coronation. How I was feeling this evening. He was being surprisingly tame…perhaps the wine has dulled him for once…” A pause, “He made a joke about your ‘piss poor lack of dancing skills’ as he called them. But that is all.”

“Hmm.” Is all Aemond cares to respond with, as his gaze remains fixed on that empty corner of the room.

Has he always been this…brooding? The princess asks herself. Jaenara’s hands squeeze on his shoulders slightly, attempting to recenter her uncle’s attention. It makes Aemond feel dizzy. He finally dares to look down at her.

To the prince, Jaenara’s headpiece looked like a golden halo nestled amongst her raven hair. His eyes soften.

Bewitching.

“He can say what he likes.” He finally adds.

“I would not let him.” Jaenara asserts firmly. “No one is allowed to disparage you but me.” She teases, hoping she has not crossed a line. She feels reassurance upon seeing a smirk crackle upon Aemond’s face.

Jaenara was not sure what she was doing — acting like this. So carefree, so playful. Enjoying herself. Perhaps buoyed by the wine or the lingering elation from her mother's coronation. But all of the earlier worries of the day had momentarily melted away, and she found herself enjoying Aemond Targaryen’s company.

Aemond and Jaenara eventually find themselves back at their family’s table, both having their fair share of dancing for the evening. The lords and ladies have begun to trickle out of the Red Keep for the evening, much to Aemond’s relief as he was beginning to feel tired from the day’s festivities. Though his fatigue was nothing compared to the exhaustion Jaenara felt; she was beginning to feel the consequences of staying awake the previous night. When Jaenara noticed her mother gesturing for her to join her at the end of the table, she whispered a quick remark to Aemond and rose to take her seat next to Rhaenyra. Aemond watched carefully as mother and daughter delighted in their conversation, Rhaenyra occasionally casting a glance in her half-brother's direction as they spoke.

Aemond huffed and took a drink from his cup.

“Aemond.” Jacaerys said from across the table. The prince looks up to his nephew.

“Thank you,” Jace tells him, “for dancing with her. She likes to pretend she does not care for such frivolities. But she does.”

Aemond nodded in acknowledgment. He began to revel in the fact that Jace seemed to be warming up to him finally, when the man across from him spoke once more.

“She likes to pretend she doesn't care about a lot of things, really…But it’s not true. You can always tell when she’s lying…” Jace adds, his eyes fixed on Aemond. An uncertain expression crossed his nephew’s face, hinting at some hidden knowledge.

Aemond seemed to grasp the implication.

Impossible.

He cleared his throat in a rather exaggerated manner and stood abruptly, causing his chair to scrape loudly against the floor. All heads at the table turned towards him.

"I... I am retiring for the night," he announced. He dared to glance at his half-sister, though he skillfully avoided the confused gaze of Jaenara. "Your Grace," he added, his voice strained.

Rhaenyra returns the acknowledgement with a polite nod.

Aemond strode out of the Great Hall, heading straight for his chambers. He wished for the dark corridors of the Red Keep to swallow him whole. The silence of the night was shattered by the echoing sound of another’s footsteps on the stone floor. He quickened his pace.

“Uncle!” A small voice called out behind him.

Damn it all.

Aemond does not need to turn around to know who has followed him, though he does stop and wait for her to catch up.

“Are you well?” Jaenara asks breathlessly.

He does not meet her eyes when he responds. “Just tired.” His tone is convincing, for he sounds exasperated.

Jaenara hesitated to address the obvious turmoil surrounding him, deciding to let it lie for now.

"Very well... Goodnight, uncle. Try to get some rest," she said, her tone teetering between sympathy and suspicion. When he didn't reply, the princess turned and began making her way back to the hall.

Aemond takes a glance over his shoulder, watching his betrothed safely return to the chamber.

“Goodnight, Jaenara.” he whispers into the stillness of the night.

a/n: this chapter felt a bit rushed to me but I just really wanted to get something out ahhhh. as for the next chapter...hehehe...

tags: @aleemendoza2425-blog @toodlesxcuddles

#hotd #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond x oc #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon fanfiction

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dayneston · 2 years

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House of the Dragon: Rhaenyra Targaryen and The Politics of Having Illegitimate Heirs

I don’t think people understand why Alicent was so bothered by Rhaenyra having illegitimate children as much as she was. Yes, part of it was coming from a place of frustration at Rhaenyra for scoffing at tradition and not honouring her marriage vows, but Alicent’s primary focus was on the politics - and how it put her own children in mortal danger.

Painting: The Execution of Lady Jane Grey

You see, if Rhaenyra had legitimate children with Ser Laenor, then the Greens would have no reason whatsoever to try and replace Rhaenyra as heir to the throne with Aegon. They, in truth, would’ve been usurpers. But as we know, Rhaenyra having bastards not only weakened her own claim to the throne but by it, she has given her enemies a legitimate reason to support Aegon instead of her. Just think about it - nearly every lord in the realm has a bastard of his own. If Rhaenyra puts her own bastards on the throne, it sets a precedent - that bastards can have a claim to a title just as much as legitimate children can. This of course presents a HUGE crisis to the lords who probably have multiple bastards running around, now all potential heirs to his house. Some lords might even have older bastard brothers, brothers who would potentially be better rulers than them if they were trueborn. Brothers who would follow Rhaenyra’s suit and place themselves in positions of great power and usurp their trueborn sibling’s claims. No doubt, this would lead to violence, in-fighting, bloodshed and the potential extinction of houses and bloodlines that go back thousands of years.

So naturally, any lord who would be fearful of this playing out would naturally ally themselves with the trueborn children of House Targaryen - Alicent’s children. Whether the Greens want it or not, Aegon, Helaena, Aemond and Daeron would become unwilling figureheads for rebellions against Rhaenyra. These rebels would rally themselves around Alicent’s children, demand them to be crowned instead of Rhaenyra, and of course, Rhaenyra would have absolutely no choice but to execute her half-siblings, to save herself and her children. Whether Alicent’s children want it or not, they are living, breathing, constant challenges to Rhaenyra’s throne.

It’s the exact predicament Mary I of England faced - a Catholic queen who had just deposed her Protestant cousin, the Lady Jane Grey, Mary had no choice but to order 16 year old Jane’s execution in 1554. Despite having Jane imprisoned, rebels kept on popping up around England, all marching on London to dethrone Mary in Jane’s name, even though Jane herself was oblivious to what was happening because she was behind bars and had already relinquished her crown and declared for Mary. Mary was hoping to restore Catholicism to England and was planning to marry a foreign prince so she could provide England with a Catholic heir - but she knew so long as Jane lived, Mary, her future children and England would never know peace. So she reluctantly signed Jane’s death warrant, causing the death of one of England’s most tragic figures.

This would be the fate of Alicent’s children if Rhaenyra ever ascended the throne. No matter how good willed Queen Rhaenyra would be to her siblings, it wouldn’t last. The minute the first lord lit the beacon of rebellion and openly called Rhaenyra’s sons illegitimate usurpers of Alicent’s trueborn children with no right to the throne, Alicent’s children would’ve been executed. There’s absolutely no way Rhaenyra would ever chose Aegon, Helaena, Aemond and Daeron’s lives over her own living children - what mother would?

#house of the dragon #alicent hightower #rhaenyra targaryen #mine #analysis

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duckwithablog · 2 years

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Okay! So um, can I request a headcanon for SWK, Macaque and Nezha with a s/o who often loves to suprise them by giving Eskimo kisses or just straight up kiss their noses all of the time. Sometimes they even forget they are in public places while doing so too!

Reader is a she/her

/romantic

I hope this isn't too much! This is kind of my first time requesting, =.=

Don't worry! This is a pretty simple request, you did good!

I'm pretty sure the term 'eskimo kisses' are sort of offensive? Not dissing you, ofc, I doubt you had any bad intentions! So I'll just refer to calling it 'nose kisses' for this request :]]

Nose Kisses! (Wukong, Macaque and Nezha)

Sun Wukong

Bro loves your kisses so much

He is obsessed, you dont understand-

He thinks it's because of his monkey genes, but whenever you give him a kiss on the nose he just gets instant heart eyes

Automatically goes "aww" whenever you kiss him on the nose

You sometimes get him caught off guard with the kisses, but he recovers fast

Always pulls you in for a quick cuddle whenever you kiss his nose, or at least a quick hug

Most times, Wukong just (gently) grabs your face and then pulls you in so he can kiss you on the nose too

Other times he just full on gives you a smooch on the lips

VERY insistent on kissing you back, it's like his own personal code or something

DO NOT try to run away after giving him a kiss on the nose, HE WILL chase after you!

Will pepper your face in kisses if you ever tried

Overall, he is so happy whenever you kiss him on the nose. Or kiss him anywhere, really

Mans is touch starved, what did we expect-

Macaque

Won't admit it, but he secretly just waits for you to kiss him on the nose

Literally will set up an entire scene where there's an obvious opportunity for you to do it

He lays on the couch, pretending to be asleep? He's waiting for you to come up and give him a kiss

He somehow gets into a fight that got his face (particularly his nose) hurt? Says that you have to kiss him better for the pain to go away

Putting his face super close to yours whenever you're cuddling? Damn, his nose is looking pretty kissable don't you think-

He thinks he's being slick when he's doing this

He is not slick at all, you figured it out a long time ago

Why can't you just ask for kisses like a normal person bro, damn

Macaque is like, on the other side of the spectrum as Wukong

He obviously enjoys your kisses, but also... Doesn't want to show how much he loves it??

At least, not visibly. His wagging tail always gives him away though

He shows how much he appreciates your kiss by giving you a surprise nose kiss! He's a bastard like that

This guy is also really touch starved, he just has a harder time trying to show how much he loves it

Nezha

Is somehow always caught off guard whenever you kiss him on the nose

You'd think he'd get used to it over time, but nah. He's always somehow a bit surprised whenever you give him a nose kiss

Incredibly flustered when you first give him nose kisses. Especially when in front of other people

Not that he doesn't mind! He just isn't used to such affection

After you kiss his nose, he'd politely ask if he can kiss you back

He's a gentleman like that

Please don't bring up the blush on his face, he will refuse to acknowledge it

Nezha feels like he has to pay you back somehow with all the kisses you give him

Like, it's an entire urge he gets whenever you kiss him that he has to do something for you

(feel free to abuse this fact to get free stuff from him lmao)

Instead of kissing you on the nose, he'd just kiss you on the forehead or cheek

Sometimes, he'd kiss your hand like some sort of prince

Overall, not as touch starved as the other two, but definitely treasures your kisses.... Even if he does get jumpscared by them

#duckiswriting #lego monkie kid x reader #lmk x reader #sun wukong x reader #lmk macaque x reader #lmk sun wukong x reader #macaque x reader #lmk nezha x reader #lego monkie kid #lmk monkey king x reader #monkey king x reader #lego monkie kid nezha x reader #six eared macaque x reader #fem reader

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dyns33 · 1 year

Text

Feeling rainy

Another Dream x female reader

“Honey, you look cloudy today. No, rainy."

"I confirm, he is very rainy at the moment."

"Matthew. Leave us."

"Right away, boss. But I'm sick of being wet all the time when I fly in the Dreaming, thank you very much."

It had taken a little time, but during their relationship, Y/N had acquired several certainties about Morpheus, especially about his mood.

The master of nightmares was not very good at expressing his feelings. Mainly because he didn't always know them himself. Partly because he was stupid and not very good with people.

His emotions were like a storm inside him. And therefore, a storm inside the Dreaming, especially when he was nervous, angry or sad.

Happy or neutral sentiments were preferable, with the sky remaining blue, the sun lighting up the whole realm, and the wind seeming to sing melodies.

Sometimes it was a little too hot, when he was in love and excited, but that was no big deal. Also, it never lasted very long.

Like the weather, Morpheus' mood was changing very quickly, and very easily.

And even though he was doing his best to hide his feelings behind a straight face, the Dreaming never left any doubt that something was bothering him.

"Is it because of last night ?" Y/N asked calmly.

"I don't wish to talk about it, love."

"Not even to please me ? I don't like it when you rain, especially because of me."

"... It's not because of you. I probably overreacted."

"Kind of like always, darling, but that doesn't mean your feelings aren't valid. Do you want a hug ?"

"... Maybe."

The tall, terrible prince of the stories certainly didn't like being seeing as weak, but when Dream was in Y/N's arms, he looked like a cat desperately trying not to purr with pleasure, totally at her mercy.

It wasn't a problem since they were alone, but dreams and nightmares guessed what was going on, as the clouds disappeared and a rainbow formed over their heads.

"She has to cuddle him all the time."

"Hush."

"Merv is right. I may be his more or less emotional raven, but he clearly needs her as an emotional human."

"Get out of my library."

All of this could have gone quite well, since Y/N had managed to decode the functioning of the Dreaming, and therefore of Dream, but sometimes he was visibly lost and upset by her emotions, not knowing how to help her, and beginning to feel them with her.

Which was not a good thing, for him, nor for his kingdom.

Y/N therefore asked for advice around her, knowing that it was useless to ask Morpheus directly. Morpheus never really answered questions. That being said, his subjects weren't necessarily better for it.

Lucienne, loyal intelligent Lucienne advised her to speak to the Lord, as communication was important, although she had to be careful how she wanted to express what she wanted to say, as the Lord could misunderstand things.

Merv and Matthew thought that they should say nothing and just cover him with kisses and compliments so that he would always be happy. Because everyone wanted him to be happy, and everyone loved rainbows.

The Corinthian had a different opinion.

"You have to do exactly like him." he declared with three huge smiles.

"What do you mean, like him ?"

"You want to help him by doing anything so that he doesn't get overwhelmed by emotions ? So don't show any emotion yourself. Keep them inside, act neutral, use a monotonous voice, express your love with ridiculously complicated little sentences, and it will be perfect."

Normally, it would have been strongly discouraged to listen to a nightmare. But despite their bickering, the Corinthian was arguably one of the creations that knew Morpheus best, so Y/N thought it wasn't a bad idea.

After all, Dream was a bit like a sponge. Absorbing all the dreamers' hopes, fears, desires, emotions, and though he was a separate being who felt distinctly, he couldn't completely cut himself off from the rest of the world.

So it seemed logical that he was sometimes troubled by others, and therefore by Y/N, with whom he spent the most time.

It didn't cost much to imitate him. It wasn't necessarily easy, but she could do it, for him, so it wouldn't be rainy or stormy too often.

So she trained in front of a mirror, doing her best to remain impassive as she thought about a joke, her deceased grandfather, an adorable kitten, her boss whom she wanted to strangle, and lots of things that never left her indifferent.

Part of her had thought Morpheus wouldn't notice. Another hoped he would see it, that he would be happy, and that she could smile to herself.

While they were watching her favorite movie together, a funny scene played out and she didn't react. Then another, and another, until Y/N felt that Dream's attention was no longer on the screen, but on her.

"My love, you seem distant."

"Not at all. I'm enjoying a pleasant evening, with you." she said with a neutral tone.

"... You didn't laugh. Would you like to see another movie ?"

"No, I like this movie. You weren't laughing either, do you want to change ?"

"I never laugh."

"Because you're too melancholic to find aything funny ?"

"... No. My laughter... I was informed that my laughter could be frightening."

Y/N then turned to him, and at that moment, she almost smiled, finding the revelation ridiculous and adorable, wanting to hear that laughter that her lover was so ashamed of, out of curiosity, but above all to reassure him.

Except that for that, she would have to show emotions, and make him feel emotions, and the goal was to remain as neutral as possible, so Y/N forced herself to remain neutral, looking at him straight in the eyes so that he knew that she was serious, while looking for the right wording.

"I'm sure your laugh is sweet." was the best thing that came to her, patting Morpheus' hand, before watching the movie again.

There were many other moments like this, at the New Inn, at the park, in the Dreaming, and Y/N really thought that everything was fine, that she was doing a good job. The weather seemed calm, with a few distant clouds, but no storms in sight.

Still, there was something in Morpheus' eyes when he looked at her. Curiosity mixed with fear. She didn't dare tell him about it, thinking it was nothing, and he didn't tell her either.

Until Matthew came to visit her as she was getting ready to go to sleep.

"I don't know if I should ask you to go to bed quickly, or advise you to stay awake."

"Why ? What's going on ? Morpheus is in trouble ?!"

"Uh... That depends. Is everything okay between you two ?"

"Yes, perfectly fine. Why ?" she asked, suddenly worried.

"I don't know. It's foggy at the moment. We've had a few rains, a few tornadoes, but Lucienne managed to calm it down. Except that... Hmm... I don't know if I should say it."

"Matthew."

"He thinks you don't love him anymore." sighed the raven, lowering his head.

The news hit Y/N straight to the heart. For a moment, she wondered how Dream could have come to such a conclusion. Then she remembered how Dream was, his difficulties in understanding people, emotions, and even if he himself didn't often show what he felt, he clearly needed others to show him.

For a month, Y/N thought to make him happy. For a month, Morpheus thought she wanted to leave him.

"... This is a terrible misunderstanding."

"Glad to hear that. Can you tell him, please ?"

Falling asleep when stressed might take a while, but Y/N needed to see Morpheus quickly, so she closed her eyes thinking hard about him, and she arrived on the balcony of his palace.

It was raining.

Obviously, Matthew had come to see her before Lucienne went to speak to her master.

Dream stood in the rain, motionless, watching his realm. He didn't move when she came close to him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"I love you, you know that ?" she asked shyly.

"I hope so."

"In wanting to please you, I made a mistake. Your mood changes so easily, you can be so fragile, so sensitive."

"I'm not fragile." he muttered, continuing to stare into the distance.

"You are, but that's neither an insult nor the question. I thought... The Corinthian told me that if I don't show my emotions, I won't upset you with them and that you I would be happy. I wanted to help, really. Since you know that I love you, I imagined that it wouldn't change anything. It would be inside, like for you. Sorry."

Finally, Dream turned to her, looking surprised and solemn. He stared at her for a long time, before taking a deep breath.

"I see. So you made several mistakes, indeed."

"Dream..."

"You listened to the Corinthian, a nightmare."

"I know."

"You thought it would be good for you to keep your emotions inside, like me. Knowing that my emotions are never really inside, but entirely outside, in the Dreaming, while you should keep your storms in your little heart."

"I get it, I..."

"And you believed that I would like you to deprive me of your smile. Of your laughter. That you hide your sadness from me, which I could erase with kisses. Your anger, which I could appease with poems. Your love, which I carry in my chest. All this to make me happy ?"

So Morpheus did something that Y/N hadn't imagined.

He laughed.

And like he said, his laugh was a little scary. Inhuman. A sound that mortals weren't supposed to hear, that no one was supposed to hear. But he was laughing, and he was smiling, and he came over to kiss her, and Y/N thought she liked that sound a lot.

"My love, your emotions, all your emotions, are my joy. Do not hide them from me."

"Okay. But promise me you'll tell me when it's rainy, and why."

"Very well."

"And I was right, your laugh is very sweet."

"Yeah, I guess love makes you blind and deaf."

"Matthew. Leave us."

"Yes, boss. Glad it's not raining anymore."

Indeed, the sun had returned as he spoke, a bright sun, and even if the weather could never be perfect, like their relationship, Y/N would do everything to make Morpheus as bright as possible.

#The Sandman #dream of the endless #dream of the endless x reader #dream of the endless imagine #dream of the endless fanfiction #morpheus #morpheus x reader #morpheus fanfiction

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lendmyboyfriendahand · 8 months

Text

Crack fic where Maedhros and Maglor have no concept of half elven ages

"We can't take them back with us," Maedhros said.

"They're just children though, they won't survive on their own!"

"That's exactly the point!"

"What do you mean? I know children won't be much use in the fortress, but we can feed two spare mouths."

"They're far too young for us to be able to care for them."

"Come on, they look like they're at least twenty. I'm sure they know calculus and how to spin by now, even if they're not yet tall and strong enough for more."

"You haven't been keeping track of diplomatic news, or indeed of time at all. We sacked Doriath not three decades ago, and Elwing their mother was an infant then."

"Humans grow fast." Maglor shrugged. "She obviously grew enough to have children, and within a year or two."

"Gil-Galad mentioned that Elwing gave birth to twin boys in a letter only six years ago. And before you ask, I'm sure she didn't also have older children, these were very clearly the first heirs for the Iathrim."

"What? But - they're so tall!"

"Like you say, men grow fast. They grow unevenly though, without enough time to learn everything properly. Those boys may not even know their letters, or how to identify pewter from lead."

"At six years old, what do they even eat? Celebrimbor nursed until he was nearly eight!"

"They might be old enough to survive weaning, but I'm not sure, and we have no one breastfeeding in our camp at the moment, without anyone born since the Nirnaeth."

"I've heard of using cow's milk or sheep's milk to feed babies, rather than just making cheese. Do you think they'd tolerate it?"

"Maybe, but we can't be sure. It's better to leave them here with all the other people who's homes we destroyed; there were enough babies wailing during the battle someone can surely take in the princes."

"Perhaps, if anyone finds them in the next day. Most people fled the city, and I doubt they'll return before the fires die down."

"I'm not going to take in infants just to let them starve."

"Me neither! But I can ask them if they're weaned. They understand Sindarin, and talk, at least enough to call for their mother."

"A child that young will just say they eat nothing but honey and cake, if you let them choose their diet."

"If they know they like cake, that means they can eat solids, and I'll give them normal food."

"Fine. You can ask them, and if they're weaned they'll survive as well with us as any where else."

"And if they're not?"

"I send a couple scouts to follow the sounds of screaming children and deliver two more."

"Maedhros!"

"What? I can't bring their mother back, nor can my most imperious command make someone lactate."

"So you're giving up?"

"No, I already told you my plan." Maedhros sighed. "And I will send a few people to look for goats or ewes we can take with us. We already sacked the city; might as well loot it."

"You're convinced to make everything the most horrible possible."

"Excuse me for being pessimistic when our brothers just died for nothing."

"Fine, I'm going."

"Good."

#silm #silmarillion #my fic #kidnap fam #kidnap dads #maedhros #maglor #inspred by that post going around about babies in fantasy settings raised in caves

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boxofbonesfic · 2 years

Photo

Title: Tonality [2]

Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader

previous chapter

Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!

A/N: oop, another addition to the story. i hope it both answers some questions and then raises more, lol. as always, mind the warnings, and please enjoy! 😊🥰

By the time someone comes to fetch you to break fast, you are already awake. Helped into your cumbersome new gown by your lady’s maids, you pace in front of the cold fireplace. You pray the prince avoids the meal entirely, you’ve no wish to face him after—

Your face heats, and you press your hands to your warm cheeks. You don’t want to think of it, but you can’t help it, your mind conjuring images of the prince staring at you with flushed cheeks and dark eyes, his lips curved in that cruel smile—

Better to avoid him altogether.

A soft, almost nervous knock comes upon the door of your chambers, and upon opening it, you discover Kassandra on the other side. She sinks into a deep curtsy, bowing her head.

“Good morning, Your Grace.” Awkwardly, you incline your head in return. “Her Majesty requested I fetch you to break the fast.” She chips happily at you, and you wonder if her good mood is true, or if she has created it for your benefit.

“Lady Kassandra,” you say, edging out of your room and closing the door behind you. “I trust you are well this morning.”

“Oh yes, Your Grace.” She threads her fingers together as a blush reddens her pale cheeks. “I did dance quite late into the evening.”

“I’ve no doubt you must have secured many a betrothal,” you say, and she giggles, covering her smile with the palm of her hand. “You did look quite lovely.” For a moment, you are not princess and lady in waiting—it is almost as though you are friends. Friends. Here in Rivia, you are surrounded by more people than ever before, and yet you find yourself lonelier than ever.

“You are too kind, my lady.” Kassandra seems to find her way easily through the castle’s labyrinthine halls, and it makes you wonder how long she has been here. “Twas you that bewitched the court—if you don’t mind my saying so, Highness.” Her words almost make you stumble, your foot catching against stone.

Your cheeks smart with heat, and your brows knit together in disbelief. “I—It was my mother who married the king.” You do not take yourself for a great beauty, not like your mother, but frustratingly, Kassandra shakes her head.

“Her Majesty was a sight to behold,” she agrees. “But I expect, had you not retired early, Your Grace might have received another offer of betrothal.” Kassandra casts a sly look in your direction. “Or two.” You look away, embarrassedly recalling Lord Olthar’s proposal, his skinny, red-faced son peeking out at you from behind his fathers robes. The thought of allowing him any closer than that turns your stomach, and you shake your head.

“One was quite enough.” You’ve no wish to be married, especially not to Lord Olthar’s spawn. “I should hope to remain in Rivia longer than a week before a match is written in stone,” you say dryly. You’re due a betrothal, that much you know—your eighteenth summer had come and gone without one, and just when your mother’s nattering had reached its peak, the fevers had come for your father. And then, a betrothal was the last thing on anyone’s minds.

”I am glad the king did not accept Lord Olthar’s proposal,” Kassandra admits with a small, secretive laugh. She leans in conspiratorially. “They say his son is rather… over fond of horses.” Her words illicit a gasp from you, your hand flying up to cover your mouth.

You laugh too. “I dare not imagine the wedding.”

“Fit for a queen.”

“The Queen of Horses, perhaps,” you retort, and the two of you dissolve into a fit of quiet giggles.

“I imagine His Majesty will have much higher standers for your betrothal, princess.” She smiles at you reassuringly. “I do not think Lord Olthar will try again.” You nod in return, grateful for her good humor.

“Hopefully I shall not have to think on mine own for quite some time.” Your thoughts are preoccupied enough these days without adding ones of a husband to the array.

“Not inspired by the ceremony?” The low, dark voice makes you turn. Lead forms hot and fast in your stomach at the sight of Prince Geralt. Even during the day, the prince strikes an intimidating figure, wide shoulders and barely tamed silver-white hair. Today, it is partially pulled back behind his ears, loose strands framing his chiseled jaw. Kassandra goes red as she curtsies, blushing deep crimson from the roots of her pale hair to the collar of her dress.

More out of habit than respect, you bend your knees as well, inclining your head. His appearance is sobering, the jovial mood instantly darkening.

“Good morning, Your Majesty.” It is all the politeness you can manage. His face looms still in your mind’s eye, his hair falling across his dark eyes as he drove into her, his hand curled in the hair at the nape of her neck—

You suppress a shiver.

“Apologies, Your Grace!” Kassandra rushes to appease him, striking a chord of frustrated irritation within you. “We simply—”

The prince waves a dismissive hand. “It is only be expected, I suppose.” He says silkily. “I know few women who do not await their wedding day with thoughts of bliss.” When his molten amber eyes rest on you, you shiver. His voice takes on an amused lilt.

“Perhaps things are different in Redania, little sister?” You do not like the way the word drips from his tongue, as if another were in its place, one you don’t know, but that makes the the flesh at the back of your neck prickle just the same. His familiarity irks you as well—Prince Geralt speaks as if he knows you, as if he has spoken more than five words to you, not counting the ones uttered while he had been… otherwise engaged.

You swallow against the tightness in your throat. “Perhaps,” you say. The words are clipped, as if you have bitten off their edges. You know you shouldn’t, but you can’t help it, the barb slipping from your tongue before you can pluck it. “In Redania, one must wait until after the wedding to consummate the marriage. Does that policy hold true here as well?”

Prince Geralt does not give you the satisfaction of a reaction, his features schooled into cool impassivity.

“I believe so, princess.” There is a dry sort of amusement coloring his words, as if to tell you the blow you’d tried to inflict was meager at best. “It appears we are not so different after all.”

You grind your teeth.

The prince falls into step beside you, setting the pace. To your frustration it is a leisurely one; walking with his arms clasped behind his back as he drags the conversation out. You wonder irately if he is doing this on purpose—you had walked with Kassandra to the hall the previous morning, and it had only taken half the time, you’re sure of it.

”It was a great honor to attend such holy proceedings.” Kassandra’s voice seems to make the prince’s lip curl, and he cuts his eyes at her, sparing her only the barest of glances from the corner of his eye. You know, though, that the words are meant for you.

“Yes, truly.” The prince hums. “And how wonderful our Queen should be fortunate enough to experience them twice.”

Outrage bubbles up in your chest at the insult of his implication, and it takes all of your strength not to respond in kind. You glance at Kassandra, her passive expression evidence that the prince’s sly remark has either been absorbed without question or gone unnoticed entirely. For a moment you imagine his smile goes smug and self-satisfied as your own lips press together into a thin line. Your mind races as you try to formulate a response—this is not a game you are used to playing, one of guileful words wrapped in loose pleasantries, and you feel woefully unprepared for your part in it.

“Fortunate indeed,” you reply, forcing yourself to keep your tone light and airy. By now, the great hall is in sight, servants bustling through the busy corridor as you approach the hall. “A wisely made match, would you not agree, Majesty?” A gaggle of nobles surround the king and queen, their heads swiveling at the sound of your voice. The satisfaction you feel as Geralt’s lips curl into a scowl is a new feeling, one you are not sure you like. —he cannot continue the game, not now, not without open insult. You can tell he does not enjoy being called to heel, least of all by you.

A chorus of good morning’s and your grace’s assail you like raindrops until you are practically dripping with them. You are familiar with only a select few of the faces surrounding the king and your mother, but not many. You recognize Lord Strom, Kassandra’s father, who shares the same sallow features as his daughter. He is flanked by a woman with a pinched, irritated looking expression; you had been introduced just before the wedding ceremony had begun, but you cannot recall her name now, only her relation to the king. A great-aunt—you think.

As you enter the hall, you note that it is already clean, all evidence of last night’s festivities gone, save for your mother, standing before you. Small tables have been set out for the visiting nobility lucky enough to be granted this brief audience with the king. The large table on the dais is already heavy laden with food, servants flanking the table on either side of the king’s chair as they wait for orders. Breakfast at home had been a family affair, gathered around the table in the hall. This, like every other event you have witnessed since arriving, is public spectacle.

Your mother preens at the attention. She flits from person to person, accepting their congratulations with regal grace. Once upon a time, behind the dusty pages of books she wished you would not read, you and father had called her the Pretty Peacock, the way she bustled about the manor and clucked her orders at the matron and her staff. Here, though, it seemed less amusing, and more… purposeful.

Though your mother seems to move amongst these people with ease, you struggle to follow her example, weaving serpentine through the crowd of courtiers, which parts like butter to a hot knife in her wake. Her gown is of a similar color scheme as yours, pale yellow with silver and gold embroidery embellishing her hem and sleeves. The crown of delicate silver and black leaves rests atop her head, the black jewel at its center sparkling. She turns to you with a smile, embracing you warmly.

“Trust my daughter to appear as her name is mentioned.” Your mother’s delicate, feminine laugh makes you want to curl in on yourself as the eyes of her fawning lady’s maids fall to you. “Did you enjoy yourself?” Though you cannot see him, you can feel the prince’s eye upon you with almost physical sensation. The hair at the back of your neck pricks up.

Why does he watch me? You chance a look over your shoulder, and your back stiffens. There are people between you still, a safe barrier, but there is no mistaking it—the prince’s eyes are locked on you, and he makes no effort to hide it. You turn quickly back to your mother as he produces a slim knife from somewhere, and spears an apple from the table with it. The crunch as his teeth break the skin rings uncomfortably in your ears.

“T’was fine,” you answer her quickly, hoping your small, curt smile is enough to convince her. “I danced, some.” It is a lie, but one she either does not recognize or one she cares little about. One set of eyes is appeased, and falls from you. The others bore hot holes in the back of your dress. The king approaches, and you note the affectionate pass of his hand over your mother’s arm. You curtsy low, again, more out of instinct than conscious thought.

“Come now daughter, we are family now, are we not?” He laughs. “Rise.” His expression is warm, but you feel the word roll inside your skull like a loose marble, or a pebble in your shoe. It is unfamilitar and uncomfortable coming from his lips, but you bear it as best you can.

“Y-yes. Family.” The king walks with his hands folded behind his back, a habit you cannot help but note that he shares with his son. You have dreaded this, the game of getting to know one another over the cold corpse of the man who had raised you. It stings, as you knew it would. It feels insane to you, to behave as if all the years of your life prior to this were but a footnote, and this the true story. Perhaps it is you who are insane, the only madwoman adrift in a sea of sensibility.

“Your mother tells me you’ve a great love of books,” he continues, unaware of the rolling turmoil that rocks your stomach. He casts a long glance sideways at you and at first, you cannot tell if there is reprisal or approval in his words. Then, he offers another smile, this one warm, genuine. “I trust you’ve found the archives enjoyable.”

Your mother’s laughter cuts through the moment like a knife. “Oh, don’t encourage her, my love,” she says. “We shall surely lose her in yellow old pages.” The gallery of painted faces behind her titters with amusement, and at the same time, you feel your cheeks begin to smart. Perhaps it is the syrupy sweet my love tacked to the end of her sentence that makes your eyes burn with hot, frustrated tears, or her casual disparagement, you are torn for choice. You shake your head, forcing another smile as you blink them back. Perhaps you are simply being oversensitive, seeing what is not there.

“Thank you, Majesty.” You fold your hands together as you follow the king and queen up to the dais, and move to take your seat. “I shall have to bring Kassandra along with me. Perhaps if I am buried in parchment, she may yet dig me out again.”

You are relieved when the conversation shifts from you, allowing you to stare sullenly at the spread before you in peace. It is startlingly familiar, your mother’s need to ensure that every eye is upon her at all times, and you find that you are perhaps glad for it. It is exhausting to play at happiness and not feel it, and every second you do not have to keep up the pretense is one you are grateful for. Even if it comes at the expense of a little of your pride.

That gratefulness dissipates like smoke in the wind as Prince Geralt seats himself next to you. However intimidatingly large he had felt as you and Kassandra had made your way through the halls, he feels doubly so now. Though he has his own chair and place at the table, it feels as though it is too small to contain him, and he spills over into your seat anyway. His thigh is pressed tightly against your own through your gown, and no amount of subtle shifting on your part seems to remove him. You grimace, and the servant who is pouring water into your goblet gasps, and bows her head quickly.

“Apologies, Your Grace, I have offended you!” Her distress begins to turn heads, and you hurriedly attempt to placate her, shaking your head with a weak smile.

“No, no, it’s nothing—”

“Yes, princess,” the word drips from your stepbrother’s lips like black honey. “Whatever is the matter?”

You glare at him. He is pushing you, trying to force you into a confrontation for no reason you can discern—other than his own blasted amusement. You are tempted to give him what he wants, your own accusations waiting eagerly at the tip of your tongue. And you have your pick of poisons to dispense; his foul behavior the night before, his insult to the queen—

But as you look down the table, you see few allies. King Vesemir looks at you with an apathetic sort of curiosity. And your mother… her doll-like expression appears concerned, but you can read it for what it truly is. The way her eyes narrow, her mouth tightened just so at the corners—

She is angry.

You can hear her without her speaking, and your mind conjures her reprisal perfectly, even without her input.

You are making a scene. You know that is what she would tell you. Be silent. Be seen, not heard.

“Nothing.” You wish you could slap Prince Geralt, slap the concerned facade right off of his wretched face. “Nothing at all.”

—

The grass beneath you is brittle, and you can feel it crumbling into dusty nothing as it crunches beneath the soles of your bare feet. The low-cut hedges have grown out crooked and gnarled from neglect, their roots erupting thirstily from the baked earth to choke the narrow pathway. The garden is different now than it was when you had left, but you know it still—home. The manor looms gloomily above the garden, sticking out of the barren hillside like a jagged tooth, glaring angrily down at the cracked flowerbeds and baked earth.

Everything is dead here.

The icy wind that whips at your cotton shift, tangling it about your legs is dead, carrying with it the sound of grinding bones and last breaths. From the parched fissures in the dead, hungry dirt, you can hear whispers, and you press your cold, shaking hands to your ears to block them out. You do not know the reason, but nevertheless the knowledge remains in your bones as if you were born with it—

I mustn’t listen. I mustn’t hear the dead.

You press your palms against the sides of your head until it aches, dragging your feet through the dead, overgrown grass as you make your way through the garden. You want to leave, to turn around and leave this place, this terrible mirror, but your body will not obey. Instead, your unwilling legs carry you further and further into the spiral of dry, overgrown hedges and cracked pavement. The ghostly voices continue to rise in pitch until they are screaming, tortured cries leaking up from below as you approach the center of the garden.

It, like everything else here, is wrong, gleaming as if polished in the dim light of the dead sun. It is white like bone, and black, sluggish muck leaks from the trumpet of the nymph carved there. The sly, mysterious smile carved on her marble lips has been replaced by a grimace of abject terror, and when you follow her stone gaze, your eyes widen with the same emotion. Your hands leave your ears then, covering your mouth to try and dampen the horrified gasp that leaves your lips.

Your father stands before you.

He is still a distance away, walking slowly toward you through the garden. His eyes are blacked out, but not completely, black wriggling over the whites like a child’s scribble, black thread weaved through the skin of his lips, suturing them shut.

He is horrible.

He begins to open his mouth, and it yawns wide, the threads snapping—

You sit up, a hand clutching at your chest. You stare around the room, panting as your mind attempts to place you in your still unfamiliar surroundings. Your heart is still races from the dream, your hands clammy and trembling. The taste of dry earth coats your tongue, and your throat feels cold and parched, as if you had walked the cold gardens truly, and not only in your dreams.

You can still see it, the rotting black threads holding your father’s withered lips shut, the black writhing ink scribbles across his eyes—

“No.” You mutter the word softly as you press the heels of your palms to your closed eyes, pushing hard until colored spots dance in your vision. You do not want to think of your father that way, his body moldering in the earth, rotting away like he had never been in the first place. It had felt so real, the cool distant glare of the white sun, the arid earth beneath your feet—

“A nightmare.” You say it aloud to no-one. “Nothing more.”

The morning sun paints a bright stripe across the blankets through the curtains of the four poster bed, and you tug them further open, squinting. Everything in your chambers is as it was the night before, though the fire in the hearth has gone down to cinders, and a copper tub has been set before it. You step out and into your slippers, noting the steam that still rises from the water. They must have brought it in as you slept, though you had not heard them do so.

I slept… unusually deeply.

You disrobe, stepping into the water with a grateful sigh. You sink in until you are mostly submerged, your nose hovering above the surface as you stare pensively at the window, studying the gray, muddled shape of the buildings beyond it. You do not want to think of the dream, or your father, but both seem intent at crowding at the forefront of your mind.

You know your father would tell you not to ignore it. Dreams mean things, he would say. What did it tell you? But there is no meaning you can discern from your nightmare, other than that you miss your father, and you wish he were still here, with you.

After you finish in the bath, you dress yourself. Instead of the multi-layered gown set out for you by your lady’s maids, you rummage through the wardrobe for one of the loose, flowy dresses more typical of your warm countryside home. You find one at the back, and as you slip into it, you feel more settled, more yourself. The creamy, peach colored fabric has one long, bell sleeve, and drapes modestly across your chest, exposing the top of one shoulder. It is less cumbersome than the heavy, three piece set they chose, and when they enter to help you, you can see the surprise written on their faces.

To their credit, they say nothing, simply helping braid and pin your hair, before setting the small silver circlet you wear at your mother’s insistence upon your brow.

It is long past time to break fast, but nevertheless, your request for a scone with butter and sweet cream is met without fuss down in the kitchens. As you eat, Kassandra marvels at your dress.

“I quite like it, Majesty,” she says, clapping her hands encouragingly as she circles you. “No corset? I do wonder if my father might permit me to have one made in its likeness,” she moans rather piteously. “Though I doubt he shall be pleased by my asking, it is quite bold, if you do not mind my saying so, Highness.” You look down at yourself, and then raise an eyebrow.

“Why should he find your request offensive? I mean no insult, but I do believe our dress more…modest than those of fashion here in Rivia.” Even Kassandra’s low cut gown exposes the tops of her breasts, the bodice molding to her body,pushing them out and up before rising back up to play at covering her shoulders. She laughs behind a hand at your ire.

“I suppose it is all a matter of personal opinion, my lady. I do find Redanian fashion quite lovely, if this dress should be a fair representation.”

“ ‘Tis.” You reply, finishing your biscuit. From your place by the windows, just outside the kitchen, you can see down into the gardens. Though the sight of them is sullied by the memory of your stepbrother’s wanton behavior, the glint of colored glass catches your eye. “What is that?” You ask, pointing at the colored shafts of light as they seemingly beam upward from the ground, the source blocked by lush greenery.

“The roof of the chapel,” Kassandra says. “It is made of stained glass.” At your confused look, she continues. “The chapel is beneath the keep, Majesty, it’s roof is the center of the maze. It is quite beautiful, should you wish to see it, my lady.” Intrigued, you nod.

“Yes, thank you. I would.”

Kassandra leads you down into the bowels of the castle, and you feel the walls grow cold around you as daylight through the arched windows is replaced by the soft glow of candles. The construction looks much older down here, the stone pitted and smooth not from polish but from the passage of time. Upstairs, the corridors had been crowded with courtiers, lords and ladies all seeking the king’s approval, or waiting for their opportunity to serve at his request.

Instead, you take note of the priests in their pale robes, black ink sigils drawn onto the skin of their foreheads and the expanses of their cheeks beneath their eyes. They keep their heads bowed and shoulders stooped as they shuffle through the halls in penitent silence.

“Why do they paint their faces?” You ask quietly.

“So that the gods might receive their prayers.”

The chapel’s carved doors bear images of the gods you do not worship, the wood branded with the sigil of the king—the head of a wolf, it’s mouth open in an eternal snarl. Inside, the air is thick with incense, and it takes you more than a few labored breaths to grow used to it. The inside of the chapel is long and narrow, its walls lined with alcoves featuring enormous statues of the gods. Kassandra gestures to the ceiling, trailing her fingers through the shafts of colored light that stream down, bathing the sullen atmosphere in muted color.

“Is it not beautiful, lady?”

“Yes, it is.” You speak truth—the glass is beautiful, unclouded and the colors true. Images of faith are splashed across the colored surfaces; a great wolf standing beneath a full moon, devouring a beautiful maiden, the three-faced Mother bathed in the golden light of the sun, and the Spider, sitting in the center of her silver web. You watch as Kassandra makes a sign with her right hand, her middle finger and thumb pressed together. She brings it reverently to her forehead, before dropping it to her chin, and then the center of her chest.

It is a quiet, sullen sort of reverence, one you see mirrored in the bowed heads of the priests, and in the quiet, droning chants the monks at the pulpit continue without pause. But there is no joy here. No voices lifted in worshipful, devoted song, nor dances with arms stretched to the bright and brilliant sky. Those are the rituals of worship you know, the ones your father taught you. This place, like the garden in your dream, feels dead.

If there ever were gods here, they have certainly gone, now.

“Who is this?” You ask, pointing to the wolf. It’s golden eyes seem to follow you around the room as you trail after Kassandra, and it makes you think uncomfortably of the prince. She stops in front of it’s stone copy, and she makes the sigil again, finger on thumb, forehead, chin, chest.

“Father Wolf.” She says as she rises. “It is said that he devours the moon each night, so that it may be reborn in the morning, as the sun.” She cocks her head. “Do you not know the stories, Majesty?”

“She would not.” You turn to see one of the priests. In his hand, he holds an incense box, sluggish white smoke pouring from the gold painted slats. “Her Majesty hails from Redania. They hold to the old faith there.” You watch his eyes narrow as they drop to your gown before traveling back up to your face. His lips curve into an unfriendly smile. “I did not think to see Your Highness here.”

You raise an eyebrow. “In my experience father, it is a poor monarch who expects to rule people she knows nothing about.” Kassandra ducks her head, covering her mouth to hide her smile at your diplomatically worded impertinence.

His cheek tics. “Of course, Highness.” He bows his head in a manner you know is meant to be respectful, though the acid that drips from his words is anything but. “The people shall be pleased that you are so…familiar.” He drums his fingers against the incense box, before fixing you with another small, curt smile. “They do not react well to the southland’s…” He pauses to search for a word. “Heathenistic rituals.”

The words fly to your tongue before you can swallow them back, flying from your lips with righteous indignation.

“Are you quite sure the heathen rituals you fear are not your own, Father?” His mouth twists with anger, but you do not cower in the face of it, jutting your chin out stubbornly. You have taken little pleasure in the shifting of your station, but his brazen disrespect sets a blazing fire in your chest. You are a princess, and you will not be spoken to this way.

“Father Rame.” Your belly fills with hot iron at Prince Geralt’s voice, his tone warning. So irate were you with the priest that you had taken no notice of his approach. The prince leans against one of the stone pews, his arms crossed over his broad chest. “You would do well to hold your tongue, lest my father remove it.” The priest drops into a low bow, his lips curling into a scowl. “I do not think he would take kindly to your… implications.”

“Apologies, My Prince, I meant only to—” Geralt raises a hand, and Father Rame’s words die in his throat.

“Go. And perhaps I will… forget to inform the kingsguard of your offense today.” You can tell the priest is unsatisfied, his hands clenching into tight fists in the sleeves of his robe. Nevertheless, he issues you another stiff apology through his clenched teeth, before he turns on his heel, his robes billowing behind him.

“Thank you.” You spit the words out as if they have burnt you. “For your assistance.” Geralt’s amber eyes dip the way Father Rame’s did, and you hate the way they drag across every inch of you before coming to rest on your face. Instead of scornful disapproval, you find something else there. Something darker you refuse to name.

“My pleasure, princess.” He purrs the words, and you feel them like a physical caress. You try to hide the shiver that travels down your spine, gooseflesh erupting on the back of your neck and arms in its wake. He glances at Father Rame’s retreating back. “I would pay him no heed. The good Father can be… Zealous.”

“That is certainly one way to put it.” You remark dryly.

“He will not bother you again.” He says it with a finality that makes you shift uncomfortably under his gaze.

“I hope not.” You brush a speck of imagined dirt from the bodice of your dress, and the prince’s eyes follow the movement.

“Your gown is lovely, sister.” He says, and you swallow against the sudden lump in your throat. “I have not seen its like since last I was in Redania.”

“Thank you.” You stiffen as he moves towards you, slow steps carrying him in a small circle around you and Kassandra. You force yourself to endure his inspection.

“Oh yes.” He fingers the hem of your sleeve before you step back, a little. “I hope you do not mind me imparting a bit of… Rivian wisdom?”

Do I have any choice? You force a smile. “Please.”

“This is a married woman’s color, Sweetling.” His eyes are molten honey.

“W-what?” You do not know which words you were expecting to fall from the prince’s smug lips, but it was not these. “I—”

“I hope you take no offense,” he drawls, though the expression on his face says otherwise. “I only mean to inform.”

“H-how interesting.” You force a small smile, before turning quickly to Kassandra.

“My head aches from the incense,” you say, turning away from him and striding toward the door. “We should take our leave.” With a stiff, reluctant bow, you turn from the prince. “Excuse us, please.”

“By all means.”

Kassandra squeaks, hurrying after you with her skirts gathered tightly into her hands. As you push angrily through the entering group of priests and out into the corridor, you can feel two sets of eyes on your retreating back—

Geralt’s, and the wolf’s.

to be continued…

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