#i have too many thoughts about this man and about this family

[tojisun]

(quietly) oh god thinking about kyle falling in love with his new neighbour.

How he was just going to crack open a window to let the breeze in only to stop at the sight of his neighbour and her daughter dancing in the rain, twin smiles tugging at their lips as they hop around in their front lawn, feet digging into the muddy parts of their grass garden, letting the water splash out.

Laughter trickles from the two, and it tickles Kyle’s ears, filling him up with such longing he can’t even put a proper name to it.

She is the single mother who moved from another country.

Why she settled in this little suburb, Kyle doesn’t know but he’s thankful of her because there are times when he forgets about many things—himself, for one; the touch of soft blankets and the feel of warm water, for another—but somehow he always finds himself snapping back to his body at seeing her.

At hearing her.

She is beautiful. She is beyond beautiful. She is—

God, how can anyone have that much fortitude and strength and love? How can anyone see the world so optimistically; so full of wonder?

“Oh, you,” she’d murmured, shy, when Kyle had told her of his thoughts, and he watched as her eyelashes brushed against her cheeks at her quiet chuckle.

Kyle’s throat had gone parched—he has never felt this type of yearning before; one that makes him full even when he’s yet to eat anything. One that lulls him to a quiet sleep like his mind and his body have finally found their centre of gravity; like they’re no longer unyielding nor unforgiving. But kind.

Filling. Wondrous.

“It’s because of my little duckling,” she continued, eyes crinkling in her delight. She turned to her snoozing daughter. “I would have been lost without my darling Pen.”

She looked at Kyle then, smiling like he wasn’t just a kind stranger. Like he wasn’t just a nobody.

Kyle stares at the them now, his lips quivering as he watches them dance and splash and giggle to each other. Their laughter sounds like chimes. Like twinkling bells. Like what home sounds.

Kyle stares at them now, wondering if he could ever be part of their family.

(He already is. Have been, for a while now.

Penelope adores Kyle. So much so that she would not stop asking you when could she play agIn with the kind man next door.

She tells you that Kyle is so patient—not in those words, but she tells you that Kyle always asks more about her stories, and asks her who are her friends and which of her collection of toys is her favourite.

And Pen is still too young to understand the word ‘patience’ but she tells you how Kyle is nothing but.

How he never once rejects her tea time invitation, even if the tea is just bottled sweet tea and grocery store cupcakes that you were able buy that week.

How he never once asks why she doesn’t know how to tie her shoelaces, and instead teaches her time and time again. That he never gets snappy even if she keeps forgetting.

She even recounts to you how excited she had been when Kyle showed up for the dad-daughter dance hosted at her school. He’d asked for your permission then, going shy as he stuttered out his, “But I don’t want to impose and you can say no, I swear, and we can just ignore this and—”

“Kyle,” you murmured, your eyes prickling with tears. “I’d be honoured if you were there for Pen.”

He said something to you then. It was a slip of his tongue, clearly something he didn’t want you to hear, and you honoured his wishes but when a man like Kyle—

No.

When Kyle says, “I wish I can be there f’r you too.” What is the natural reaction if not to let him know that he can?

That you want him too?)

(Penny likes Mr. Kyle.

He talks funny, like the many others in this new country.

Mama said it’s not nice to say that Mr. Kyle talks funny but Mr. Kyle is not angry. He just laughs with Penny, and says she should hear his best friend, Mr. Johnny, talk.

Penny is told Mr. Johnny sings more than he talks. Penny giggles at the idea of it.

Penny likes Mr. Kyle.

He is warm and he always has toffee in his pocket for Penny.

He also laughs loud, like the one from the belly, and she thinks that his laugh fills their house with how loud it is. Mama said that Mr. Kyle laughs loud so that the monsters under Penny’s bed would leave. Penny cried and said many thanks to Mr. Kyle after that.

Penny likes Mr. Kyle.

He…

He makes mama happy.

Not the way Penny makes mama happy. No one can make mama more happy than Penny could! But he buys her flowers and donuts and- and books! Adults are so weird.

Books are no fun.

Sometimes she wished Mr. Kyle can be her real dad.)

[luveline]

hello lovely angel!! humbly requesting zombie!steve au, perhaps more of jealous steve? i love their dynamic so much💗 maybe someone is flirting with reader, and enter protective steve:)

thanks for requesting! fem, 2k

You tend to think of it in two weird halves. You love Steve, and you never would’ve known that without the end of the world, so things are okay. Sometimes you wonder if he ever could’ve loved you if he hadn’t been so close to you for so long, but he loves you in this insane capacity of softness that says otherwise. Like, soulmate style. 

It didn’t begin that way. Steve your reluctant guide, and you his unlikely saviour. You’d stopped him from dying at the very start of it all and he couldn’t leave you behind. And Steve, he’d been mean to you. He didn’t want to take care of you initially, but you’d grown to get along. You’d argue black and blue and he’d still rub your back at night. 

There are so many moments you’ve shared that make what you have all the more special. A hundred different memories from before you’d ever kissed. You think about it now, watching him across the firepit as he shows a young girl, Cassandra, how to braid her hair. 

The one that’s sticking today is when Steve got really bad food poisoning for the first time. When you’d known you were in love with him for a while, and when he’d stopped pretending he didn’t know. He’d been sick everywhere, on both your shoes, and you’d rubbed his back through everything.  

It was nice to take care of him. Nicer that night when you’d shared a bed and he’d hugged you half to death. 

He has no idea how much he means to you, or how much those moments with him kept you going when you were all alone. You’re lucky now to have found community, but those stolen hours in bed with him hugging him and getting to be his support, you wouldn’t have made it here without them. 

“Hey.” 

You look up as a man sits down. A boy, a man —what do you call twenty somethings? You don’t feel like a woman most of the time, but you are. 

“Hi,” you say. 

“I’m Jamison.” 

“You’re Eddie’s friend, right?” 

“Who, Munson?” Jamison makes a kidding face, a disgusted scrunch of his eyebrows that falls away to more friendly fondness. “Yeah, we go back. You’re Eddie’s friend too, right? I saw you guys taking out some laundry a few days ago.” 

Jamison is handsome. He has tan skin, short hair, and a crooked nose. His smile is disarming. If you hadn’t fallen in love with the handsomest guy around, you might feel nervous under his gaze. 

Time spent ugly under Steve’s reverent handling makes you confident. You genuinely feel prettier knowing Steve loves you, and it makes it easier to be yourself with strangers. 

“Eddie’s awesome,” you say easily. “I thought he was gonna kill me when we first met, but he’s too nice.” 

“Nice, really?” 

Jamison is casual, as people go. You wonder what his motivations are for talking to you at first, but as conversation stretches, littered with the cracking pops of the fireplace and brief pauses of surprisingly comfortable silence, you realise he’s just talking. Maybe he’s lonely. You know how that feels. 

He tells you that he and Eddie had been in a rock band together before the apocalypse. You’d known to some extent that Eddie was in a band, but Jamison tells you all the details you’d been missing. They were called Corroded Coffin, four members, Eddie played guitar and Jamison thought he was pretty fucking good at it, actually. 

“I don’t think we would’ve been, like, Metallica. But we could’ve been good. We were gonna make a record.” 

You smoke sympathetically. “I bet you could’ve been.” 

“What were you doing? Before all this?” 

“I honestly barely remember,” you say quietly. Your life before Steve is a blur, and it’s painful, too. “Things are harder now, I know that. I wish every day that we could go back to how things were, you know, I miss TV and grocery stores and my family.” You lick your lips. “I wish things were different, but somehow, I think I like my life now. I have stuff to do. Is that crazy?” 

“It’s not crazy. Everything fucking sucks,” —you both laugh— “but that’s not crazy. I’m lucky, I still have my dad, and my friends. There’s purpose in being here.” 

You nod emphatically, just once. “Exactly.” 

You have purpose, now. You get to be a friend, a girlfriend, a confidente. You take care of people. 

It all comes back to Steve, at the end of the day. Would you change the world if it meant never having met him? 

Nope. 

You glance across the fire for him, but he’s not there. 

You put your arm behind your back and bend, looking for him. 

“Looking for someone?” Jamison asks. 

You deflate with relief when you spot him standing near the gaggle of tents about fifty feet away. He’s looking at you from over Robin’s shoulder. You wave, and he waves back with a big smile. 

Something seems a little wrong. 

“Steve,” you explain. 

“He’s your boyfriend, yeah? Eddie told me you’ve been together since the start.” 

You don’t bother correcting him. He might not mean together as how you’re thinking it. “Yeah, that’s him. Have you met him?” 

“Kind of. We all thought he was a huge dick, back then.” 

“He sort of was,” you say. “I mean, we all had our own stuff going on. I get that I’m biased, but he’s my favourite person I’ve ever met. He’s so kind, I don’t think I could describe it to you or anyone just how much he cares about people. I wouldn’t be here without him, and… I don’t know, I’m not saying you’re wrong, but if you ever wanted to meet him again, he’s amazing. He’s a great friend. He’s so fucking funny, he makes me laugh every day.” 

“He’s sort of giving me the stink eye,” Jamison says. 

You wave your hand weakly. “He has raging jealousy issues.” 

“Shit, am I getting you in trouble?” 

“No, never!” you say, tempted to laugh. “He doesn’t get mad at me for stuff like that. He’s normal, I promise. Just sensitive.”

You tell Jamison that it was nice talking to him because it really was, but you’ve been missing Steve for hours already and you need to get back to him before you go totally bonkers. 

He’s sitting on the floor in the tent. The weather has been beautiful lately, you could sleep under the stars if you weren’t scared of being zombie charcuterie. Steve has stripped down to just his jeans and socks, no t-shirt or shoes to be seen. He has his sketchbook splayed open on his thigh, but he abandons it the moment you kneel down. 

“Hey,” you say. 

Steve folds his book closed, pencil between its pages. “Hi. Have I told you lately how beautiful you are?” 

You shuffle in to take his hand. Clumsy touches, his fingers warm and a tad clammy between yours. “You told me yesterday that I have a smile like an angel. I know you were kidding, but I still felt it.” 

“I wasn’t kidding,” he says, wrinkling his nose with a smile. “You think every compliment is a joke.” 

“Don’t make me laugh so much, then.” 

He squeezes your fingers gently. “Sorry I didn’t introduce myself to Jamison. Just, I knew him already from school. And he did not like me.” 

“That’s okay. He seemed nice, I think you’d get along if you met now.” You kick your shoes off and crawl as close to him as you can get. He looks up at you, but you look down at his lap. “What are you drawing?” 

“I was just trying to touch up that landscape I did of the river,” he says, a sheepishness to him as he opens his sketchbook. 

You read it with affection, trace lines and hatchings in awe. “Steve, I really wish you had time and space to do this stuff properly. Not that you aren’t doing it properly, just, I know you could make something just as beautiful as this with paint.” You slide to be sitting properly, putting you both at the same height, so you can meet his eyes as you continue. “Did you know what you wanted to do, when you were finishing school? Did you ever think about art?” 

“I thought about it.” His lips quirk. “Mostly about how my dad would’ve kicked me out if I said something that stupid.” 

“It’s not stupid.” 

“I know.” 

That would’ve been a nice life. You and Steve living together, with a basement for his paintings, or a garage turned studio. You’d read books together every night like you do now, and you’d scrub paint smudges off of his cheek. 

You love him so much it must give you an aura. 

“I’ve got nothing to worry about, huh?” he asks softly. 

You drift in, tipping your head back for a kiss you don’t take. “I don’t know, Steve, Jamison used to be in a rock band.” 

He scoffs in disgust. You think it might be a mixture of anger at Jamison and himself. “Who wants to date a rockstar?” 

“I might’ve.” 

You’re teasing, of course, smiling as your kiss draws nearer, and nearer. 

“Well, I can be a rockstar,” he says quietly, warmth of his breath on your lips. “Just give me a chance to get there.” 

You brush the tip of your nose against his and hold your breath. “That’s okay,” you say, letting it rush out of you in a huff, your excitement to be kissed too much to bear, “I like my guys all mixed up. Preferably good at track, and swimming, but with a soft side. Kind of guy who fills a sketchbook up with my face.” 

Steve lists to the side. Your lips are so close, you can feel the phantom of them against yours as he moves in. “It’s not just your face… it’s your hands, your arms… your everything–”

He cuts his own explanation off with a soft kiss. That softness swiftly hardens, turns rough, ten long seconds of sweetness before his hands coming up behind your head and he’s pressing inward, deepening the kiss, and giving you little room to breathe. 

You have no intention of dating any rockstars, but his jealous streak has nothing but upsides for you. Steve knows that his jealousy over the innocuous is his own problem, his own insecurity that he’s working on, and while you sympathise with him (after all, haven’t you yourself worried he’d find someone else he liked more?), you have to confess to enjoying the edge to his kissing. 

You make a pleased, humoured sound as he breathes you in like you’re a drug he’s been waiting for. He gets sloppier, and you can’t help pulling away to laugh. 

“What?” he asks, thumbing at your cheek in a soft juxtaposition. “Sorry, am I being a dick?” 

“No, it’s fine. Kiss me how you want to.” 

Steve kisses your cheek softly. “He knows you have a boyfriend, right?” 

“He knows.” 

Steve hums like he’s smiling and nudges your nose with his, until you part your lips, and he wades in for another dose. 

[desireangel]

Dark Cherry [4] | Aemond Targaryen

Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Summary: after months of a marriage that hardly harbours the passion that you'd dreamed about, you stumble across the reason for your husband's indifference and decide enough is enough. Aemond will learn just exactly what he's been missing out on.

Word Count: 5.5k

Warnings: MDNI 18+!! canon divergence!!! I fucked the timeline and nigly bits bc this was an impulse fic ok soooo it was mostly unplanned, almost smut, angst, let the grovelling happen babyyy, unedited, mention of alys x aemond but not in a good way :((, infidelity, talk of sex, guilt, mentions of Aegon x reader, hmmm I ramble, little vulnerable Aemond, bad language, let me know if I've missed anything!

Author's note: y'all I was never done with that man like there's no easy out for him :llll. Anyways I wrote most of this instead of studying which I needed to do. Perhaps I'll have my hand at another idea I'm cooking before part 5 but I'm alsoooo unsure about how keen we are to keep this one going - like is it getting too much??? either way, I enjoy writing this. and idk how to shut up, clearly, because I love that internal mind talk shit. Drop your thoughts in my inbox or PM me because I love to yap!!! xoxo, kisses!!! <3

Masterlist

-

He was a fool. A spoiled, arrogant and entitled fool. You often thought about whether Aemond actually recognised the effect of his actions on anyone else. It was always ‘I did it for us’ or ‘I did it because I had to do it’.

So after your confrontation the day before, it had surprised you that Aemond had truly believed he was forgiven. Maybe it shouldn’t have. You had, after all, sat beside him and laughed with him. Shared a moment as if things were better. But it was nothing more than a lighthearted acknowledgement that whatever game was being played was entirely ridiculous yet you could feel how something had changed. There was a newfound intensity between the two of you and Aemond had clearly understood that he had made a mistake

But that wouldn't be enough for forgiveness. Things would never really be the same. You will never forget. The nameless woman had made a home in your unconscious mind and everything would remind you of the woman your husband had chosen to take to bed over you. She was beautiful, she was experienced and free of burden. Based on that alone a part of you could see why she could have been a better choice–a part of you that ached and pained ceaselessly. 

And you weren’t sure you could carry on as if Aemond hadn’t thrown your entire world into the pits of ruin. Because that is exactly what he may as well have done. All you had was your marriage to him–a fact that was as painful as it was true. If it all fell apart because of him only you would suffer from it. 

Your name, your family’s name. A Lady born to a house of remarkably lowly nobility with little more than your marriage to the prince. A charity case marriage to tell the realm’s people that the Crown was not so prejudiced as to be above uniting with the likes of your house. That the Lannisters and Baratheons were important but they were not everything. A fabrication only made necessary to cover up the fact that it was a lie–the Targaryens (and even the Hightowers as you had come to realise) really did believe they were of better blood. 

A failure to fulfil your duty to the Targaryen crown as Prince Aemond’s wife would destroy your family name. And you would have no prospect of happiness after it. What else did you have aside from this?

Aemond would never understand that. Because not only was he a man but he was a prince. A privilege, a safety and a security he had inherited through birth. 

Aside from the pressures of society, he had hurt you. Badly. 

Despite your own confliction about it, you did have love for Aemond–how could you not? Love came from many things and while yours may have come from your dependance on his word, on the duty he performed to be your protector as he was to the Crown and its subjects, on his polite affections as limited as they were, it still found its way into your heart. Perhaps it was foolish to allow it entry into your existence when you had already known that there was no love to come from Aemond. 

It didn’t change anything. Betrayed your trust, taken you for granted and destroyed the sanctity of a husband’s loyalty as if he were as dishonourable as any other Lord. 

You would never say it out loud but it had broken your heart. And heartache is a consuming, suffocating and painful thing to feel. A constant lump in your throat, something always weighing your chest down, a disastrous, aching discomfort in your belly. Tears had stained your pillow at night and dried by the morning, the fabric of the linen acquiring the same unphased facade that you would wear as you plastered on a mask of ignorance so that you could continue to live through your day. 

All because you had wanted him. Aemond, who was doomed to disappoint and destroy merely because that is all that princes do. 

For him to have mistaken your truce–the end to the back and forth game that had been wreaking havoc in its wake-as forgiveness was infuriating. He had no idea. 

Well, maybe he did. Now that he had seen you with another just as you had seen him. And you recognised your own experience in the moment he had realised what was happening. 

Aemond’s call to breakfast made you want to laugh. But you had turned him down for afternoon tea just the day before only to be found swallowing his brother’s seed. You winced at the shamefulness of your thought, muttering a quick prayer for the sake of your piety whether it was genuine or not. 

He was seated lazily in the chair he favoured, an array of food spread across the table. There was a book in his hand. The same one he had taken from you the last time you had shared your morning meal together. Aemond had a smirk playing on his lips. 

You cleared your throat, curtsying before sitting down at the other end of the table to him and with as much distance between you as you could muster. “Good morrow, my Prince,”

“Formalities, I see,” He looked at you through his lashes. It was odd seeing him so relaxed, the tension that was always in his shoulders had been lost and there was a playful glint to his eye. You wanted to smack it out. “I believed we were past titles and distance for the sake of propriety, my sweet. As well as rigid greetings.”

All you responded with was a stare. 

Dropping the book to his side, Aemond sighed and leaned forward, pouring tea into a cup. He stood, taking a couple steps forward to hand it to you. “We have fixed-”

“We have fixed nothing.”

“I am trying to turn a new leaf,” he commanded. You took the cup and saucer from his hand, the warm waft of vanilla and rose giving you a slight reprieve from the threat that rolled off his tongue. “If you do not recall, dear wife, I as well have every reason to resent you. The image of you sucking on my useless brother’s cock is not one I can easily bare. Yet I have chosen to let it be. I could have easily decided otherwise.”

“That would make you a hypocrite.” You glanced at him over the rim of your teacup. 

“It does not matter much if I am a hypocrite, does it?” Aemond sat, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. He wasn’t bothered with the food in front of him, focused solely on you. “I hardly see how that would change anything.”

You squirmed under the intensity of his stare, picking up a cherry from the bowl of fruits and rolling the stem between your fingers. “It matters to me. Certainly, it matters for your reputation among the smallfolk. Nobody cares for a selfish prince, my dear.”

Aemond hummed, smirking at the venom you spat at him. You noticed the coin that he rolled between his fingers, nimble and thoughtless as if it were like breathing. Not so much a nervous habit but a thoughtful one. 

He couldn’t lie and say that he didn’t enjoy your confidence. It was refreshing. But there was a dip in his gut at the thought that there was no hope for the two of you. Aemond, ever logical, knew he had no one else to blame but himself with his lack of foresight and failure to see beyond the now and here. 

Because Aemond had not even considered how things would go on should you not forgive him. He had assumed that you would if not merely on the basis that there was little lost from a relationship that hardly existed in the first place. You had love for him and he was so convinced that such a thing would be impossible that he didn’t consider that it would cause you heartache beyond slighted offence and jealousy. 

A violet eye lingered on the cherry that remained between your fingers. Aemond was good at putting on an act. He thought for a moment that he would rather take lashes to his back than have you know that he had no idea how to love someone properly. A part of him was persuaded that he was incapable of being a good lover. The lashes seemed like a blissful gift compared to the self-loathing that simmered in his belly at the probability that he had ruined any chance your marriage had of recovery.  

It crossed his mind that it was his ignorance towards you right from the beginning that had damned your relationship. 

Either way, it did not help that you had turned to his brother for intimacy. Aemond felt his blood scorch whenever that invaded his mind. He wanted to crumble the walls of this fortress when he wondered if Aegon had enjoyed your womanhood. Jealousy did motivate him well, he realised, and Aemond had the murderous urge to feed Aegon to Vhagar. 

Nonetheless, he feigned amusement. “It seems as if you care for one.”

You ate the cherry. It was sweet and rich. All you replied with was an upturn of your chin as you gracefully held a small embroidered towel to your lips.

“So I am not forgiven?” Aemond had to break the silence before it cut him open. “Are we not even?”

Narrowing your eyes at him, you held back a surprised laugh. “You never apologised. Not that it would make any difference.”

“That does not answer my question.”

“Of course you are not forgiven,” you sighed. The tea cup hit the table with a clang. Your disdain for his actions and his ignorance gave you an unfettered confidence around him which you weren’t accustomed to. It made it very difficult to control yourself. “And no, we are not even, my Prince. And since you have brought it to my attention, I am of half a mind to find Aegon and offer him a meal between my thighs. You see, I have often wondered how it would feel and I expect that our King would be happy to indulge my… curiosities.”

Aemond sneered, a silent one that was more visible in his intake of a breath, the curl of his lips and the hardening of his eye. Bullseye. 

It took him less than a couple seconds to be on his knees in front of where you sat, a strong hand tightly gripping each side of your thighs over the thick fabrics of your dress. He had shoved the table aside, unphased as tea spilled and fruits and cheeses toppled to the floor. Something in the look of bewilderment on your face had Aemond ready to both grin at your clueless innocence and frown at your shock.

Aemond didn’t let himself dwell on the fact that you had given up on expecting such pleasures from him. He was your husband; nothing about what he was clearly intending on doing to you should surprise you. Cursing himself to perdition would not be enough for how he has failed you. 

“I feel obliged to remind you that we had agreed,” he grazed his nose across your knees, looking up at you through his eyelashes, jaw clenched tight as he all but growled his words. “That there will be no more of this foolishness. Not from you and not from me.”

It was an onslaught of different things that had rendered you still and silent. The way Aemond looked at you like you were the only satiating force for his eternal hunger, the wordless mixture of desire and anger in how his fingers dug into the flesh of your thighs, the desperation in his voice, strained by the fear that you would. Or was it the overwhelming feeling that Aemond was finally taking some accountability and that maybe he recognised not what his actions were but the meaning that they carried?

For a moment Aemond just looked at you, conflicted and fragmented and unguarded. The sight of him like this reminded you of a vulnerable child. But it didn’t last long before the menacing, cautionary glint was back in his eye, his posture becoming rigid as shuffled the fabrics of your skirts. 

A new kind of anxiety overcame you. Not like the insignificant nervousness you had felt that night when you had wandered into his chambers or used his leg to make yourself peak and not like the clueless apprehension with Aegon. It formed a ball in your chest and made it hard to breathe. 

There was no chance he would ever admit it but you could see Aemond’s vulnerability and desperation within the hardened facade he had perfected. He wanted nothing more than to seem strong and powerful at all times, worthy of acclaim and reverence. But here he was, willing to stay on his knees and worship you forever, all under the pretence of rageful infatuation. 

It was too hot. Even with the cool of the shadows cast by the dark net curtains that only let in enough daylight to see clearly and not enough to cause Aemond irritation from sensitivity in his eye, it was so warm you worried you would have to rip the sleeves off of your dress.

You were snapped out of your thoughts when Aemond let out a soft, dark groan, running his fingers across the expanse of your legs over your stockings, your skirts already bunched at your hips. Skin burning at his touch, you couldn’t help the way you whined and squeezed your thighs together, squirming under the intensity of his gaze. 

His voice was heavy with the burden of lust and regret. “I will be better. In all the ways that I have failed you and more. Your forgiveness, I realise, is not as easily granted as I presumed but I will show you that I am worthy of it.” 

There was a moment of weakness in your mind before you caught yourself. You didn’t quite believe him. It had clearly been too easy for him to give you empty promises and there was no reason why things would be different now. 

It was odd. Seeing Aemond weak like this. 

What would it mean if you let him continue? It was clearly different this time. You couldn’t put it into words exactly but there was a rawness, a blitz of different emotions that set things ablaze and made you want to both weep and mewl for him. 

You couldn’t spare a thought about why it was different. Aemond was right there, a weaponised Prince on his knees for you, a lowly Lady with nothing more to offer him than yourself. Since when did you hold all this power over him? 

That night in his bedchambers and last night when you had shared a laugh despite everything that had unfolded felt detached in a way. When you had allowed yourself release over his leg it was simply that. A way to ease the tension he had put in your body and a way to leave him wanting.

Aemond’s eye swam with a tenderness you had not seen from him. He continued to look up at you waiting to gauge your response. It was a slight nod of your head which had his hands tearing at the soft fabric of your stockings, his lips instantly meeting the skin of your knees before you had the chance to even gasp. All the while, he kept his eye on you as if his heart would cease to beat if he could not watch the way you reacted to him. 

It became increasingly harder to breathe. There were so many thoughts, so many sensations that you struggled to put it all together. Your flushed with anticipation, your cunt throbbed at the wet plushness of his lips on your hot skin and your hips squirmed at what was to come. 

Your mind, however, flashed with the image of Aemond, exactly as he was now, between another woman’s thighs. A woman who didn’t flinch at the unfamiliar touch, who didn’t jerk away at the foreign feeling of being pleasured. You wondered if he would be so angered at the prospect of another man’s mouth on her womanhood, if her skin felt softer or more rough on his lips and if he looked at her with the same heated need.

It made you feel sick. 

Aemond let himself enjoy the way your thighs tensed, pulling your smallclothes off of you as much as carefully as he could under the restriction of your skirts. There was an urge to rip the entire dress off but he knew it would be a step too far. He couldn’t help the low sounds that left him, sounds he couldn’t recognise. The expanse of your thighs and the sight of your flushed, hot cunt in front of him made his mouth water with a hunger that would have shocked him had he not been so distracted by your scent. 

Without complete vision, Aemond had learned to train his sense of touch, taste, smell and hearing to make up for the disadvantage he was stuck with. They were always slightly heightened compared to those who never needed the compensation of senses but in the cloud of desire and lust, he was sensitive. 

You whined at the way his tongue glided over your skin, biting down hard but not hard enough to be painful on the flesh of your upper thigh so close to where you needed to feel him. But Aemond was always remarkably patient and he merely made way to your other leg, repeating his ministrations and licking you from your knee to where he bit you at your thigh. 

The haze that had possessed you made you lose track of your thoughts so easily. Still, they fought their way to the forefront of your mind at every chance they could and you were reminded of her. 

Aemond’s mind was overwhelmed by you. There was no power in the realm that could make him think of anything else, not with the way you were trembling under his feathered touch and making such beautiful sounds for him, and not when he desired for anyone else apart from you. 

A heavy breath of shame and excitement tumbled out of you at how lewdly he dragged the tip of his nose across your thigh, pressing it into the flesh that sat above your slick, aching cunt and inhaling. You clenched around nothing, your clit twitching at the sound of Aemond’s unabashed groan. 

He grasped at your hips and your legs, his fingers burying into your flesh and tugging as if there would never be enough of you in his hands. It would have driven you into a similarly desperate state had things been different. 

The prince between your thighs was a sight to behold. Aemond’s skin was flushed pink, his eyepatch slightly out of place and his hair tousled from the way your legs clenched and unclenched against his head. He was almost drooling, mumbling about how good you smelled and how perfect and pretty your cunt was for him. His cock had never been so hard, constricted by the stiff leather of his training attires. 

Aemond enjoyed being a tease but there was only so much he could handle himself. While he wanted you to crave for him the way he was craving you so unbearably, Aemond needed to taste you. He needed to make you feel the blinding pleasure he should have been giving you at every chance he had since the night you were married. He needed to show you the ways of unbridled human desire and to show you all the ways your body could come undone and fall apart only to feel completely whole and fulfilled. 

There was no changing the past but Aemond would make up for how completely inattentive he had been. He would show you all the more fervently. When Aemond placed an open mouthed kiss just above your slit, letting a string of his spit glide off of his tongue onto your sensitive pussy, you shuddered.

All at once your mind was once again taken over by unsavoury thoughts. It had your eyes welling with tears, a familiar lump lodging in your throat, threatening to come out in a devastated sob. There was a ringing in your ears and you were back at Aemond’s door, peeking in only to see him giving that woman the same touch he was giving you right now. He had seemed so enthralled by her and the way she must have tasted. It was as if he’d been there before, indulging in her with so much passion it rivalled how eagerly touched you in this moment. 

Did her smell fill his veins with fire as yours was? Did her scent alone make his cock as painfully hard as yours did? Did her cunt drip for him the way yours did? Was the hunger in his eye shining for her too?

It was terrifying to consider. 

Aemond would spend hours here, he had decided. His duties for the day could be damned to the hells for all he cared. There was a rumbling in his chest for what he saw in front of him, inviting him to indulge and filling his mind with senseless ardour. Aemond let himself enjoy just the scent of you, his eye fluttering shut and his nose gently resting above your folds as he breathed you in, caressing your thighs softly with his hands. As if he were starved for years, Aemond salivated and with no patience left within him, he brought his lips downwards to meet the precious cunt he had been dreaming of. 

With a whimper that you couldn’t hold back, you jerked away from him. Aemond pulled away in surprise, his gaze full of confusion and lust and insecurity. “Wait, my love—“

You had slipped free of his grasp, a strangled cry escaping no matter how hard you tried to keep it in. There was one tear that slipped free, followed by countless more and you couldn’t look at him anymore, couldn’t bear to see that he was hurt before scrambling away from him. 

She was stuck in your mind. The memory of Aemond’s little trysts with her replaying behind your eyes no matter how hard you tried to shut it out. It was clear that there was nothing you could do to get ahold of yourself because everytime you looked at him, so enthralled in you and your sex, she was there. 

Laughing at you in the back of your mind, as if she had taken residence in a permanent place in your head, enjoying the state of despair and madness she and Aemond had led you to. 

But she couldn’t be in your head. Not really. Not in the way it felt she was. 

You barely glanced back at Aemond through your tears, struggling to even your breathing and calm the rapid beating of your heart. He hadn’t moved much; just simply stayed there frowning at the space that you had once occupied on the chair. 

There was nothing he could do to change things. Aemond knew that as well as you did. But there was a pain in your heart at the way he looked so defeated, so guilty that it almost seemed like he would melt into a puddle of remorse. A far stretch from the usual stoic warrior that you had known him as.

“My prince, I��” you swallowed, your voice catching when he looked up at you with a wide eye and furrowed eyebrows. For a moment you remembered that he had no right - but he was trying, was he not? “I cannot continue with this knowing that you had touched her like this. It angers me and it upsets me and it pains me to think of it but ‘tis beyond my control.”

He stayed silent, observing the way you hid yourself from him and struggled to meet his gaze. There was a sullen look to you, one you had not entered with and it stuck needles in his flesh to think that he had been the cause of it. Aemond’s entire body felt hot and he was itching to tear off his leathers. He wished the gods would strike him down as he was for hurting you so.

You had turned away, disappearing from his quarters swiftly. You would never forget the image of how you had left him there–it was both satisfying and devastating. 

Aemond, still on his knees for the ghost of you, his expression tortured and his shoulders tensed. It was a pathetic sight, should anyone stumble upon it, but you considered it beautiful. Beautiful in a lethal, catastrophic manner. Not unlike himself; a weaponised source of destruction who had a tendency to bring torment upon those he loved. 

The rest of your day had been spent alone in your chambers. You hadn’t cried so much over any of it until now. The tears and sobs that you had held inside of yourself for weeks had forced themselves out, along with the emotions you had pushed down until you could no longer. 

Aemond had a certain control while you were sitting in that seat, skirts bunched to your stomach and quivering for him to have his way. Regardless, the power was still yours and you knew that it was Aemond who was wrapped tightly around your finger at that moment. He would have listened to anything you had said–done anything you had told him to do. 

Perhaps you had become too stubborn in your anger to have let yourself feel anything else. A retributive anger; one that sprouted from the lack of love that existed in your marriage and reached a climax at Aemond’s brazen adultery. And it only grew stronger in whatever back and forth Aemond had encouraged by dangling his whore in front of your face. 

Whatever it was, you were feeling so much more now than you had before. 

Or perhaps it was because you could see that Aemond was remorseful. He would never yet admit it but you knew from the way he had behaved since you had visited him in his bed. It was no act of redemption and definitely no apology but it was impossible to ignore the change in him. You had never seen Aemond the way you had seen him this morning. 

Vulnerable, gentle, tormented. 

A knock on your door had you sniffling and wiping away any tear stains that may have lingered on your cheeks. You had stopped crying for some time but the need to wallow and lament had stayed. When you called out to ask, the guard at your door notified you of the Dowager Queen’s presence. 

Oh, seven hells. 

There was really no chance you could refuse her so you merely let her in and called a servant to bring some refreshments. Queen Alicent sat herself down but remained tense, carefully watching you as you took a place beside her. 

“Have you been crying?” Her concern was comforting. “I believe I know why.”

You straightened, not meeting the eye of the woman who reached a tender hand to your knee. Hiding behind a forced smile, you let out a breathy laugh. “I am certain the entirety of the Red Keep knows, Your Grace.”

“It has been known for some time,” Alicent was gentle, her cautionary gaze telling you that she was apprehensive about bringing her son’s misadventures up. You held your breath. “Since the first time he had summoned that Alys woman-”

“Alys? Is that her name?”

“You do not know?” There was a tense silence. Alicent couldn’t meet your gaze, pity swimming across her features. Aemond was her son and there were many things that she had let her sons get away with but her heart pained at the broken quiver in your voice. 

Alicent had noticed the change in Aemond since the night that you had found him with Alys. The second time. He had never paid much attention to you aside from what appearances required yet Alicent knew her son far more than he would be willing to accept. She had known that there was something in his heart for you, no matter how small and no matter how it dwindled until set alight. 

Aemond had done the wrong thing. She had no doubts about that. Alicent would have words with him once she figured out what to say to him. But he was her son and there were certain misdoings that she knew she had to defend them through. To protect his marriage, his image and his happiness. The Queen Dowager cleared her throat and reached for your hand, eyebrows furrowing at the way you stared down at your lap, the anguish you felt in your heart written clearly across your face. 

“I understand that you are hurting, my dear. Although my husband remained faithful to me until his death and I cannot quite imagine the pain in your heart–I see how you have love for my son, even if you nor him have known it, I do understand,” Alicent took a breath, closing her eyes. “This is the way of men. And princes–”

“Please, Your Grace, I mean this with utmost respect for you but I do not wish to hear your excuses,” you whispered. There was a prickly, breathless worry that had settled in your gut. What did you not know? Was this Alys someone who mattered? “But I would like to know what you are withholding from me about this woman. I believe I deserve that at the very least.”

Alicent stared at you for a moment, examining you. She could drive her son further into the ground with what she was about to say. “Aemond had a paramour–at least it was rumoured, he never spoke of such things with me. Alys Rivers, a wetnurse and servant woman from Harrenhal.”

“A paramour?”

“It was before you were married,” Alicent was quick to clarify. “I had assumed that Aemond wanted nothing more to do with her when she left–at his order, I believe. Some say she was a witch. Perhaps she enchanted him.” 

You couldn’t look at her. She was more than just a whore? Had he lied to you right from the beginning? Bile rose up in your throat. There was a thrum in your ears, the sound of your own heartbeat and you feared that you would be sick from the drop in your gut. 

“Did he love her? Could he still?”

Alicent sucked in a breath. “I do not know, my child.”

All you could do was nod pathetically. Alicent was a woman of great strength and dedication; you had once wished to be much like her one day. But as you sat beside her now, you wished she had been a liar and a cheat and a meddling gossip. That you could find a way to fault her words but you could tell it caused her great difficulty to speak of Aemond’s actions honestly. 

Ever poised and elegant, Alicent only leaned forward to you, her posture straight as a needle and her touch soft as linen. “I did not mean to upset you further. I only meant to speak with you about returning to Courtly activities, with the other Ladies and Helaena has been asking for you. And the Ladies speak–”

“They speak terribly of me,” you scoffed, allowing a humourless laugh. “I understand, Your Grace. I will return to spending my days in company other than my own.”

Alicent hated to pry but she felt that she must, now that she had dealt her cards against Aemond’s fate. “Perhaps you should speak with Aemond. He cares for you deeply. It would be a shame for your union to fall apart over such misunderstandings.”

If not for formality, you would have rolled your eyes. Again, you simply nodded, your mind reeling back to the woman that Alicent had given a name to. You would ask Aemond about her. It would be the less damning option rather than turning to Aegon once more but the idea of speaking to Aemond about a woman he may once have loved still made you want to crawl underneath the sheets of your bed and disappear. 

You thought of the woman who you had seen through the crack in the door and wished you had taken extra care in looking at her. There was little you could recall other than the darkness and length of her hair, the paleness of her skin and the perfection in her curves as she pleasured Aemond and as he did the same for her. 

As if she was familiar with all the things that made him weak. All the things that made Aemond weak. How she had touched him like she was an expert in his body. And you thought of Aemond, bare and comfortable with her. Aemond with his sapphire glimmering under the lamplight instead of an eye, a rawness and trust that you had never seen of him until that night. 

He trusted her.

Alys Rivers. 

.....................................................

Tagging: @padfooteyes @thedyingwriter @mamawiggers1980 @queenofshinigamis @ewanmitchellfanatic @nurtargaryen

[multific]

Two Pieces of a Puzzle

Simon "Ghost Riley x Reader

Summary: You are sent on a mission with the infamous LT, but you might have just as many talents as he does, if not more.

When you found yourself on a mission with a military man, Lieutenant Ghost, you knew you were in for a treat. 

He was a tall, rugged man with an attitude and a sharp wit that kept you on your toes. 

As you set out on your mission, you were quick to realize that you were in for an adventure unlike any other.

The Lieutenant was a seasoned soldier, and his experience showed in every move he made. 

He led you with precision and confidence, never hesitating to make tough decisions or take risks when necessary. 

You found yourself in awe of his leadership skills and his ability to think quickly on his feet.

He was impressive, you weren't going to lie about that.

As you navigated through the treacherous terrain of the dense forest and faced unexpected challenges, Ghost remained calm and collected, always finding a way to overcome whatever obstacles stood in your way.

A rescue mission.

The children and wife of an important politician were kidnapped and you received intel that they were in a hidden house in the middle of a dense forest up in the mountains. 

Of course, your way to the forest was an entire mission on it's own, but you heard the tales of the infamous Ghost.

His determination was infectious, and you found yourself pushing harder and digging deeper than you ever thought possible.

Every second you spent with him, you felt your movements sharpen.

It was inspirational.

But it wasn't just Ghost's military prowess that impressed you. 

On no.

The mystery. 

The secrets he held inside himself.

The mask.

That damned mask.

He also had a wicked sense of humour that kept your spirits high even in the darkest of moments. His jokes and witty remarks never failed to bring a smile to your face, even when the situation seemed dire. 

His jokes, even if they were tired and mostly military-related, did help your mood a lot. 

Despite the dangers you faced and the odds stacked against you, Ghost never wavered in his commitment to completing the mission. 

His unwavering dedication inspired me to do the same, and together we forged ahead, determined to succeed no matter what.

You got to the house, just the two of you, hiding behind trees as you assessed the situation.

"You take the back door, I take the front." he said.

"With all due respect, Sir, I believe Captain was clear, you get me here, I get in and them out. I'm called Shadow for a reason." you smirked and put your gun down.

Your time to shine.

You were a specialist in kidnapping and hostage situations. They always got you as you were quiet on your feet and you always got to the point fast. 

You always rescued the person or people and no one ever saw you coming.

In the end, your mission was a success.

As always.

The happy family was back together as you and Ghost walked back into base.

"That was impressive." you heard him say.

"Thank you, Sir. I do live to impress." you said with a smile.

As you celebrated our victory, you couldn't help but feel grateful for the opportunity to work alongside such a remarkable man. 

And as you parted ways, you knew that you would always carry with you the lessons from your time together on that unforgettable mission.

Or so you thought.

You would say you were tipsy, others would call it drunk.

Ghost called it sexy.

You loved to see how his scary mask fell from his face. How his walls crumbled as you climbed into his lap and kissed him.

It was dark in the alley you followed him for a smoke.

He sat down on the steps and you followed suit.

"How did you do that? How did you get in and out without anyone seeing you?"

"The same way you got us through that block on the road or how you made me crawl on my stomach under a car so they wouldn't see us enter the woods. Skills, Sir. Years of training and skill."

It might have been your fault that you leaned in too close.

It might have been him when he looked at your lips. You weren't sure. But you were sure about one thing.

The way he kissed you spoke volumes.

He was touch starved and scared at the same time. 

But you did like the thrill of it.

And also because you were the same.

You two fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. 

Taglist: 

@castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou 

@mandoloriancookie @deliciousfestsalad @lilliumrorum

@asgards-princess-of-mischief @fallout-girl219 @dracaryxzs @snowtargaryen 

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE, OR TO STEAL ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[risingsoleil]

have you ever thought of the possibility of teen!Linzin having a pregnancy scare 🫨 sorry just wanted their heart rate to pump up in another way MWHEHEH

Yes! I've thought about this and touched on it a bit with @peachchanvidel eheh

For AU Linzin, let's say it's after the first time they have sex. Both took the proper measure to make sure that an accidental pregnancy didn't happen. Lin took her tea and Tenzin came outside of her.

But for some reason, Lin is late. She's freaking out and doesn't want to assume that it's pregnancy. Her seismic sense doesn't show anything, but that could be because it's early...if she is pregnant.

Then how will she tell Tenzin?

of course it might be their luck that she'd get pregnant after the first time with him.

Lin intends to find out for herself but Tenzin meets her before she can go to a healer alone. She thought she could contain her anxiety, but Tenzin knows her too well and eventually presses to find the answer.

"I'm..." she swallows, "i haven't gotten my moon cycle yet..."

"Oh...oh....oh."

Lin fears he's about to lose his mind and also hope that it's an airbender. But instead, he says,

"Have you gone to a healer?"

"Not yet...and I'm too nervous to see your mom."

He nods. "We can go to another one."

"We?"

"Yeah, I'll go with you to a healer."

Lin settles on visiting the healer that her mother sees. To her and Tenzin's relief, there's no pregnancy. Simply a case of irregular period from stress or lifestyle changes.

Though Lin never tells him in that moment, she's deeply touched that Tenzin went with her to visit the healer. And he didn't bring up legacy or popping out as many airbenders as needed. He held her hand through everything and listened intently to the healer for anything he needs to know.

Lin decides that if she has to have a family with any man...it would be her best friend and boyfriend, Tenzin.

[inkformyblood]

i hear you call my name (it feels like home) GhostSoap

Written for the GhostSoap server Balanced Equinox event! For the fic complete with John's POV (written by the wonderful ChaoticEmmeline) here is it on ao3

Tags <3: @imjustheretofightforlove @mossyroach

Fantasy/Medieval AU, Mistaken Identity, Sort of Fake Dating, Mutual Pining

Simon scuffs his heel along the stray stones on the road, a thin plume of dust following the action. The mark wouldn’t last long, obscured in the same instant of formation by the man behind him in the procession, but it existed for a moment. 

He hadn’t thought it would be sunny when he first met his fiance. 

He hadn’t thought he would meet them at all.

Succession is a strange thing in his kingdom, one of many things that could be considered distasteful about it from an outsider’s perspective, and Simon had been nothing more than a blade in the shadows, a body on the battlefield, directed first one way and then another to coat his hands in gore for the sake of his orders. Orders given by his father and then his older brother when he began to step into the role. He doesn’t want to think overtly about the change in circumstances that has left him in this position; married off like some third or fourth daughter, his hand suddenly the best thing about him. 

His jaw is clenched, an ache stabbing through the scar tissue over his neck, and Simon, reluctantly, relaxes the muscle. He presses the ball of his thumb against the hinge of his jaw, feeling bone shift beneath his touch. The sensation is muted through his gloves, heavy dark leather and what feels like every drop of moisture in his body pooling into the lining. His eyes sting with every other blink between the glare of the sun and the damenable temperature doing its best to cook him inside his formal clothes. Another corner, another field fit to bursting with vibrant crops spilling as far as the eye can see. Simon breathes in, ignoring the taste of ash that clings to his tongue. 

He’s getting married after all. 

Married.

When he had received the order, it had been delivered much like any other, a piece of parchment sealed with the family crest accompanying a wrapped bundle. He’d been hoping for some fresh rations, would have taken new weapons, and, instead, it had been clothes. Formal enough that he wouldn’t embarrass the family, not formal enough to match the occasion. 

He misses his armour. Entering the city had gone smoothly enough, an eyebrow raised by one of the guards at the sword strapped to his pack, and his brace of knives sat unevenly against his hips beneath the delicate stitchwork on his tunic. Too short on the torso, a touch too broad in the shoulders, but he was able to keep his mask on. It’s a simple thing, dark fabric drawn up over his nose and encircling his cheeks and neck, but it is heavy with sweat, his breath fogging against his cheeks with every exhalation. Above him, ahead of him, the castle sits; a towering construction with towers and battlements protruding from it. Couple of weak spots that Simon can immediately spot, more likely lingering just beyond his scope of vision. 

There’s a man on one of the battlements, too far away for Simon to pick out anything more than the general shape of him. It’s his hair that catches Simon���s eye, a streak down the centre of his head that catches the faint breeze like a pennant. Simon tips his head back as the procession works its way beneath the open gate, a blessed sliver of shadow blotting out the sun for a moment. Even the air is heavy here, thick against his tongue, and Simon tugs at the base of his mask, drawing it away from the hollow of his throat in search of some relief. He finds none. 

There will be none. 

Behind them, the last of the procession steps into the castle and the towering doors in front creak open, heavy chains rattling with the effort. 

Three more weak points.

No, four. 

A guard close to Simon drops his spear, both hands clinging to the fragile flag he carries, his eyes wide with panic as he tries to catch it regardless, tearing himself in two directions. Simon moves on instinct, swinging his leg out to catch the blade with his boot before he continues the movement upwards. He catches the spear with one hand and holds it out to the guard, maintaining his grip until it is secure once more. Turning away, Simon surveys the procession, already in motion once more. 

Fuck. 

He’s lost his place. 

Simon moves back into the crowd, setting his shoulders in a rough line as he works his way through it. The movement must be obvious from above, a blade cutting through a field of swaying wheat, and Simon keeps his head lowered, just enough to keep his focus on his target. 

“Name?”

“Riley delegation,” Simon answers the steward, halted at the doorway. His shadow bleeds in front of him, a wash of darkness against cool stone as the sun brushes against the top of the castle walls. He looks monstrous.

He is a monster. Not something he’s likely to forget, formed and forged and ready to kneel in front of the altar he is going to be sacrificed on. This kingdom is prosperous but untrained, untested. Simon and his kingdom will be the threat in the shadows to keep the smaller monsters away, chaining Death itself to ward from household pests. 

The steward nods once, eagerness bright in his eyes. He’s young, his cheeks flushed pink, and he nearly bounces on his heels as he turns to face the main hall. “Riley delegation,” he announces, his voice filling the space. 

Simon keeps his gaze down, watching his shadow blur in front of him. One heartbeat, then two, and he can move once more, making his way down the stairs. This entire event feels wrong, like he’s folding himself into a shape he was never meant to wear, something intended for someone softer, sweeter, suited for good things. He pauses in front of the throne, bowing to the seated pair. He’d heard the gossip about the current king and queen, about their careful and dedicated manipulations for the marriage of their fourth son, the man being offered up to Simon’s kingdom as a living bargaining chip. A snarl tugs at the corner of his mouth, still hidden behind his mask, and he pushes the expression away as he straightens, aiming for a routine compliance. He’d been subjected to drills, same as any other soldier, and this is nothing more than that. Just another drill. Walk there, stand here, do nothing, be nothing. 

King Duncan is a solidly built man, just beginning to go grey at the temples, and he holds himself well, broad shoulders and belly speaking to the prosperity of his kingdom. Next to him sits Queen Marion, slightly shorter than her husband with her hair braided and piled on top of her head. It could be concealment but Simon doubts it. They’re a well-matched pair, their eyes dark and intent as they look down at Simon, drinking him in. The Queen opens her mouth, the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners, and Simon flushes in reflexive embarrassment at his ill-fitting clothes, his ill-suited self. 

“So, you’re the ambassador? Emissary for the Riley kingdom?” 

There’s another man, slightly offset to the King and Queen, an oversight Simon would not make again. He’s leaning forward, his stance wide and his weight tipped over one leg. A flash of recognition hits Simon, the same man from the battlements, not just a guard but someone more important. A personal detail, maybe. But, no. 

Simon’s gaze flickers to the circlet around the man’s brow, a beautiful and delicate piece that only heightens the wild ferocity that the shaved hairstyle adds to the man. His eyes are blue, striking enough that Simon doesn’t answer for a long moment. And then, another. 

“John,” Queen Marion says, her tone bright. 

John doesn’t flinch but there’s a lessening of him, a rounding to his shoulders, his weight sliding onto his back leg. He’s no longer a warrior in that instance but a child being scolded by their mother. He catches Simon’s gaze once more, the blue of his eyes a touch darker as his brow furrows before the expression is wiped away. “Apologies, Your Majesty. I spoke out of turn.”

“Ambassador, Your Majesties. No need for apologies, it was my error and mine alone.” Simon is ruined. He’ll build his own funeral pyre later because this man standing before him, the man who is turning to grin at Simon like Simon is the one who wove the stars into the sky and coaxed the sun into rising, is his fiance, his future husband.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Ambassador?” John pauses, tipping his head to one side. 

Simon swallows, keeping his hands flat at his side. His fingers itch to pick up a blade, not for any solid reason but to have, to be able to flick it along the flat of his fingers just to watch John’s gaze follow it. A moment of reprieve from digging his own grave, tossing another shovelful of dirt over his shoulder. “Simon, please, Your Majesty.”

Safe enough of a name to give. If questioned, it wouldn’t be uncommon to share a name with the Prince and, selfishly, Simon wants John to know him by his proper name, instead of his title. 

“Ambassador Simon,” John nods. “I’ll need to catch you later. We’ve got lots to talk about, yeah?”

“John,” Queen Marion sighs. John bounces back on his heels with a small laugh. She continues, addressing Simon. “We thank you for the journey. We understand it is a notable distance from your country and we appreciate yourself and the Prince travelling to us for this engagement. I trust he will be following shortly?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Simon, the second Prince, answers, lying through his teeth and the thin cloth of his mask. “The Prince will be arriving shortly.”

⁂

Simon doesn’t look at Roach. 

The other man had detached from the rest of the delegation several dances ago, choosing to forgo the array of delicacies laid out in front of them — in celebration of the upcoming wedding — to haunt Simon’s shadow. He’s a solid presence behind Simon, his own mask drawn high over his features and his hood pulled low across his brow to obscure the rest, and Simon doesn’t need to look to know the expression on his face. 

One dance flows into another, both unfamiliar to Simon although that was only to be expected. The music he is accustomed to is rough and ready, a handful of notes coaxed out of hand organ that had already been battered by a sword twice, a low whistle from chapped lips and a mouthful of blood. A few of the others slip onto the dancefloor, wraiths in dark leather with their masks pulled high over their faces to match Simon’s own. There’s comfort in that kind of wordless solidarity. Roach’s foot presses over his own and Simon realises he had been moving, tapping the heel of his boot in time to the music. 

He still doesn’t look at the other man. 

He doesn’t need to. Roach’s hand digs into the dip of Simon’s waist, a touch of cruelty in the familiarity of the gesture, and Simon straightens, fighting the urge to cringe away from it. The touch didn’t hurt; it tickled.

“Alright,” Simon murmurs, keeping his voice low. There’s a courtier four steps away who is some sort of spy for the crown, another just across from them who is either a renowned gossip or yet another agent allocated to their group. “I fucked up.”

Roach is his closest friend, hell, his only friend in whatever way the word could be applied to either of them. Two broken pieces somehow coming together to form a disjointed whole.

“Royalty doesn’t fuck up,” Roach whispers, his voice catching on every harsh consonant, dragging its heels over the softer vowels. “It will be explained as caution.” He pauses, swallowing. “And the Prince keeps watching you.”

Oh? 

Simon deliberately hadn’t been watching the high table, tracking the shadows out of the corner of his eye but little else. He’d be called back up soon enough to be shown to a room to prepare for the feast later on that day, and from little he knew of his father’s court, he would have to assume that from the moment he stepped foot inside the castle that he would be watched. Roach is safe enough, along with the other members of his party, but no-one could be trusted until the wedding is completed and Simon can officially call Prince John his husband. His fascination meant nothing until then. 

Roach presses his fingers in further like he is trying to claw open a barely healed wound, fingers curling so there’s the rough edge of nails through the bunched fabric. “Look.”

Objectively, Simon knew John to be a beauty before he had travelled here. There had been a portrait included with the missive pulling Simon from the front line to trek across three countries to arrive here, but it must have been a few years old or painted with little consideration of the man it was meant to show. The man Simon would have expected from that tiny smudged picture is short, near-waifish in stature, with honey blond hair cascading over one shoulder. It had been too small to see much in the way of his features but the only accuracy was the blue of John’s eyes, the solitary mastery on display. Prince John marries the features of his parents well; the broadness of his father and the height of his mother, not as tall as Simon himself but there is some strength to him. He would be a wonder with some more concentrated training.

Simon cuts his thoughts off there, letting them fall bloodless to the ground. This marriage would be nothing more than a partnership that promises to be beneficial to both parties, nothing more. He can’t let himself forget that. 

The Prince’s gaze flickers to Simon before he looks away, his cheeks pink. 

That’s strange. Unexpected. 

Simon is used to people looking away from him. He’s aware of what he looks like, how out of place he is in this ballroom, some hulking behemoth ripped from the battlefield and shoved where he was never meant to exist, but people didn’t normally blush when they averted their eyes from him. 

It’s a good colour on the Prince. Pretty, even. 

The Queen holds her hand and the music falls silent. The pair that had broken away from Simon’s party pause in their twirling, arms wrapped around waist and shoulder, closer than they should be for propriety's sake, but they’re from Simon’s court. Some eccentricities are expected and should be exploited ruthlessly. “Thank you all for joining us for this time leading up to Prince John’s wedding.” She smiles sweetly through the applause that her words bring, a chill prickling over the nape of Simon’s neck. “If the Ambassador from the Riley delegation would please join us for a moment?”

Simon does so, feeling the blade he is forging for himself sing against his neck. He can survive this. He has to. 

⁂

Life in the MacTavish kingdom moves slowly, hours dripping past with the same consistency as honey. It isn’t the same as the uneasy quiet before battle or the achingly long time after that can only be spent nursing new injuries and commiserating over loss; this time feels hopeful, the kingdom mustering under fresh banners of their Prince’s upcoming marriage.

A marriage Simon can only hope he hasn’t tarnished before it has even happened. 

“What would you do—” Simon asks Roach as the other man leans over the small basin in the corner of their room, “—if I threw myself off of the battlements rather than face this party?”

The rasp of a razor is deceptively loud in such a quiet space. Simon watches Roach work, the deliberate stretch of the skin around the jumble of scar tissue on his cheek so he can navigate the blade over the sparse hair growth there, steam fogging up the polished mirror resting in the alcove. In the other man’s hazy reflection, a smudge of the mirror wiped clear before it begins to cloud once again, Simon catches Roach’s gaze, dark against dark, and shrugs. 

Roach grins, uneven, lopsided, a shattered mirror to Simon’s own. “Take you either way. Pretty up your corpse and stand you against a pillar.”

Simon laughs. He can’t help it. The sound struggles out of him, quiet at first then louder. Roach braces himself against the side of the basin as his shoulders tremble, every breath catching at the apex with an aching hitch. In another life, this would be all Simon would have to concern himself with, battles and the spaces between, going where he is ordered and killing whoever he is aimed towards. The door on the far wall had been opened once into the adjourning room on that first night, the ostentatious set-up intended for Prince Riley had been meticulous from the firewood stacked in perfect rows in the grate to the heavy embroidered comforter drawn over the lower half of the bed. Simon hadn’t dared to touch it.

Roach wipes the remnants of the soap from his face before he draws his mask back up over his nose. He crosses the room in a few steps, tipping himself backwards onto the bed in the same manner Simon had moments prior, his head near Simon’s hips, his hips near Simon’s head. They’re the same like this, warriors with soft sheets against the layered scars on their backs, both out of place and clinging to stability. Simon just might be able to find that here. 

“Tell me truthfully, Simon.” Roach raises his head, the motion a whisper against Simon’s fingers and Simon does the same. His voice is hushed, intended for Simon’s ears alone, and a prickle of unease courses down Simon’s spine. “What do you think of the Prince?”

Simon bites the tip of his tongue, grinds the blunt edge of his teeth until it aches. It’s Roach asking, his only friend, his shadow, the one person he could count on in the entire decaying world. “I could grow to care for him.”

“Could?” Roach tangles their fingers together, squeezing until bone creaks beneath the pressure. “Have, Si.”

There’s no time to consider the weight of his words, a deep toll echoing through the castle to summon the guests to the ball. Simon stands on legs that don’t seem to be able to bear his weight and doesn’t look at Roach at his side, always by his side. 

Prince John isn’t what Simon had expected. He’s only had a few occasions to interact with the other man since their first fateful introduction, but the man has dominated Simon’s thoughts. It had been a small moment, Prince John half-turning his face towards Simon while caught in a conversation with another. His mouth had initially been pressed tight together, a thin line of pressure making the fullness of his lower lip more apparent, but he had discarded that stress in an instant as he had smiled over at Simon, one brow arched in a silent question. Simon is nothing to this man, a delegate from a kingdom as mired in darkness as John’s own is awash with light, a false Ambassador denying himself for no other reason than reflex. 

(He knows why.)

John would have come to Simon’s side if he had gestured for him to do so, because he is a kind man, a good man. There is an intent focus about him that would feel clinical if John had been anyone else, a glint of wonder in brilliant blue eyes that hadn’t yet given fruit or been torn up for the harvest, and Simon would let himself be known down to the marrow if John asks him to. 

(He is afraid.)

Simon’s kingdom is reclusive, exporting warriors and a handful of trade goods. Their wealth is in blood and bone instead of something that lasts, affection never factors into a decision. This marriage is no different to any other order Simon has been given, his role carved so deeply into his flesh that it hasn’t scarred. It simply is, he simply is. He can’t love John, he wouldn’t survive the loss of it.

There’s still battlefield mud on Simon’s boots as they sweep into the Royal Hall, Roach half a step behind and bristling with the weapons Simon had been unable to keep on his person. He feels the absence of his sword like a wound through his spine, a hollowing at the core of his person. He couldn’t understand how people could live like this, exposed, vulnerable. Prince John doesn’t strike him as a man who would willingly roll over and let scavengers pick at his ribcage; instead, he’d be a symbol of righteous fury, teeth bared and bloody. 

At the high table, the royal family sits, gold shining at their brows and place settings. It’s a striking image, King Duncan resplendent in finery and flanked by his wife and son. Three openings to cut his throat, four if Simon can break one of the goblets into something more substantial. He doesn’t look directly at Prince John, trying to devour his fill in scant movements tracked out of the corner of his eye, and it still burns like he’s staring into the sun. Simon blinks and the afterimage stays with him, haunting him. 

There are roots growing in his lungs, thorns pricking his veins from the inside-out, and Simon doesn’t know what will bloom if he lets it. 

Queen Marion is a softer figure than her husband and son, silk where they are gold-leaf steel. Her hair is carefully coiled on top of her head and Simon’s gaze flickers over it, tracking the shift of one of the ornaments as she stands, drawing every wandering eye to her. It’s an impressive skill, one that would make her a formidable opponent on a battlefield Simon is entirely unaccustomed to. He could learn to be, would learn to be if the Prince needed it of him.

As Simon makes his way to her, commanded by little else than a raised goblet and an inclined head, he hears the wildfires of gossip burst around him, a deliberate dissection of his entire being from the stitching on his doublet to the mask he wears. It’s different to the version he wears on the battlefield, thinner in some attempt at civility but the fabric is still dark, the stitching heavy and deliberate to partially obscure the features beneath. He knows a handful of the rumours that circulate about his kingdom — difficult not to with some of the concerned clucking that follows himself and his companions down every hallway, ladies clustering behind their fans as if they are solid stone, servants unaware of how much their voices echo — but the whisper circle around their masks more than anything else. 

His favourite is the most fantastical, a children’s bedtime story given just enough substance to stagger. A handful whisper that the Royal family of Simon’s kingdom are cursed to never die but are not spared from decay so beneath the masks they wear, their faces are nothing but gleaming bones, their skin stolen from corpses.

In truth, soldiers wear the masks and the nobles follow suit to try and steal what little favour they could from wells long since run dry. Simon’s scars are not the most extensive in the army, the sharp lines on either side of his mouth fading to a silver sheen over time, running darker in the chill, but he still feels the blade that made them every morning when he first wakes, a dull ache where he can no longer feel any sensation, a tugging against unforgiving healing when he goes to speak. 

He will need to lower his mask to drink, to eat. 

Everyone will see.

John will see.

“A drink, Ambassador?” Queen Marion asks as he draws closer, gesturing to the place left empty next to her. It’s a high honour, one that even Simon is aware of, and he accepts with a short bow, sitting down carefully next to her. Too many lines of sight for him to keep track of so he settles for monitoring the obvious, the balcony above, the pillar next to the interior door, steeling himself for agony. He lowers his gaze to the goblet, far too fine for the likes of him, the wine inside rich and dark. It could be poisoned. Simon studies her for a moment, the fall of her dress at her wrists and the jewellery clustering her neck, her hands. Her wedding ring is relatively simple, a single outlier amongst courtly trappings, and she turns to him with a smile that he cannot understand but trusts all the same.

Queen Marion speaks clearly as she turns away from him, her voice cutting over the rolling field of whispers like a scythe through wheat although Simon can’t make out her words over the rush of blood in his ears, a wardrum of his own construction. Eyes turn to her, Simon sheltered for an instant by her actions, merely a shadow at her side, concealed by her radiance. He reaches for the goblet, covering the span of his face with his other hand as he hooks his thumb into the fabric of his mask, drawing it down as he drinks deeply. 

“Changing your hairstyle this close to a wedding is certainly a bold choice to make, my son,” Queen Marion continues. Her smile is fond, powder cracking slightly over the lines in the corners of her eyes, and she reaches one hand out to Prince John who leans forward accommodatingly. “However, your circlet. A fine piece of our history, if I do say so myself. If I am remembering correctly, it once belonged to my grandfather, King Ivar of the former Upland territory. He was a fine warrior, skilled in several forms of combat and the piece was a gift from his paramor, Jarl Geirr of the Medipad. Geirr’s artisans were talented craftsmen, renowned for their work. I believe one repeat customer was an Empress from across the ocean and she made the journey personally to secure their wares. We have a rich history in our veins, one that is important to respect and honour.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” John murmurs, ducking his head. 

He cuts a fine figure in a dark grey coat, embroidery picked out at the cuffs and collar in what Simon would lay money on being pure silver thread. It isn’t a colour Simon would have associated with the Prince; the other man reminds him more of sunlight filtering through stained glass, a ruin transforming into something beautiful by his mere presence. Simon glances back to the goblet, prodding his lower lip with his tongue as he thinks. The taste of the wine lingers, memories of plucking berries from roadside bushes and devouring them in handfuls as he marches crowding to the forefront of his mind, the remembered snap of banners unfurling nearly startling him from his seat. He knows that dark shade. 

His colours.

There’s an uneven weight sitting low in his belly, a bonfire accompaniment to the heat rushing through his chest. He isn’t a man prone to blushing, a boon given his pale colouring that would ignite in an instant, but he can taste flames in the back of his throat, overpowering the remnants of the wine. If he can salvage the marriage once his deception is revealed, John will be his husband. He will wear Simon’s colours. 

Simon isn’t going to survive this unscathed, unchanged. 

The meal passes slowly. Beneath him, the court fades into nothing more than a shifting sea of colours. The majority wear blue and green, a few with red, however, the men wear a patterning on their clothing, a repeated hatchwork of different colours and lines. It’s something new for Simon to sink his teeth into, desperate for a moment’s reprieve from the inevitable wildfire in his mind. The Queen speaks to him throughout the meal, soft comments that he can nod and shake his head in response to, her smile never wavering from something soft and… and… 

When the plates are cleared, Simon rises when asked to, the Queen’s hand resting on the crook of his elbow. Through the layers of fabric, he can feel the strength in her grip, the slight indentations of calluses on her thumb and forefinger. She is head and shoulders shorter than him and he’s careful to adjust his stride to hers as they make their way to the dance floor. The panic in Simon’s veins feels solid, a beartrap convalescing around his heart and restricting his breath. So many eyes are watching him, burning into the slope of his shoulders, the thin line of skin visible at the nape of his neck and the beginning of the scar that is exposed there. It’s darker than most of his others, healing raised and jagged. Noticeable. 

“Music,” Queen Marion commands. She’s facing Simon, her face momentarily hidden from the rest of the court, and her expression is fragile, teetering on the edge of something. It doesn’t last long enough for Simon to categorise it, gone nearly before he can notice it amongst the swelling of strings as the first dance begins. 

Simon holds her hand carefully, the thick leather of his gloves blunting the sensation of her skin against his own. He presses the back of his hand to the small of her back as they step together, a simple dance and one that Simon is familiar with. 

“You must forgive my son,” Marion utters to him. Her mouth barely moves as she continues, her voice pitched for his ears alone. “He is a good boy, a brave young man, but courtly pursuits bore him. He will cultivate a court befitting his husband, however. Rest assured, he will serve Prince Simon well.”

Simon catches himself with a reassurance on his tongue, a single brief statement that would tear away any chance at subterfuge he has left, because how could John be anything other than perfect? He swallows it back, expecting the taste to be rotten like everything else in his life, and it’s sweet instead. He tries to speak as softly as the Queen when he answers but it feels like a pale imitation. “Thank you for your insight, Your Majesty. I have faith the Prince will succeed in whatever role he takes.”

Queen Marion inclines her head as the song draws to a thunderous close. “A moment, Ambassador. I find myself needing to attend to the other guests, however—” She doesn’t pull away from him as she turns, scanning the ballroom with a practised eye. 

A moment of respite and Simon takes it gladly, scanning the ballroom over the heads of the assembled figures. He catches sight of Roach in an instant, the man dressed in the same dark clothing as the rest of his delegation and marking a careful patrol route through the gossiping crowd. Ahead of him, enough distance to not draw attention, the King moves, pausing to speak with a member of his court between every few steps. The Chamberlain at his side is the same that first escorted them to their chambers all that time ago. His name escapes Simon for a moment, lost in the mire of everything else he needs to remember before it rises to the surface: John Price. A knight if he’s correct. 

Simon lets himself grin, relaxing in fractions, a slight loosening in his shoulders, his fingers curling more securely against the Queen’s still held carefully in his. At least Roach is enjoying himself. 

Another figure approaches and Simon tenses once more. Queen Marion’s gaze snaps to him for a moment, assessing him like a combatant at first before it changes to something else, maintaining the softness as she looks back to Prince John. “If you would take care of the ambassador?” she asks, gesturing for John to take her place as she steps away. 

Prince John nods once, his gaze following his mother for a few delicate steps before the crowd swallows her up and they are alone in the centre of it all once more. There’s a persistent flush high on the Prince’s cheeks that only darkens as his eyes flicker to Simon’s, sticking for a moment before his gaze lowers, cataloguing the lines of his throat, the slope of his shoulders, halting at his chest before climbing once more. There’s a fervent hunger to the other man, wondering the shade of Simon’s blood and how best to tear his throat out. An artist’s focus, Simon realises, heat slung low in his belly at the thought of being known like that.

It’s the work of a moment to pull his gloves off and tuck them into his belt. 

“Do yeh have a preference for leading, Ambassador?” Prince John asks. Any disappointment he may feel at Simon’s continued presence instead of his true fiancé is well-hidden, his features marble-cast in a joy Simon can delude himself into thinking is real.

Prince John isn’t his betrothed and yet, he is. The man Simon is standing here is more himself than he’s been in years.

“If you’d allow me the honour?” Simon answers. He can feel every rough note in his voice catch in his chest, clumsily hewn next to the sculpture of the other man, fragile enough to shatter with a gentle word.

John’s hand is warm against his own, the tips of his fingers skimming carefully over the harsh texture of Simon’s scars before he settles, solid and sure. “Honour’s all mine.”

It doesn’t feel real. Simon moves through steps he half-remembers, reaching for solidity in a dream and coming away wanting, but everything pales to the warmth of John in his arms. His hands are his first focus, John’s are slightly broader, a cluster of the same calluses that line Simon’s palms scattered there. They fit together perfectly as the music swells, a wavering string calling out in exhalation. There’s the scent of woodsmoke, fusing with the lingering rich aroma of the wine, and a fragment in the back of Simon’s mind slips free. He hasn’t imbibed enough to let the tight control of himself slip, but with John so close, he could imagine that this is what it feels like. It’s the potential that sets his mind spinning, a lapse of concentration for an instant as Simon lets himself enjoy the dance.

The moment doesn’t last.

Simon’s foot catches against John’s, stepping where he shouldn’t be. His reaction is instantaneous, pulling back the first moment he feels the contact but it isn’t enough. They stumble, nearly colliding with another pair with all the grace of a drunken bull. Simon’s cheeks burn, his throat closing like he’s preparing to dive from a cliff. Nothing beneath him, no saviour except, this time, there is.

Prince John chuckles, his mouth twisting into a wry grin. It’s a new expression for Simon to study, drinking it down now that he’s close enough to see the exact way John tips his head to one side like a conspirator with a secret. “Suppose I should stop tryin’ to steal the lead, then.”

Deliberately loud. Targeted to draw eyes away from Simon once more. John’s shoulders are broad enough to hold the blame he’s carrying and Simon’s treacherous heart skips a beat, his vision gradually expanding with a dull haze at the edges. He breathes out carefully, rolling his shoulders to release the knot of tension between them. It’s the same instinct that leads him the battle, the cause of several of the scars that decorate his skin, the urge to fling himself forward and take the blows himself. Strange to be on the other side of it. 

Prince John leans closer, squeezing Simon’s hand once as they adjust their stance, still close enough for Simon to count the individual sweep of his dark lashes. “Don’t mind the gawking hens, my lord.” They sweep past one such couple, their gazes clinging to John, burrs on his clothing, and Simon’s grip tightens, a low unease prickling in his chest. John continues, “My father’s courtiers are good people but prone to excessive nosiness.”

Simon huffs out a quiet laugh and is rewarded by John’s grin widening, beatific and glorious. The Prince surges forward, his words coming quickly now that he’s found his footing, working beneath the chunks in Simon’s armour so sweetly he can barely mind it. “Was the food to yer liking? I’ve been told Prince Simon campaigns often. Do ye accompany him in the field? If anything is too much, I’ll personally have a word with the kitchens.”

He knows Simon only as the Ambassador, not a Prince, not his fiancé. The deception has given Simon a gift, a glimpse into the man who would be his husband instead of the concerned fabrication he had thought he would meet. Simon smiles, the action unfamiliar but easy enough to slip into, wide enough he can feel his mask shift with the expression.

 “It’s far better than I’m accustomed to and your kingdom’s hospitality is greatly appreciated,” Simon says, skirting the edges of the truth. If this was a fight it would be easier, each move strung onto a wire pulled taut against Simon’s hold, but the dance doesn’t feel as treacherous with John in his arms, the lingering burn of his hands held in his. “I’ve spent time on the field with the Prince recently so have had nothing but rations until my time here.”

Nothing but rations for months. What had truly been the defining test of Simon’s subterfuge hadn’t been meeting the Royal family, it had been breakfast the day that followed. 

“It has been better than I could have hoped,” Simon murmurs, his words hopefully lost beneath the swell of strings as the dance concludes. 

He bows his head to the Prince, knowing there would be others swarming to tear free a piece of the other man for themselves. He’ll treasure the glimpse he has been given, keep it close and safe. The Prince’s hand lingers in his, the other man’s hold on his shoulder keeping him grounded for a moment. When John’s gaze meets his, there’s steel in his eyes, a nerve gathered and held tight before it can desert once more.

“If it doesn’t sound too forward, I’d like to meet with you on the morrow, perhaps after our midday meal? I must admit, shameful as it is, but I know little about my future husband’s kingdom. Hoping your insight would at least prevent me from making a right arse of myself and embarrassing him in front of his court, aye?”      

“Of course, Your Highness. I will endeavour to answer your questions to the best of my ability.” Simon draws his hands free and tugs his gloves back on. He can still feel the imprint of the Prince’s touch on him, a heady flush that had little to do with the wine blooming in his chest. He steps away and someone else steps forward to fill his space. Simon turns away, turns to Roach at his side, his shadow again, something jagged tearing at his heart as John slips into another’s arms and the dance begins once more. 

⁂

“Find me something?” Simon whispers to Roach as the pair step outside onto a small enclosed balcony. Plants wreath the ornately carved columns of the railing, a few artfully spilling onto the railing and Roach plucks a leaf as they pass, digging the jagged edge of his nail into the furrow. The scent is immediate, near-medicinal in the harshness, and Simon breathes in deeply, trying to calm the frantic whirl of his thoughts.

He isn’t meant to be in love with his fiancé. 

Fuck. Fuck.

This changes everything. (It changes nothing.)

Roach pauses next to him, turning to study Simon, the movement barely visible out of the corner of his eye. Simon braces himself against the stonework, digging his fingers into the surface. Grit scratches beneath his gloves, the sensation not enough to dull the memory of John’s hands in his. He doesn’t know what he looks like but he feels untethered, free of a leash he couldn’t remember locking around his neck. 

Boots silent against the stone, his hand steady where it wraps around Simon’s wrist, nudging aside the leather until fingertips brush skin, Roach leans in closer. “What do you wish, sir?”

It’s an escape. If Simon asks him to, they will leave, marriage and Princes be damned. But… he doesn’t want to run. He wants to see this to the end. He owes John that much of his tattered heart at least.

“Gossip. Something fun.” If these are to be his people as well, if he is to care for them like John does, Simon will do everything he can to make this work. This may all be for naught but he wishes to try, to try and be a shade of the better man that John deserves. 

Roach nods once and vanishes back into the ballroom on silent feet. Simon leans forward on the bannister, hissing a slow breath out through his teeth. Behind him, music spills out as another dance begins, a wash of golden light cascading to fall at Simon’s heels. There’s a chill in the air, the season beginning to grow cooler with the lengthening nights and shorter days heralding the upcoming wedding ceremony when the balance was starkest. Simon tips his head back, worrying at a loose seam on the edge of his gloves as he watches the stars gleam overhead, uncaring and hungry all the same. 

Footsteps. 

Familiar footsteps.

“Your Highness,” Simon rumbles as Prince John slumps against the stone beside him, closer than he had been previously and yet achingly far from when they had danced together. 

The other man grins up at him, loose-limbed and rumpled, unselfconscious of just how beautiful he is. There’s a heady flush to his cheeks, sweat beading on his brow, and he breathes deeply before he speaks, picking up their previous conversation as if they had never been parted. “So… if ye don’t mind my asking, where does the prince intend for us to live? I’m eager to travel with him, if that’s his mind. I just…”

Simon remains quiet, watching John carefully. There’s a tense strain to his bearing, his smile sharp as he speaks, and something seems to uncoil in his chest as he looks over to Simon in fragments, a gradual loosening. It’s dangerous territory for Simon to be walking in; this kingdom knows him only as the Ambassador he claims to be and their fury at the revelation could be unmatched, but Simon has been in danger every day of his life. He isn’t the heir, only a legitimate spare sent to the battlefield even before he was strong enough to hold a sword.

He’d take whatever punishment was necessary for his transgressions. It would only be fair.

“I’d like him to be happy,” John continues. “Even if we’re ill-suited, I cannae blame him for any of this.”

John has no concept for the blade that he has just neatly slid between Simon’s ribs. Happiness is something made for other people, not something that Simon has been able to crave for himself. Weapons couldn’t be happy, corpses couldn’t feel joy. 

And what is Simon if he’s not either of those things?

Prince John laughs, shaking his head. “Tha’ came out wrong. What I meant is that I’m pleased with this union and hope I can assist in my husband’s future rule in any way.”

A muscle in Prince John’s jaw tightens, the lines of his throat drawn harsh as the shadows pool around them both. Simon aches to reach out to him, to feel the warmth of his touch against bare skin once more, but he doesn’t. He can’t. 

He’d only been a child when his older brother had married, his hands long since bloodied and the wedding had been several weeks past by the time the missive had reached him on the battlefield. Barely two sentences long and ranked beneath his next set of orders, a simple statement about the successful union that didn’t cut as deep as intended. Marriage is a contract, nothing more, nothing less. Simon isn’t so much a fool to think his own would be any different, regardless of his feelings. Even so…

“The Prince wishes the union will be successful for you both. If travel is your wish, I doubt it would be denied to you.”

Simon will make sure of it. 

⁂

“Do you wish you could fight in the tournament?” Roach tugs the needle through the loose seam in Simon’s glove before tying a knot and snapping the thread. They are both pooled across Simon’s bed, the sheets tucked taut beneath them, and the door to what would have been the Prince’s bedroom thrown wide. The day had dawned bright and warm, sweat already beginning to slick down their spines beneath their dark clothes.

“No. It would be strange to fight somewhere when people aren’t actually trying to kill me.” 

Simon flexes his fingers, tugging on the fresh seam. It’s neat work, the stitches small and uniform in the leather like they would be in flesh. Too many of his injuries to count had benefited from Roach’s stitching. “Better that I don’t. Can’t hide the way I fight from anyone who might know.”

Someone’s coming down the corridor. Their heads snap to the sound like the well-trained dogs they are. There’s already a blade in Simon’s hand; he doesn’t remember reaching for it. 

“The Chamberlain,” Simon murmurs, letting his eyes drift half-closed as he concentrates. 

The knock on the door echoes a moment later, brisk with a power behind it. Through his fluttering lashes, he can see Roach stand and make his way to the door. Simon moves as well, placing himself in the crevasse when the door would open. Positioned like this, he wouldn’t be able see the Chamberlain, Price, or the hallway beyond, only Roach’s profile, his mask drawn high over his features, his dark eyes the sole focal point.  The door opens soundlessly and Roach stands, shoulders square, against this new opponent.

“Honoured guests,” Price says. “The Royal Family extends the invitation for you both to join them in the Royal Booth.”

Roach looks the man over once more, his face carefully blank to the outside observer. The hand closest to Simon twitches on the back of the door, once, twice, a cat flicking its tail in unabridged delight. “We will be a moment, sir,” Roach rasps before he steps back, nudging the door ajar.

Simon leans close to his ear, keeping his voice low as he resheates the small blade into the concealed holster at his thigh. “You’re having fun, aren’t you?”

Roach blinks up at him, the very picture of innocence. “Only following orders, sir.”

⁂

Metal rings against metal as Simon makes his way to the Royal booth, Roach walking in his shadow. It’s a familiar sound, the air already sticky with sweat and a sour tang on the breeze that the fragrant smells of roasting meat and sweet honey couldn’t fully mask. A row of tents ring one edge of the wooden fence that encloses the arena and people scurry between them, laden with pieces of armour or weapons. As Simon watches, a knight he recognises as being close to the Prince strides across one of the makeshift alleyways, muddy handprints on his chest and a sword balanced across his shoulders. He ducks under one of the tent partitions and disappears from sight. 

“Good-sized crowd,” Simon says. Too many unknowns, he means, too many targets.

He doesn’t need to be looking at Roach to see the tightness in his jaw, the way his gaze roams over the crowd who never move in closer as they pass through. “It’ll be an experience to watch from the Royal booth,” Roach says. I’ll watch over them too, he means, and Simon ducks his head in acknowledgment. 

Roach vanishes into his seat first, a lower row off to the side with a scattering of other favoured guests. He’s an ink blot amongst their finery and they lean away from him, hiding their whispers behind delicate fans, the back of a gloved hand. Simon’s jaw clenches, something old and bitter condensing at the back of his throat.

He isn’t unfamiliar with the dismissal Roach faces; a lowborn child thrown into the army with no name and no family ties. It had only been chance that they had collided, Roach throwing himself into Simon’s back to knock him to the ground during an enemy barrage. He’d received a wound to his flank for his trouble and Simon’s companionship. They’re an unlikely pair, but they are well-suited all the same, the Ghost and his shadow. 

There are two empty chairs amongst the Royal family; one next to the King and the other next to the Queen. Simon’s steps slow as he draws nearer, sketching an uneasy bow as his mind races. Prince John isn’t here. 

The Queen brightens as his approach but there’s a furrow worn into her brow, her mouth drawn tight against her smile. “Apologies, my dearest friend. My son excites himself into a fit when there’s a tourney.” It’s a sight Simon craves like air now that he’s aware of its existence. “He’ll be joining us shortly, I’m sure. But, please, rest assured he’ll be with us soon.”

Ghost takes the seat next to her. It’s a plush affair, set slightly lower than her own but he still towers over her frame. He rounds his shoulders carefully, intent on letting any curious glances wash over him. His skin crawls with them; it seems that every second person in the crowd is staring into the Royal box, their faces blank and meaningless to him in their slack excitement. He thinks of John and the band in his chest slackens slightly. It doesn’t seem to fit what Simon knows of the man to picture him at the sidelines, he would spend time there surely, basking in the delight of his people, his skin sticky with their lingering touches, but that wouldn’t be the entirety of his experience. 

The sand of the arena is smooth, pale in colour, unmarred by the blood that would soon crest across its surface. Simon has fought on every terrain he can imagine and several others he hadn’t thought possible until he was up to his waist in stinking stagnant water, but sand is unpleasant to get out of armour. Already, he can feel some of the telltale grit between his back teeth, the distant taste of salt. 

Trumpets blare, drawing Simon from his thoughts. 

There. At the mouth of the arena, Prince John strides forward to rapturous applause. He had been made for this, moulded and shaped to be loved and adored. He wears armour on his torso, steel moulded to the width of him and polished to a bright sheen that catches the sunlight on every rivet, but his legs are mostly bare, the only protection a kilt patterned in demanding shades of red and blue. Prince John turns to the crowd first, walking backwards as he holds his arms aloft, his kilt riding up an inch or two to expose the thick bands around his thighs. Broad thighs.

Others file in after Prince John but they’re unimportant. Inconsequential. Simon could not look away from the Prince even if it meant his death, and it would be a glorious sight to die to, one that should be immortalised but would only exist in the fragile confines of Simon’s memory. 

Prince John circles the arena, his grin only growing broader as he reaches the space in front of the Royal booth. Next to him, Simon hears the Queen sigh, the sound catching on her throat until it’s exasperated but fond. “What are you doing, John?” She murmurs, barely audible above the screams of the crowd. They have ceased to be recognisable, a dull heat haze, a halo around the Prince as he reaches into the folds of kilt and pulls free a small ring of flowers. 

They’re the same shade of blue as his eyes.

Prince John bows once, his hair held in a loose tie falling forward across his features, and he steps forwards, rising onto the balls of his feet to hold the flowers out to Simon. “As you know, ma favours belong t’ma betrothed.”

Oh, fuck.

He knows.

The King laughs, the thud of his crown knocking against the back of his throne echoing through the hollows in Simon’s chest. “Or in this case, his representative. Give them a sound thrashing my boy! Show House Riley what they are lucky to recieve!”

Simon stands, leaning forwards against the railing at the front of the booth. It would be too obvious to remove his glove to accept the favour and there is acid in the base of his tongue at so many people seeing the jagged skin of his hands, so he settles for remembering as he holds out a hand, cupped palm like he’s asking for benediction. Prince John’s eyes crinkle at the corner when he smiles, his fingers lingering over the worn seams of Simon’s gloves as he presses the flowers into his palm. 

“Keep it safe for me, yeah?”

Simon nods once before he settles back into his seat. It doesn’t feel real, like he’s caught in an instant between dreaming and waking. His hand rests in his lap, the other tucked beneath it, and the petals rustle with every inadvertent twitch of his fingers. It’s nice. Sweet even.

The flush on his cheeks isn’t visible beneath his mask but Simon burns all the same. John’s a good man. 

He can’t remember much of the tourney when it concludes, the roar of the crowd indistinguishable from the frantic echoing of his heart in his head. He keeps the flower close, fingers brushing the delicate petals like a prayer.

⁂

“Si— Ambassador. Walk with me?” 

Simon doesn’t twitch at John’s sudden appearance at his side having heard the man’s footsteps speed up when Simon came into view, the rustle of abandoned paperwork dropped into a nearby alcove to do so. It’s strange to see John so unaccompanied, stranger still for Simon to be. The Prince’s momentary slip hasn’t gone unnoticed and Simon worries at it like a kernel caught between his teeth as he walks with the other man. Ever since the tourney, the ball prior, the very air between them feels different, charged in heraldry of a storm, and Simon isn’t a betting man; he wouldn’t presume to guess John’s thoughts but he can hope all the same. 

Simon wears a false face. Would John still enjoy the company of the man beneath? 

The ruse had progressed for far longer than he intended from a momentary slip of the tongue to a lie honed to a keen edge. It would be easier to flee than fall upon it when he’s discovered but still he lingers, a man half-starved and suddenly allowed to feast. He stays for John.

“Have ye been t’the gardens? Meant to be one of our treasures.” 

Simon shakes his head and John brightens, scraping his fingers over the new growth on his scalp. He’s wearing the same circlet as he was at the ball, the gold flush against his skin. It moves slightly with the shift of his fingers, a darker imprint beneath it. 

“Jus’ this way.”

The gardens are enclosed, an outcropping within the thicker walls that circle the main keep. The heady scent of roses floods the air as John opens the door with some effort as the lock sticks before he inclines his head and gestures for Simon to go first. Pink, red, white, a few scatters of orange and yellow, it seems that the entire sky is choking beneath the weight of the roses wreathing the door, the walls, any structure left unattended along the walkway that meanders out and back again.

John moves onto the path and Simon follows him, intent on the man by his side. There’s something different about him, an uncertainty that hadn’t been present before the tourney, and Simon can’t find the words to pry closer. His tongue feels like lead in his mouth, just as liable to poison him as it is the Prince. He wants to be able to help, to soothe, but it would be better suited to ask a battleaxe to till a field. A better man than Simon would know what to say, to ask. 

He loves John, he wishes to be able to do this small comfort for him.

John reaches out to one of the low-hanging flowers, bruising a petal between his fingers before he releases it, the bough leaping back into place.“Honourable, to fight for your lands, to fight with your people beside you.” He sighs, tipping his face back to the wash of sunlight. “Even a spare like myself wasn’t given much time on the field. My first was just after my seventeenth birthday. Raiders along the coast. Feathered a few but I was forbidden from engaging in the van. And then there was…”

It is a wonder to just watch John speak. He is already animated, sheer joy spilling from him like his own personal sun burning in his chest, fuelling him to greater heights, but when he speaks, it is like poetry. War breeds good poets to spill mournful dirges and furious rebuttals alike and he has more than enough occasion to listen around sputtering campfires, but he could sit by John’s side and listen to him speak until all of the stars fell out of the sky. John glances up at him, searching for something in Simon’s face and he must find whatever it is as he breaks into a laugh, swaying slightly as he walks. “Last summer I accompanied some of our men to the south. Some of that bad business between Oswye and Craustan ended up in our pastures. Finally met steel with steel and drove the bastards out of our borders. Father and Mother were not pleased. Ye see,” John leans closer, nearly as close as he had been when they had danced. “I wasn’t to be involved in the fray. But the lower houses needed to know that my father wasn’t neglecting them and I couldn’t permit other kingdoms to bleed my people. Negotiations failed and I showed’em how the MacTavish clan deals with problems. Mediated two armies into licking their wounds. Both sides agreed to peace after that.” 

The pride John wears is well-earned, burnished to a near shine and tacked to the swell of his chest. Simon remembers both Oswye and Craustan, some low-lying kingdoms that hungered for more resources, more land, more gold to the detriment of everything else. The royals didn’t care about the state of their armies, their people, only that their coffers were full and their tables alone were plentiful. It had rankled Simon on his passages along their borders while he had been scouting, the few citizens that staggered out of the forests terrified and delirious from hunger and sickness, but then they had turned their gazes towards Simon’s kingdom and he had been unleashed upon them. His leash had drawn tight before they could be wiped from the map; his father preferred to leave them cowed and terrified of his shadow in whatever form it takes. 

It didn’t surprise him that they turned to John’s kingdom next. 

John’s shoulder knocks against his as they walk, companionable in a way that makes Simon want to excavate his chest for the sake of respite. “Tell me some of Simon’s feats? Or maybe just one of your yers? I’m sure you’ve got a few stories to tell. And please… no formalities. Not with me… not when we don’t have the nattering hens clucking around to remind us all of our places.”

Simon laughs then. Couldn’t stop himself even if he wanted to, pressing his hand to his mouth to try and muffle the raspy sound. It pulls his mask flush against his skin, drawing one edge down where his fingers press into his cheek. He pulls the fabric back into place as he straightens, turning his gaze back to John. “If that’s what you wish, John.”

“Johnny.” John leans into his hip, his entire frame curving towards Simon. There’s a sharp glint in his eyes, a hound given a target to chase down and worry into submission. Simon can’t help but wonder what those teeth would feel like pressed against his throat. 

“Johnny.” Simon lingers over the taste of it, sweet like honey, like a golden afternoon. “A few campaigns ago, we were mostly at a standstill outside of the city. Most of any war is sitting around waiting so it was something we were used to.” The only brightside had been that it had been clear and warm. “#One of the battalion commanders had the little bit power go to his head, so he wanted to be kept updated on every arrow that hit the ground overnight to the point where he’d go survey the campsite himself. So, I made sure I picked up some of the enemy's arrows after the battle and spent my night shooting them into the air so they’d land at the camp’s border. He went scurrying after them every time.” Simon shrugs, rolling his shoulders. One of his joints sticks, releasing with a crack and Simon sighs. He misses his sword, the weight of it to keep him grounded whenever his thoughts float whenever Johnny is nearby. “Not quite as glorious as your exploits, I’m sure.”

Johnny’s teeth indent his lower lip, his breathing shallow as he struggles through his laughter. “About the same level, I’d say. Any more?”

Simon grins. He wants Johnny to know him like he wants to know the other man. He isn’t proud of most of what he has done on the battlefield, it had been necessary but that had been all. His hands are caked with blood from the things he had done and he wants Johnny to know the man he is despite that. 

“If you insist,” he murmurs, inclining his head towards Johnny.

⁂

Simon never expected things to turn out like this. When he had pictured his future as a younger man, bleeding on a cot in the corner of a medical tent and not knowing if he’d even have a face when they were through with him, he’d thought of a blade through his belly, a knife at his throat, some inglorious demise in the soaking sodden mud. 

A fiance had never crossed his mind, let alone a fiance that he loved. 

The enclosed garden is as good a place as any to twist his thoughts around his fingers and try and braid the fraying ends into something that made sense. Roach had stepped away, the sharp imprint of his fingers still a bruise against Simon’s ribs, a welcome hurt to focus on given that he had been unable to train since he first set foot in this kingdom. His racing mind is a poor substitute for being able to run. 

Days crept by and his wedding draws closer and closer with no sign of the errant Prince Simon. The whispers are not quiet anymore, the rasp of a powder keg filling to the top and near-enough ready to burst. He would laugh at the rumours if they weren’t so insulting; not taking offence for himself or the empty plinth of Prince Simon, but on Johnny’s behalf. He hadn’t walked to the garden under his own power, steered by a man half his height when Simon had been overtaken by a rage intended for the battlefield, the compulsion to remove his mask so he could better tear out perfumed throats with his teeth. 

His absence is a slight on Johnny, an insult to the man he loves, and it is Simon’s fault. 

He would cut his throat himself if he thought it would help but there’s no sacrifice Simon can make to pull back the seconds that had slipped by, to alter every choice he had made except one. He wouldn’t change falling in love with Johnny for anything. 

Behind him, the door to the garden creaks open, the hinges moving a little easier after fresh prolonged use, and Johnny’s boots scuff against the gravel. Simon senses the moment Johnny sees him half-sprawled out in a patch of grass, his face tipped back to the weak sunlight filtering through the clouds. There’s an immediate electricity in the air, the focus of a half-starved wolf stumbling across a stag in the forest and ignoring the sharp jut of its antlers. 

“Simon.” The word isn’t an exhalation or a sob, not a shriek or a roar, simply his name and that is all it should be. Johnny tips himself onto the grass next to Simon, uncaring of the tangle of his limbs as he curls forwards to press the flat of his palms to his forehead, resting against his knees. He’s wearing a kilt, the pattern the same as the one he wore at the tourney, the fabric a heavier weave and it creases at the fold of his thighs, pooling onto the grass. “Ah’m glad to see you.”

He straightens in fragments: shoulders first, broad beneath the thin white shirt he wears, seams straining with the effort; his back next, his spine a delicate hollow that Simon aches to trace his fingers down, to count every vertebrate by touch and not just by sight and guesswork; his head, his circlet tacky with sweat and the shine of the jewels dulled by the uneven smudges of fingerprints over them. His hair is growing in, the defensive prickles of Johnny’s freshly shorn sides beginning to soften. He drops his hands last, his eyes distant, staring at Simon but not truly seeing him. 

Johnny leans closer and Simon doesn’t move away. 

One of Johnny’s hands presses against Simon’s thigh, the other loosely curled in front of his chest, unwilling or unable to reach out. His breath fogs against Simon’s cheeks, barely felt through the fabric except by the slight change in temperature, Johnny’s gaze flickering to Simon’s eyes before dropping lower, watching his mouth. A kiss through fabric, sensation blunted but present enough… 

Johnny’s thumb presses against the edge of Simon’s mask, high on his cheek. 

The Prince moves away, snatching his hands away from Simon as if the very thought of him burns. “Forgive me— you’re not— I cannot do this. To lead you on is to lead myself astray. I have to honour… my prince.”

He stands, sketching out a trembling bow intended for someone high above Simon’s current station, the man John wishes him to be, and flees from him. 

Simon never had cause to be jealous of himself before now, but he finds that he despises Prince Simon with every thread of his being. Tomorrow. This delusion will end tomorrow. He needs to confess what he’s done. 

⁂

“Move aside.” 

Simon huffs out a breath into his cupped palms, a sudden ache blooming in his worn knuckles at the declaration from the door. Dread is a familiar companion, easily notching into the hollows of Simon’s ribs with such ease he wonders how he ever thought this marriage would come to pass. The headboard creaks beneath his weight as he leans fully back against it, the base of his spine relaxing in torturous relief as he settles his sword across the span of his thighs. The blade is still slick with oil, the remnants of which line the cracks in Simon’s palms in the same fashion. It’s lighter in shade than the kind he normally favours, his thoughts skimming over rain instead of blood.

Roach at the doorway doesn’t step away. John may be a Prince, but he isn’t Roach’s.

Instead, he leans back slightly, face upturned towards a world that has only ever revealed the soft parts of itself when it is punching him down and tips his gaze towards Simon. His arms are tense, fingers wrapped around the edge of the door and his other hand braced against the stonework. 

“I said move aside before I do it myself.” Each word is measured, vibrating like a freshly struck fork, and Simon tracks their impact by the pressure in Roach’s grip, the fresh holes boring into Simon’s belly. To see Johnny delighted had been a miracle; what does the man look like angry, what level of devotion could he illicit in fury?

“Roach,” Simon calls, pitching his voice loud enough to carry. His cheeks ache, scarred lips pulled up over his teeth and he can’t say if he’s grinning or matching Johnny’s snarl. “Stand down.”

Simon splays his hands over his sword, one over the pommel, pressing down until the cool metal indents into his palm, and the other against the blade. He curls his fingers, testing the edge against his skin. Honed to a point and hungry. He’s been waiting for this confrontation since he arrived, mud-streaked and exhausted and desperate to be someone other than who he was for a moment. Simon’s a soldier, a wraith bound to this shape, but in Johnny’s arms, he had been human.

It’s a harrowing thing to mourn the loss of.

Simon rests his head against the wall, the edge of the headboard indenting the base of his skull. “The Prince wishes to speak to me.”

(It’s over.)

The door swings wide, Roach’s arm dropping a deliberate few seconds after it does so. The shadows of the room cling to his slighter frame as Prince John steps forward, eclipsing everything else in existence. His blue eyes are bright, the flickering candlelight caught in the glow of them, and he levels his gaze at Simon like a challenge, one of the wickedly sharp halberds decorating the palace artwork made to run him through.

(It’s almost a relief.)

“You’re the Prince.” Sharp, clear, bloodless. John’s gaze flicks over Simon before it returns to Roach. “And who are you, then? His lover.”

Simon’s grin grows sharp, his eyes narrowing. “He’s my friend, the same as your knight. I won’t let him be insulted by anyone.” He jerks his head towards the door, never taking his eyes from Johnny. 

It’s a declaration he’s gone to the ground to defend, beating his knuckles bloody against helmets until the metal is a dull smear beneath his hands. He loves Johnny, will always continue to do so regardless of his impending doom, but he won’t accept an insult to Roach. Roach inclines his head, a flicker of movement in the corner of Simon’s vision.

“My Prince, Your Highness” Roach murmurs and steps out of the room, the door closing behind him. 

John watches him leave, jaw drawn tight beneath the pale wash of stubble over his cheeks. His hands hang at his side, oddly still. There’s a smudge of ink over one finger, dark enough that it could be mistaken as a bloodstain for a single heartstopping instant. “I…” Johnny clears his throat, drawing himself up to his full height and squaring his shoulders. A fighting stance. “I was to be wed to a prince I didn’t know. I was supposed to play my part and be happy, be grateful that I could be useful for only my realm but yours too.”

“Johnny–”

“I’m not finished.” 

There’s the curled lip, the bared teeth that Simon has come to expect; not just anger but hatred, disgust. John jerks into motion, striding to one edge of the room then the other, turn, repeat. His knuckles are pale beneath the force of his grip, every footfall a fresh shovel of dirt onto Simon’s grave. “Was it a ploy all along? I wish to God it was. Knowing you’re here to kill me or my parents makes it easier for me to hate you instead of doing all this… because you didn’t want to. I cannae hate you for that. Marriage, it… it changes you. And I… never wanted Prince Simon to be tied down to me or anyone else. We’re princes, we have duties and expectations… but we’re still… you’re still just… Simon. I only wish you told me sooner. You never had to… I wouldn’t have…

“I never would have thought to love you.”

It is only by the pounding of his heart in his head, the screaming hollow of his lungs, and the bright flash of pain over his palm that Simon knows he is still alive. His hand is flush against the blade of his sword, blood seeping from the fresh wound and staining the sheets beneath him, the dark fabric of his clothes. 

Johnny turns back to him, his chest heaving with every ragged breath even as he schools his features back into court-forged neutrality. “Explain.”

Simon presses his teeth against the tip of his tongue, biting down until the pressure matches the pulse in his hand. “Wasn’t a ploy or a trick,” he says. “It was—”

He’d never been good at expressing himself through words, a waste of resources to teach a blade courtly manners or speech, but he steels himself all the same. Simon fixes his gaze at a spot on the edge of the bed, Johnny a trembling shadow behind the sweep of his lashes. He can’t look at him while he does this, can’t see the final embers of affection die utterly. 

Simon tugs his mask down, pulling the ties free, and letting the fabric drop. 

“You heard the rumours about the Ghost of the Riley Kingdom, about me, yes? Damn fine piece of work. Won us more battles than the fighting did. But, what none of them seem to remember is how old I was when I was sent onto the field for the first time. These—” He drags the blunt edge of his nails over one of the scars that bisect his cheeks, running from the permanently notched corner of his mouth to the swell of his cheekbones. His touch catches on the rough texture, the areas with no sensation except pressure, “—are a reminder of that. I was captured because of my family name, carved up because of my bloodline, and I returned to that duty again and again and again. So, when I arrived here, when I saw you, and I had the opportunity to be someone else for a while?

“I’m not a good man, Johnny, but my actions were never intended to hurt you. I’ve been told my entire life that my duty is to die and you have been the only one who thought differently, who made me believe it could be different. If you wish me to leave, then I will, but I’ll forever be indebted to you for that.”

“I don’t know your reasons, Si. Prince Simon. But I…” Johnny’s thumb brushes against his neck, fabric whispering beneath his touch. “I’d have yer hand. I’d be at yer side for as long as you’d have me. Even in disgrace. We could flee now, I’d have the bishop marry us with our men as witnesses. But if I was never—” Johnny blinks slowly, close enough to Simon that he could feel the trembling inhalation in the way his head spins from it. “—If marriage was never what you wanted, then you would do well to leave soon.”

“There hasn’t been a moment since I met you that I didn’t want to marry you.” Simon closes the distance between them, not to kiss Johnny but to press his forehead against Johnny’s. “But this is your home, your family, your people. How can I ask you to leave all that behind and be a mercenary prince with me?”

“These are my people… this is my home… but Si, I always knew I’d be forced to leave it all one day for a wife or a husband. Because I’m the fourth son, inheriting nothing save a duchy to disappear to once my vows are spoken.” Tears brim in Johnny’s eyes but never quite spill free, the blue nearly obscured behind a film of them. He laughs once, softly. “If anything, the tale of the mercenary princes will be quite famous.”

Moving carefully, as if Simon is some wild thing prone to bolting or biting, Johnny rubs his thumb over Simon’s cheek, the touch there and not at the same time. “Lemme wrap your hands.”

Wordlessly, Simon holds his hands out, palms up. In addition to the sluggishly bleeding wound across one palm, the other is muddied with repeated grinning imprints of a skull. Johnny hisses through his teeth at the sight of them, his brow drawn into deep furrows as he surveys the damage. “Won’t pretend that I’m a dab hand with a needle and thread but I don’t think it needs stitching. Will hurt while it’s healing though.”

“I know.” Another pause, a blink as Johnny’s gaze wanders once more, tracing over the bridge of Simon’s nose, his mouth, the line of his jaw, before he stands and moves to the dresser. Simon continues, “Should be some bandages in the second.”

It’s nice to have someone take care of him. Unexpected, still strange and awkward in a fumbling way Simon hasn’t felt since he was a boy with limbs that were too long for him and a mind that never seemed to quiet. Johnny bows his head as he returns to sit in front of Simon, his mouth moving soundlessly as he works. They never part, not truly, Johnny’s fingers remain curled around Simon’s as he works, drawing the pale cloth tighter and pinning it closed. 

“Alright.” Johnny clears his throat, looking around the room as he does so, but his gaze returns to Simon again and again, shy little glances under his lashes. It’s close to how he would watch Simon when they first met down to the colour high on his cheeks. “We need to move quickly. Not much time before my family notices I’m not where I should be.”

Simon nods once. They untangle themselves slowly, deliberately, and Simon can still feel Johnny’s touch over the blunted pads of his fingers, the cracks in his palms. He returns his sword to the holster, strapping it to his back before he reaches for their packs, slinging both his and Roach’s onto his shoulder. They had never thought to unload them, both ready to leave at a moment’s notice. He turns back to Johnny in the centre of the room, his face pale but determined, smiling at the other man before Simon draws his mask back into place. 

It doesn’t sit as well as it once did.

In the corridor, the knight, Garrick, stands, tipped against the wall close to the door while Roach waits opposite to him. His face is downturned, but that isn’t enough to hide the wide edges of his grin behind his mask. Garrick rights himself as the door swings open, the straps of a few bags clutched in one hand, the other fluttering first over the hilt of his sword then to rest by his side. “Right,” he announces, glancing between them both. “You two kissed and made up?” There’s a deliberate brightness to his voice, not quite in jest but not enough to dissuade Simon of the notion that they both had their ears pressed to the door moments prior.

“Something like tha’,” Johnny answers, stepping forward and reclaiming his pack from Garrick. “Now, let’s go.”

They make a well-fitting if strange group as they make their way around the corner, the Prince of the land, his sworn knight, a foreign Prince masquerading as an Ambassador and his shadow. Simon can’t look away from Johnny just ahead of him as they walk, the confidence in his stride as he hurries them onwards, excitement crackling to the ends of his hair like a lightning strike.  They stagger to an uneven halt as they round the corner, the broad figure of Chamberlain Price made broader by armour standing in the centre. Simon wraps his fingers around his sword, sensing Roach mirroring the movement behind him. He’d need some height to throw the blade, and Simon readies himself for the impact of boots against his thigh, his back as Roach gets that needed height. 

“So,” Price says, “you’ve made your choice, my prince.”

Johnny straightens, squaring his shoulders before he nods. 

“You’ll want to take the west corridor. I’ve asked Lady Sorcha to prepare your travelling clothes. Oh, and Kyle?”

“Sir?”

“Serve him well.”

The remaining corridors weren’t empty of soldiers, a few roaming in fixed patterns that are easy enough to avoid, and handfuls more are pointedly distracted at their posts. 

“Three,” Roach whispers, leaning forward just enough to bump his head into the scant free space on Simon’s back between holster and pack. “Pay up.”

“That last one looked before he returned to staring at the wall.” Simon draws the coins free from the pouch at his waist, holding them back towards Roach. Tucked into the small alcove outside of the castle, the air is cool, tracing delicate fingers over the line of sweat beading on Simon’s forehead, seeping into his hair. Gaz stands at the entrance, his profile cast in sharp relief, before he steps out with a sharp whistle. The distant trudge of footsteps grows purposeful, a small group of workmen heading towards him, and they step out at his instruction, Johnny’s fingers twisting around Simon’s. 

There’s a peculiar stillness inside of a church as if the world has drawn a breath in and hasn’t yet decided to exhale. The light isn’t strong enough to cast coloured shards across the floor from the ornate stained glass windows, but it is enough to illuminate the huddled pews and the altar holding court in front of them all. 

“My Prince.” The bishop is an older man, his hair long gone white and beginning to thin across the crown of his head. He stoops as he walks closer, the hem of his robe dragging softly against the stone. “‘Tis a strange hour for a visit.”

“Aye, it is, Father. But I have a request of ye.” Johnny steps forward, drawing Simon to stand at his side and Simon moves with him willingly. The only warmth left in him are the places Johnny touches, the lingering mirages of his hand blooming and collapsing over the blank bare skin of Simon’s hands. Johnny raises their joined hands into the bishop’s line of sight. “I want you to marry us. Now.”

The bishop recoils as if Johnny had slapped him. His eyes are wide, wild, and he draws his hands close to his chest, fingers pressed together as if asking for some eternal forgiveness. “My Prince, if this is some jest, I must refuse. You are betrothed to Prince Riley, it would be a grave injustice to the realm for you to do this. And to draw the Ambassador into this tomfoolery!”

Gaz speaks, a grin painted broadly across his face. “Father, the Ambassador is the Prince. I swear it on my honour.”

Johnny rises onto his toes, twisting so his cheek is pressed against Simon’s, facing Roach behind them both, before he speaks. “If nearly anyone other than Gaz would try that, they’d be turned on their heel with their ears ringing with scripture before they even knew what was happening.”

Simon tips his gaze sideways, studying the other man. Gaz doesn’t look away from the bishop, his expression warm and earnest, impossible to not be believed. If he had been born in Simon’s kingdom, he’d be an entirely different creature, a viper dripping poison into foreign dignitaries' ears until they were sick with it.

“Indeed.” The Bishop stares at them each in turn, his brow furrowed. “This is most unprecedented, my lords.”

“There’s been nothing scandalous between them, sir. Prince John wishes to respect his fiancés desire for privacy. Prince Simon heads his father’s armies, you see. A large gathering already paints him and John as targets. If they were doing this in sin, they’d never come before you, Excellency.” Gaz concludes with a nod, his hands clasped in front of his chest, beseeching, a careful mimicry of the bishop’s own stance. 

“Very well.” The Bishop clears his throat and spreads his arms, holding them in place. “If the couple would step forward, we will proceed with the vows.”

Simon does as he’s bidden, Roach and Gaz moving into place behind them, as he turns to face Johnny. The other man’s eyes are bright, blue as the fresh dawn, and he has never looked more beautiful than he did in this moment. The vows are rote repetition; Johnny echoing the bishop’s words before Simon follows suit.

The bishop pauses, tucking his hands back into his draping sleeves as he studies them both. “Traditionally, the partner is crowned at this stage, however due to the sudden nature of this wedding—“

“I have something.” Johnny pulls the circlet from his brow, his hair falling askew over his forehead before he pushes it back in a single motion. “If you’re willing, that is.”

Simon kneels on the cool floor of the church, lets the warmth bleed away from him as Johnny stands above, a delicate circlet of gold held in both hands. 

“With this,” Johnny begins, his gaze never wavering from Simon, some deity of old cast in flesh and blood, “I crown you, husband and Prince Regent of the MacTavish kingdom.”

The metal is still warm, sitting high on his brow, slightly off-centre. Johnny huffs out a quiet laugh, nudging the circlet back into place. He holds out his hands once more for Simon to take as he stands, the pair swaying together as he does so. 

“I now pronounce you husband and husband. I invite you to seal your wedding vows with a kiss.”

Johnny cups Simon’s cheek with one trembling hand, blocking the bishop from sight. It’s a small gesture and Simon didn’t think it had been possible to love Johnny more and yet he does. He loves him more with every passing second. Simon tugs his mask down, leaning to kiss Johnny, his husband, his love.

It is just as wonderful as he thought it would be.

“My bonnie husband…” Johnny whispers, eyes blown wide and dark, never looking away from Simon. 

“Yours,” Simon murmurs. “All yours, my husband.”

⁂ 

There’s countless marks worn into the road by the passage of the procession through the laden fields and bursts of rich greenery. No banners snap overhead to announce their presence, barely more than a dark shadow detached from the skeleton of something monstrous, but they are known all the same.

Honoured all the same.

The castle sits squat, a few new towers carved onto its surface since the last time they had seen it. Three places it could be breached from now, four if the fires were banked to glowing coals. One corner is awash with a thick growth of roses, their scent heavy in the air even amongst the warm bloom of harvest that promises golden dawns and distant evenings. 

Simon had left the MacTavish kingdom freshly married and crowned, his husband at his side and two knights at his back. Glancing at Johnny, Simon swings himself down from his horse first, dust covering his boots, a finer scattering working its way up to his thighs. Travelling back had an exhausting undertaking but worth it in the end. 

He holds his hands out for his husband as he dismounts. 

Johnny had become everything Simon had thought he could and more. His hair is still shorn short at the sides, the mane on top woven into braids like his forefathers of old, and his mask is one of Simon’s, doing little to hide the gleam in his eyes. 

The Chamberlain is waiting for them as they approach, grey flecked through his beard and hair, new lines in the corners of his eyes. He moves solidly, having lost none of his powerful frame in the time they’d been away, escorting them to the throne room before he clears his throat and announces, “Riley delegation.”

The King and Queen look at Johnny first. Simon looks to Johnny and meets the man’s gaze fully, his eyes half-lidded as if in a dream before he straightens, turning towards the thrones.

“My King, my Queen. May I introduce Prince Simon Riley, my husband, officially and properly this time?”

[wordswhisperinthedark]

You know what? I think what gets me about this quote is that it kinda captures Gintoki's overall headspace in regards to his life.

Like, I feel like the driving force for Gintoki to keep living — for a lot of the series — is all the promises he's made throughout his life and his absolute determination to keep them. He is determined to never break another promise again, because the last time he did... well.

And it's these promises that drive him. These are the chains he's placed upon himself to keep going in this life. But he's just existing. And that focus on survival is what he wants for the kids. Life doesn't have to be fun as long as your alive. As long as you can wake up the next day and put one foot in front of the other.

But it's not what they want to hear. It's not what they want. Because they don't want to just exist. They've already done that, when they were existing alone on rainy planets and struggling to keep their family's home. Life was something to live for as soon as they met Gintoki. A chaotic world filled with danger and death is worth living in, as long as Gintoki is with them.

And I think it's kinda here at this point that Gintoki realises that and starts to want to live. For them. And maybe start to live for himself.

[yarrow-leaf]

A kindling of a swordless bloodshed,

The creaking of a voiceless door —

Another piece inspired by something @mincemeat-the-warforged said that absolutely altered my brain chemistry (the same 1 am conversation that sparked this in fact!)

[moregraceful]

It feels like getting pulled underwater—the sharp sideways tug, the slight drag of resistance, then falling, falling, till the waves close over his head. But Logan can breathe when he rights himself again, even if the light has a watery filter to it and the voices have a distant echo. // Sometimes Logan gets a glimpse of guys who've been long gone from the teal, clustered at the far end of the bench or sitting in the box across the ice. He heard Jason's voice in the hallway loud and clear, that infectious laugh. And he could have sworn he saw Raffi fucking Torres getting out of a car in the players' lot. Something tells him not to look up the rosters.

Commissioned @impmakesart to make a painting based on the Sharks' Cali Fin hype reel + the flip side by frausorge. Imp was amazing to work with and I could not be more emotional about this piece and so, so pleased with how it turned out!! 🙇🏻‍♂️🙇🏻‍♂️ Commission him here. Thank you Imp!

[piko-power]

My Personal Headcanon On Why Amy's Love For Sonic Died Down Lately (and their dynamic)

When they were younger, Amy's love for Sonic was pretty extreme, and Sonic was, understandable, uncomfortable for the most part. He knows she means well, but that girl needs to calm down.

She can fight, but sometimes her hammer could only stun her enemies for a while. (It took her a long time to get rid of that robot that has been chasing her around Station Square.) She wasn't fully independent yet, even if she fought on her own a couple of times.

She often follows Sonic and his friends around. She is part of the team, but she was not a strong as she is now at the time yet.

She admires Sonic. A LOT. And Sonic knows that. Obviously, he could only run away from something like that, since he is NOT ready for that kind of thing, and whether Amy takes the hint or stop, she still loves him.

...BUT, I think things were slightly starting to change between her and Sonic after Lost World.

Remember this line?

You remember that? Okay, okay. Here's another totally unrelated question:

Before the events of Lost World, when was the last time Amy said "I love you" to Sonic out loud?

...YEP. 😈 (Unless I'm missing something, let me know lmao)

As more games and adventures come out, the characters get slightly older, and Amy is 12 to 13 now, and she is most certainly at that age where her body starts to change, but especially on how she views Sonic.

She knows she loves Sonic, but it was this moment during her change where she actually wanted to admit that she loves him.

I believe that Amy was all about sharing her affection to him not through confessions, but through obvious hints. Sonic totally got it, and there was no need to confess. Sonic knows she loves her.

...But she never said it. And she almost did, but she never did again for a while.

I think this was the moment in her life where, oh, God, she actually loves Sonic. SHE LOVES HIM, WHAT.

And she was looking back at all the times she had with Sonic that she can now see were unpleasant to Sonic (At least that's what she thinks) and that's probably why she isn't so expressive about her love to him than how she used to back then.

She wasn't sure what to do with this realization, and sets aside it for a while, and nearly stayed as her casual, peppy self... until the Eggman War happened.

During the 6 months of being with the Resistance, fighting Eggman's army all day and all night, all she can think of was Sonic.

She dreams that he still with not just her, but with her friends. She just wanted to see Sonic again, she just wants to be with her hero again.

But I'd like to think that she was also thinking about how she used to treat Sonic back when they were younger, how Sonic would almost always run away from her whenever she asks him out, or always look so uncomfortable whenever she gets so close to him.

Cringing at those memories big time, she wanted to change and hopefully when Sonic is okay and comes back, she can be better for him.

...Or will he still find her uncomfortable regardless? Would he even be happy to see her at all if he did survive?

But, hold on! She can't just give up her love for Sonic! He made her who she is today! A peppy, nature-loving, hammer-swinging, confident, brave... loud-mouth... annoying... Sonic obsessed... weak... pathetic... lonely little girl.

If she gives up on Sonic, it'll be like she gave up on the one hedgehog who saved her life. If she didn't she'll still be the same ol' Amy.

I also like to think she had parents a long while before she met Sonic, and was even expecting a little sister, but a robot invasion happened from where she was and attacked her parents and instead of trying to save them, after getting hurt, she ran away, hoping that they'll come back okay. But they never did.

She was all alone, and needed someone, a friend, a new family, someone who will hold her hand, anyone, to be there for her. But she was ignored by lots, and at that point, she's better off by herself, but still longed for company.

Eventually though, her tarot cards told her her future hero, and there might be hope after all. She encountered Sonic, held onto the belief of the cards tight, and the rest is history.

So, with that headcanon in mind, not only did Amy loose her parents that she didn't save because of her cowardliness (she was only so little at the time that happened) and also Sonic, who she thought will be her only hope, but now gone.

She doesn't even care if he did come back, he'd probably hate her now after everything she did to him, always talking about their "future wedding" or forcing him to go to Twinkle Park.

For the last few months of the war, it was nothing but Amy mentally beating herself up for either refusing to change or moving on, and they are both not fine choices.

She loves Sonic, but he does not love her, and she finally, finally realized it. And it's probably for the best if no body loved her at all.

But of course Sonic did survive and all of her worries wash away in an instant, she's just not expressive about her love for Sonic AT ALL now, since she's still worried about it but rather not mention it to Sonic because it doesn't matter.

If Sonic doesn't love her, then her feelings don't matter to him, and according to Amy herself, that is okay.

But also, I'd like to think that Sonic was thinking about his friends a lot up in the Death Egg for the past months, sometimes it's Tails (worried for his safety), sometimes it's Shadow (because he's wondering why he would join Eggman.) At some point, for a few days, Amy was in his mind the longest, and he felt bad about how he thought he was rude and pushy to her.

He wondered if she's not thinking about it too much, and if she is, will she give up on him? Yeah, he doesn't feel the same and still not looking for a relationship, but it's so strange but interesting how anyone could ever like someone like Sonic the Hedgehog. Amy was never afraid to show that, and she probably might be now.

He couldn't help but feel guilty. They were kids when she was like this, but he was so... arrogant at the time too. Not a lot happened at the time yet. He'd always have trouble expressing how much he value his friends, until he shattered the Paradox Prism. (I'd like to think Prime took place before Forces. It makes sense.)

She is such a sweet girl, and he probably made her believe that he didn't care for her. Just because he doesn't feel the same, that doesn't mean he hates her at all.

He wished he never ran away from Amy... Worrying for his little bro and wishing to be a good person for Amy was when Sonic cried in the Death Egg for the first and only time.

Frontiers, in my opinion, is kind of confirming their dynamic now. Sonic is a lot more sincere and kinder to Amy and she is not all hyperactive and lovey to Sonic. There is probably a real reason for this now.

They are both hiding their feelings from them, and they are both unaware of this. Amy, hiding her mental issues from Sonic, and Sonic, hiding his guilt away from Amy.

None of those things are important now. Sonic is with Amy and Amy is with Sonic. They are here with each other. They can be finally be better for each other now.

They don't care if they'll ever be something more when they get older. None of that matters anymore. They are here with each other. They can be finally be better for each other now.

Maybe someday they'll both talk about it, but for now, the present is important. They care about each other too much to think about it right now.

It's the kind of love that is unbreakable. It doesn't even have to be romantic. It's just love. Love is important for everyone, in any form. It's something Sonic and his friends need. And especially Sonic and Amy.

Amy Rose is the living embodiment of love, and without her, a lot would go downhill for Sonic and co. Heck, if it weren't for her, Shadow wouldn't have never remembered Maria's promise, which lead him to save the world with Sonic, before he temporarily disappeared from their lives for a while.

She is always there to lend a helping hand for anybody, even bad guys like Metal Sonic, and despite what she had been through, both in Forces and headcanon wise, she still fights back, even without her hammer.

She will pick you back up on your feet, reminding you that you are important and that you are loved, and that you should never give up. It's pretty much the words of encouragement she herself needed also...

She is still the happy, hyper, butt-kicking hedgehog we all know and love, but she still need someone to pick her back up on her feet after so long. Thankfully, she has her friends and her blue hero. The hero who made her who she is today.

I think Amy has no idea how important she thought she is, but Sonic does. Sonic knows fully well how important she is to a lot of people. It's about time he returns the favor to her. It's his turn to remind her how much a lot of people love her.

How much he loves her.

And I feel like The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog was the moment where their dynamic really shined, but also the starting point of their relationship not only healing, but also the next chapter of what's to come for them.

Everyone, friends old and new, gathered around for a special birthday. A birthday for the confident, unshakable, and radiant Amy Rose.

It was such a special moment in Amy's life. After years of chasing and following the people she look up to, she is part of the team, but most importantly, she is part of the family.

She is fully realized as someone more than just a fangirl, but someone strong, courageous, creative, kind and a big inspiration for others.

I feel like this moment here...

-is where Amy is eternally grateful to call her friends her family. A family she thought she'll never have again. She's not alone anymore, and as long as they're by her side, she'll never will be again.

Her chasing days are over. She's finally caught up to them. She's finally home.

And it's all thanks to Sonic.

If it weren't for him, she'd probably be alone forever. Her past moments with Sonic might be embarrassing to look back on for a while, but they are good memories regardless, because they involve him.

Sonic saved her life in more ways than one, and despite everything, he's grateful to have her too.

He cares about her. He really does... And in her eyes, that all she needed to know. As long as Sonic loves her in his own way, she'll be happy.

Amy hasn't given up on Sonic. As long as Amy always supports him, he'll be happy.

Maybe sometime in the future, they can talk about their problems, but that's a story for another time. At this point, they need to. Right now, they are happy. They are okay.

They are here for each other. They are finally better for each other now.

"You guys won't ever leave me, right?"

"Wouldn't dream of it."

[gingermintpepper]

I know everyone knows the story of Actaeon and how he met a terrible fate by stumbling upon Artemis bathing in her forest but did you know that Actaeon was Apollo's grandson? That his father was Aristaeus, lord of the bees and the rustic arts and his mother was Autonoe, daughter of Cadmus and princess of Thebes?

Did you know he was trained by Chiron? That he was considered a hunter so skilled his talent was considered divine, that he was his parents' only child and that he was loved?

Did you know the grief that consumed the household when word of Actaeon's fate reached them? That Cadmus cut his hair, that Harmonia wept and was disconsolate and that his parents... well, Autonoe walked the length of the forest, keeping a sharp eye out for her son, but all she saw were the scattered bones of a fawn. Aristaeus too, had heard his son was torn apart and so fruitlessly, foolishly searched for the bones of a man. (There was none to be found)

Did you know that it was Actaeon's ghost, unhappy and unburied, trapped on the earth, who leaned over his sleeping father and told him of his fate? "You will not find me as you knew me, gather me as a stag." And Aristaeus immediately woke his wife and told her the truth, and together they grieved all the night long.

(Did you know that this is why Aristaeus abandons Boeotia? He could not stand the sight of it and so he went to Ceos. And there he slayed the dog-star. And there he became a healing wind. All in the name of his only son, that foolish, beloved Actaeon.)

[tumblweeds-omegaverse]

random omegaverse thought:

There must be people who experience specific instinct things with indifference or boredom.

Procreative cycle coming up? "Crap, I've got plans this weekend...stupid skip weeks."

Caught an intriguing scent while walking? "But I need to get to work! Shut up brain."

Had a snap response to a distressed sound? "Who was it?! ...right, it's my day off, I can go back to sleep."

Somebody growled at them? "Kid, I'm not a rival, that's my sibling."

Super cozy cuddle session happening nearby? "I'm gonna pass tonight guys, no social battery left, maybe next time."

Group of friends heading out to flirt and check out other singles? "I'm coming with you but only to make sure you all get home safe."

Setting where fated mates or soul bonds or permanent marks are a thing? "Meh. I don't really want one or care if I ever get one."

People in the actual omegaverse would get as bored of their stuff, as we do of ours, you know? It could be interesting to see that kind of vibe in fics. Biological demands faced with all the excitement of paying bills or doing laundry or tying your shoes.

Even if that kind of energy might not drive a plot, it could be interesting to have as a contrast to the people who do have big feelings about them - good or bad.

There's the friends who can't wait til they have a pack of their own, and the one friend who isn't against it but couldn't care less. There's the group in the office who are all about scent compatibility tests and figuring out one's best match and what sprays most highlight it, and the coworker who has no intentions on putting that much effort in. There are parents who hover and protect their offspring by scenting them multiple times a day, and others who don't see what the fuss is as long as it's done in the morning.

...also: packs with introverts who show care by giving each other space. So often, closeness is depicted through physical touch and tactile affection, but comfortable silence is meaningful too. Knowing people are near, but not having to interact until you're ready. Sitting in the same room doing different things, knowing that all it takes is a "hey, look at this" to share what you're up to. People understanding and accepting each other's differing or fluctuating needs for how and when to recharge. Seeing somebody reaching out or sharing space, beyond what's their norm, as a signal of the fact that they care.

[a-compass-without-a-needle]

Gotta love when you can tell that a character has absolutely been through/witnessed a form of The Horrors when the metaphorical light leaves their eyes.

[puppyeared]

i think the reason why im so drawn to spirit tracks and pkmn scarvi is that having the legendary/princess as a companion rather than a goal that marks the games completion makes me feel satisfied the way i would after helping a friend

my brother always teases me about how I still havent finished botw after almost 7 years bc "id rather be out picking flowers" which i wont say is untrue. and yes i know Zeldas been holding off ganon for 100 years, yes i can get some sort of idea what her relationship with link was like by recalling memories and going through her diary. ive always loved botw for its unique storytelling and setting which makes it stand out, because it lets you get to know who you're saving.

but because theyre memories, it only works if theres something for the player to investigate that already happened. its retroactive (but effective nonetheless)

on the other hand, spirit tracks does something similar but instead of having the player try to piece together memories and interpret them as a spectator, you actually have an opportunity to get to know zelda yourself by talking to her and working together. besides making it a gameplay mechanic, giving the player control over how they interact with zelda makes it so much more personable.

and I find that making the goal feel personal instead of an obligation gives me more of a reason to work towards it. I know what kind of person botw zelda was but as the player, shes still very much a stranger to me. but spirit tracks zelda? thats my friend!!!! she invited me to go to the beach after we get her body back!!! i dont want to whip her to make her move faster thats mean :(

you know how hostage negotiators are trained to introduce themselves and get to know the person theyre negotiating with because its harder to hurt someone when you know what their favorite food is? its kinda like that, because it feels like im helping a friend than being told or led to do smth

and although i havent played scarvi myself, i feel an attachment to koraidon and miraidon even just watching playthrough clips because its like!! thats my weird scaly dog!! it loves sandwiches and we're friends!!! you know!!!!!!

[musical-chick-13]

So I guess ultimately my question is why are we assuming that Nayuta specifically meant “Denji belongs to me definitively, and you are trying to take his attention away from me?”

Aside from the fact that narrative misdirection is a thing and that I think it would completely contradict all the themes of the story thus far to just have her be Makima 2.0 and inherently evil...

We don’t actually know if she and Yoru recognize each other or not? Even on a subconscious level. If she does recognize Yoru (and, reasonably, knows how her powers work) calling Yoru a thief could have meant that “You are trying to steal Denji’s spinal cord to make a weapon” or even “You have stolen this random girl’s body to use for yourself.” (Even if she doesn’t know specifically that Yoru is sharing Asa’s body, she might still be able to tell that something weird is going on?)

She’s still a child, she might have just impulsively said the smallest amount of words that would sort-of convey what she was feeling.

I’m not worried yet.

Yet.

[mirandimoo]

once again thinking about how aki’s character is one of, if not the most tragic character i have come across in any media i have ever consumed in my life.

like guys you don’t understand, i’m not saying this from a ‘csm stan’ pov or anything i’m saying it from a literary standpoint AND as a media production major like yes objectively speaking he is the most tragic of tragic characters i have ever come across in any story. like from his childhood to his adult life it was all hell and trauma and after spending his whole life with nothing to dedicate himself to other than revenge, he finally found something worth protecting in denji and power so much so that the thing he spent his whole life chasing after suddenly didn’t matter because he had a little family now and that was enough for him. going through all of this only to then become the very thing you feared the worst and to be taken out by the hands of the person you cared for the most in the world. afterwards there’s no one to properly mourn you, aside from the one who took your life. everyone else is gone and the guy you cared so deeply for that you were willing to give up your life’s mission to protect has to now navigate the world with your blood on his hands, forever stained by the regret of not only killing you, but never even getting to say a proper goodbye. he’s had so much thrown onto him now that he doesn’t have time to properly grieve you and power. but no, for him your death is even worse than hers in retrospect. because there’s still a small glimmer of hope, no matter how faint, that some day she’ll come back. and that hope is so important to hold on tightly to, it’s enough of a reason to keep moving forward, to keep living. but you… oh you. for you there is no coming back. no second chances, no glimmer of hope for a happy ending. just pain. just death, anger, and so much pain. so instead of grieving properly and moving on, he’ll forever be stuck in this limbo of self hate, grief, and guilt that’ll end up with him just hurting himself physically and mentally over and over and over again. sort of how you acted in your own life... it’s kind of ironic is it not? that even in death all you do is hurt those you love, and not only fail to protect them, but deal them a fate even worse by actively being the reason they hurt. a fate worse than death it seems. and although when told it, you didn’t want to believe it, you honestly did die in the worst possible way imaginable.