#moped army

[pain-is-too-tired]

Honestly kinda funny that every time I think of Chris in his TA days I can't help but think him in a secretary like position.

Like good job Luke for abandoning in the Labyrinth the only guy who knew how to do taxes/j

But yeah- dude was holding TA together when he was there. They only stayed together from fear of Kronos after that and I stand by it.

[m4gp13]

I know there is the whole ethabaster thing where they're fighting for a bigger cause and see their ideals reflected in one another but they have different perspectives on the cause and that causes friction between them and eventually a loss of respect due to the failure to live up to the version of them the other had in their head but I feel like this works just as well, if not better, for Luke's relationship (not necessarily in a romantic way) with them, particularly Alabaster.

Luke was the golden boy of the army, the poster child that the Titans put at the forefront to draw in other demigods because, look, see how resolute we are in helping you! Luke was the ideological figurehead of the demigod side of the army and was the blueprint on which the other demigods based their ideas. He was more persona than person. Given everything we know about Alabaster, he definitely would have been one of those demigods looking up to him. He would have been projecting his beliefs and his mentality onto Luke, putting him on a pedestal and obsessively devoting himself to the cause he saw embodied in Luke. In a way, almost developing a sort of parasocial relationship with Luke where he liked the idea of Luke and what he represented more than he liked Luke as a person, because he didn't truly know who Luke was as a person.

But, as what often happens when you put someone on a pedestal, Luke couldn't live up to the character Al had in his mind. As the war went on and Luke's possession arc drew ever closer, we the reader can see him pulling back, starting to doubt and even attempting to desert the army. If Al knew about that, it would have felt like the ultimate betrayal. Luke was the paragon of the army and the person every demigod there looked up to and he tried to leave them. Al probably would have seen it as Luke getting cold feet because he was too scared to fully devote himself to the cause and he was too selfish to sacrifice his body for Kronos' use.

I feel like Ethan wouldn't have been as crushed by Luke's actual attitude toward the army and who he is under the mask he projects to the other demigods. For one, Ethan officially joined the army when Luke was already in the casket so his involvement with Luke and his TA persona would have been very remote and not as up-close and personal as Al's relationship with that version of Luke. Ethan just didn't have the time to get that attached or to see Luke's polished facade start to crumble under the stress of the war and the possession thing getting closer. Also, Ethan didn't join the army because of Luke's propaganda. He barely gave half a fuck about Luke's reasons to go against the Olympians. Ethan was just in it for Nemesis and the minor deities. He didn't project his ideologies onto Luke like Al would have. If anything, I think Ethan would have been more angry with Luke for giving the young demigods he groomed encouraged to join the Titans a false idea of what the army and the war as a whole would be like. He didn't prepare them for the reality, just feeding them fantasies that Luke clearly didn't believe in himself and I think that's what Ethan wouldn't have liked.

For Al, it's completely different and much more personal to him. Luke was his hero but fell short of what Al wanted him to be and instead became a traitor in his mind.

And then when Luke was gone, Alabaster was the one to replace him and he refused to follow in his footsteps. Even when the war was over, when the army had clearly lost, Al rallied his soldiers for one last fight and they got slaughtered.

[angelsberrymilk]

soldier boy (ben) x sam winchester

multiverse travel au

Post 1

Post 2

a/n: because wincesties understood my vision for this pair. u don't have to know shit abt the boys or soldier boy. soldier boy is a superhero. he's like a twisted dark version of captain America and they're in HIS universe where Sammy ends up. no demons or monsters. only superheroes and normal ppl.

warning: +18. mdni. dark content ahead.

because everything is so different and supes are everywhere, Sammy feels lost and confused, magic and spells don't seem to work, all he wants is some answers and he can't even summon a mere crossroads demon, he feels helpless and he doesn't like it, at all.

Sammy really tries not to mope around like Dean– Ben. Ben keeps laughing at him, and tells him to relax a little bit because he's with the Soldier Boy, and nothing can happen to him when he's with him. Ben is not too awful to live with, driving from one motel to another, usually on a stolen car, and after breaking someone's arm or other body part for whatever reason, or maybe because Ben fucked someone's wife and they have to move out of their motel room.

Ben is messy, throws his shit around and doesn't clean much after himself, so Sam is left to pick up after him, and he's annoyed, because “Aren't military men supposed to be clean and tidy?”

Ben’s hand freezes mid-air, about to chug half a bottle of beer and stares at Sam. Sammy freezes too, like a deer in the headlights, realising this man can break every bone in his body without breaking a sweat. But all Ben does is smile, “I'm not in the army now, am I?”

Sammy nods, noticing the smile not reaching his eyes and just gathers the clothes in his arms, putting them in the hamper near the wall, letting out a shuddering breath as Ben watches him clean around their motel room as if he's his housewife.

Ben, who gets a bit too comfortable around Sammy, walks around butt naked, and hollers at him to order them some food, and laughs when Sam turns red and shouts at him to put on some trousers. Ben who likes to eat a worrying amount of pizza while watching the TV, a hand on Sam's thigh, squeezing hard whenever Sam moves a little, just so he doesn't leave. and when Sam finally complains that he has to go use the toilet, Ben turns his head and looks at him without blinking. For a second Sam is terrified he'll tell him to hold it, but all Ben does is slide his eyes down at Sam's jean clad lap and stares openly at his groin. He doesn't say anything for a long time then takes off his hand from Sammy's thigh, “Go, and bring back a six pack with you, Sammy boy”

Sam slides out of the sofa, sweat collecting at the nape of his neck, his brain screaming at him to run away, to run and never look back because this man was not his brother. He may look like him, behave like him to a certain extent, but Sammy can't leave him, he needs Dean. in whatever version he can have him.

Sam also realises that this man sleeps like shit, he sleeps for short intervals at a time, waking up shouting from nightmares, his body surging up with energy and concentrated compound V running in his veins. Sam eventually pries some answers from him, after some quietly asked questions and giving him pitiful puppy eyes and Ben cracked. He was uncomfortable when he told him, tried to hide it, tried to make it seem like it doesn't haunt him still, but Sammy knows he's lying. Ben tells him they did experiments on him during WWII, injected him with all sorts of chemicals, fed him dreams of glory and American Patriotism, made it seem like he was saving the nation. Nobody is born like this, everyone was made into a Supe, and whatever they tell people nowadays on the Internet and Television, it's all bullshit.

Sam feels a little bad but tries to remind himself that this Dean probably committed countless of war crimes and God knows what else, if those theories on Reddit are anything to go by. and he understands why these theories would be popular on certain places of the Internet. Soldier boy was built to be a weapon, and he was but a man, driven by desires and emotions. He's broken, wrong, sinful and dangerous, but Sammy can't bring himself to be disgusted, not when he himself is too tired, so tired of not having what he wants, and all he wants is the one thing he can have, this Dean, this man who wears his brother's face.

He knows it probably makes him a shitty person to stay with this 105 year old racist prick, but this man looks like he's only in his 30s, walks like Dean, sounds like Dean, looks like Dean, even smells like him.

Sammy found that one day after he found himself burying his nose in the man's dirty t-shirts that were thrown over the sofa. He's embarrassed at his weakness and tries to forget how the smell of sweat, musk and something so Dean made him feel weak in the knees and an army of butterflies errupted in his stomach.

Sammy has also been close enough to smell him and feel the warmth of his body against his. It happened in the middle of the night, when Soldier Boy was once again woken up by a nightmare. So Sam blinked his eyes open and turned his head to look at him on the other bed, but a big warm calloused hand pressed the side of his head down on the pillow hard so he won't move. he can't move. not with the type of strength Ben possesses. Sam held his breath, praying Ben won't snap his neck in half, mistaking him for an enemy soldier, mind broken, fractured and riddled with PTSD.

But all Ben did was lean down, his hot breath washing over Sam's face, his body frozen in fear. He didn't say anything for a long time, and Sam knew he was looking at him, then he whispered in his deep and heavy voice, “Sleep, Sammy.” Sam’s heart jumped in his chest, and he bit his lower lip so he wouldn't whimper and felt his mattress dip. Ben slid under the covers, easily pushing Sam’s body further in the bed, making space for himself, practically plastering himself to the back of Sam’s body, throwing a heavy arm over Sam's waist, getting comfortable right behind him, their bodies touching from top to bottom.

Sam gulped and parted his lips, breathing out a weak, “Ben-”

Ben didn't like that. So he clasped a hand over Sam's mouth, pressing hard, covering both his mouth and nose at the same time, Sam fought against his instincts telling him to kick that man as hard as he could but he can't, he may as well just ask Ben to kill him right then and there.

Ben lifted his head and breathed down Sam's ear, his nose touching his flesh, “Shut the fuck up, Sammy,”

Sam nodded before he could help it and Ben let go, finally granting him permission to breathe. While Sam gulped in oxygen and Ben got comfortable on the bed, squeezing Sam to his body like a giant pillow, “You're warm,” Ben whispered, sounding tired.

Sam’s heart broke a little, but that didn't last long when Ben added, “Shame you don't have a warm cunt to match,”

And right as he said it, he rolled his hips and Sam felt like throwing up at what obviously was Soldier Boy’s half hard cock right against the crack of his ass, then he settled, Sam listened for Ben's breathing and his heart finally stopped hammering in his chest when Ben's breathing evened out and he was surely asleep.

Sammy was terrified, but also safe at the same time, but also simultaneously in danger of losing one of his limbs if Ben has another nightmare or kills him in his sleep. Sam has never felt this close physically before to Dean, never so warm and cozy, but also so horrified and sick to his stomach because this isn't how brothers are meant to behave. But Ben isn't his brother. That's one of the first things he ever told him. That he wasn't his brother.

Sam closes his eyes tight and prays for his safety and for a way to go back home. And shivers when he realises he wants to take this man with him back home. Obviously nobody gives a shit about him in his world, and he'd do much good back in theirs. Soldier Boy was strong, a supe, and with the right training he can easily be one of the best hunters there was. And Sam is sure Dean wouldn't mind, not when this man kept Sam this safe for so long, looked after him, and plus this man may not be Dean, but he's still family in a way, and Sam's not very keen on leaving him behind. (That's Sam convincing himself that he'll be the one deciding to take this mfer with him when he knows that Ben will demand to go back with him, Ben won't let Sam leave him alone.)

.

tagging the ppl kind enough to tell me they enjoyed my insane ship :) this is for you <3

@klingyklaus @toasty-broski @28confusedthoughts @winchesterdefender @blackkmariah @106skin @redpopcat @arwenadreamer @nguyetdahuong @asongfortheunloved @rancidlovers @bcatwinchest @supfan67 @unabashedhonesty @hellfire-fist @nanacupid @arthrodira @loserluizard @jocelynfan @waywardsamdean @sastielbeltscene @sam-sinchester @masoena @winchestermylove @sammybeann @azrielrose @saltmonellas @boypussysam @monkibizznes @daddysboydean @notanotherthembo @i-already-know-im-going-2-hell @jinkieswouldyoulookatthis

[javierpena-inatacvest]

Chapter 5- Miles Between Us

Summary: Frankie's decision to join the Army was the catalyst in the collapse of your friendship. When he's forced to reconcile with his past, packed away in boxes in his childhood basement, he finds pieces of you in everything he's left behind.

Word Count: 5.0K

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader (reader has a name/nickname)

Warnings: Angst, lying, guilt, military deployment, FEELINGS, Frankie's mom not putting up with his shit

A/N: IT'S TIME TO PEEL BACK ANOTHER LAYER OF THE ONION, BABY!!! I hope you guys don't hate me that this is a slow burn- I know this is not how I normally write at all, but it's been really fun to build this story up bit by bit (if you hate it though, please tell me lmao 💀) I'm excited for this chapter and how it hints at next chapter (we're finally getting to some smut y'all, omg) Thank you as always for your kind words, it makes my day to hear what you have to say about these two 🥺💛

All The Things We Never Said Masterlist

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

You, Age 17, Spring of 2006

“You’re late, Morales.” 

“Can’t be late to something we don’t have a set time for, Anderson.” 

It’s true, you and Frankie have never set an official schedule for your afterschool ritual, but it never seems to fail that at 3:45, only 10 minutes after you’ve gotten home from soccer practice,  he’s at the foot of your bed with his forest green Jansport backpack, ready to complain about the homework he doesn’t want to finish and the tests he has no interest in studying for, just so he can keep you company while you stress yourself to death about the same assignments. 

And for as much as he hated school work, Frankie was never late. Never. So to watch him mope into your bedroom an hour later than his usual arrival time, it almost would have been safer to assume he was dead than anything else. 

“What took you so long? Get lost on the way here?” You joke, trying to keep it light while still prodding for an answer about his absence as you write down the answer to the math equation you’re trying to solve. 

“No. Don’t worry about it.” 

There’s been very few occasions you’ve seen Frankie so stoic. Even on his worst days, he’s at least still got a little tolerance left in him for your stupid banter. It’s enough to draw your attention completely away from your homework and onto him. 

“What’s wrong? Why are you being so weird?” 

You can tell then that something’s clearly not right, the way he’s angrily yanking loose papers and textbooks from his backpack and nearly slamming them onto the edge of your bed, making you gnaw anxiously at the end of your pencil you’d been using. 

You’re too nosy for your own good to let up until you find what you’re looking for. 

“Nothing’s wrong.” 

“Well obviously something’s wrong.” 

“What? I’m not allowed to be late, ever?” 

“No? Frankie, I just asked where you were and you’re acting like I’m asking you if you just shot the fucking president or something. What’s going on?” 

“It’s nothing, MacKenzie!”

“If it’s nothing, then why are you so upset about it?” 

“I’m not upset!” 

“You clearly are? Frankie, what the hell are you-” 

“I’m joining the Army, okay?!”

Out of all the things you could have expected to come out of Frankie’s mouth, that would have been at the bottom of your list. In fact, it’s so out of left field, you’re not even quite sure you believe him. 

Your forehead hurts from how tightly your brows are knitted together in confusion, scowling at Frankie with a dumbfounded intensity that probably had you looking like you had just gotten an unsuspecting whiff of the world’s most sour lemon. 

There’s no way he’s being serious. He can’t be. 

“Ha ha, very funny, Francisco.” You mock, frown still splayed across your face, “Now will you please tell me what’s actually going on?” 

His silence makes your heart drop into the pit of your stomach. You can feel the way your face falls, the muscles once tensed in adamant skepticism now sinking into a quiet panic. You can hear each breath as it flows in through your nose and out through your mouth, blood pounding louder and louder in your ears with each pulse of your veins. 

“Frankie, if this is one of your stupid jokes, it’s not funny.” 

“It’s not a joke.” 

His eyes are still peeled to the floor, too afraid to bring himself to look at you. All he can do is stare at his pinky toe, poking out of the hole in his socks that he refuses to replace. You wait for what feels like hours, days, for him to say something, but his silence is deafening. And the sound of Frankie’s silence is the scariest thing you’ve heard in a very long time. 

It’s so terrifying, the only thing you can do to cope is fill the quiet void with your rambling and pray that Frankie Morales is choosing to play the world’s worst joke on you. 

“What- what do you mean? Frankie, I thought- When you and Santi talked about doing the same thing as Will- I thought you were fucking kidding? What about college? We already both got accepted to Florida State, what are you gonna do-” 

“I didn’t get in.” 

Please let him be kidding. Please, please, let this be a sick joke. 

You can feel your confusion starting to bubble into anger, jaw clenching at the way Frankie’s too coward to even look in your general direction, gaze still glued to that stupid fucking hole in his worn down sock. 

“Frankie, what the fuck? We both got accepted back in January? You’ve been lying to me this whole fucking time?” 

“I didn’t wanna lie, okay?!” 

He’s riddled with enough guilt to speak up, trying to keep himself from the brink of tears as he works up enough courage to finally look you in the face. You can hear how hard he gulps, like his heart is bobbing in his throat, trying to buy all the time he can to come up with a reason for his deception that won’t hurt you any more than he already has. 

“I just- fuck,” he sighs, chewing at his bottom and bouncing his leg against the bed so intensely it’ll make him sore the next day, “I didn’t know what to do, Kenz. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.” 

It’s hard to stay mad at him when you know he means it. It’d be easier if it weren’t for the way his brown eyes flooded with disappointment in himself, spilling out in tears onto his cheeks. For as frustrated as you are, you have enough sympathy to ease up on him enough to at least try to understand. 

“Well, not lying to me about it for the last four months probably would have been a good start.” You huff, the air that puffs from your nostrils still tainted with the let down you’re trying so hard to not let override your conversation. 

You can’t help but let yourself find a spot next to him on the edge of your bed, a peace offering that you hope is enough to signal to him you’re willing to listen to what he has to say. 

“I- I didn’t think you were being serious when you and Santi were talking about it. I- I thought you- I thought the plan was to go to Florida State. Together. What happened, Frankie?” 

It’s quiet for a few more moments. Frankie takes a few, slow deep breaths as he runs his hands through the curls twisting at the nape of his neck. The silence isn’t as bitter as before, but it stings enough to gnaw at the edges of your nails, the anxious habit you can’t seem to break, and certainly have no intention of giving up right now.  

“Stop chewing at your nails, Kenz. You’re gonna be pissed at yourself later.” Frankie sighs, gently grabbing your wrist to pull your hand away from your mouth, trying to fulfill his duty of being the one to stop you from ripping your nail beds to shreds. 

“You’re kinda making it hard not to.” You try your best to attempt a laugh. It’s the only way to keep yourself from crying. “So are you gonna tell me what’s going on or what?” 

“Y-yeah.” Frankie re-adjusts himself on the edge of the bed, twisting the fabric of your comforter between his fingers, trying to ground himself in the reality of the truth he’s forced to tell you, “I- I didn’t get into Florida State. I told you I did because I didn’t know what I was gonna do. You were just so excited when you thought we both got in and I- I panicked and I lied. I didn’t even think I was gonna get in anyways. I didn’t think I was gonna get in anywhere. Even if I did, I don’t know if I even could have afforded it. It’s just me and my mom and neither of us-”

“It’s not too late. I can help you look for scholarships. To help you with tuition. I’m sure that there’s a bunch out there that you could apply for. I’ll even write your essays and stuff for you if you want me to-” 

“I’m pretty sure you can’t do that, Kenz. Plus, you hate cheaters.” 

Frankie tries to reciprocate the same half-assed laugh you gave him. He looks over at you, the small smile he’s forcing to keep between his lips quickly fading as he sees the way you’re pleading with him to realize that you would forge a thousand essays in his name if it meant he wasn’t going to leave you. He’d be a cheater you’d gladly forgive. 

“It’s not even just the money. I just- I- I don’t even like school, Kenzie. I suck at it. If school is already hard now, how much harder is it gonna be when I get to college? To study for a job that I’m probably not even gonna want when I graduate? At least with the Army I can have a job and benefits and hopefully make enough money to help my mom so she’s not working at the hospital 6 days a week. MacKenzie, the only reason I applied to Florida State was because of you. I thought that maybe there would be some miracle I got in and I could figure out how to pay for it and I could magically get smarter and better at school so we could spend the next four years together. I wanted it to happen. I wanted it to happen so bad. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I lied to you. I just- fuck- I just didn’t know how to tell you.” 

Neither of you are quite sure what to say next. That quiet comes back to fill the space between you, allowing enough room for the silent sobs you’re both trying your best to hold in, small sniffles still escaping from each of you. You’re not sure if your brain has fully processed what he’s had to say. The only thing you can understand is the swirling of sadness and confusion in your gut and the pounding ache in your chest. 

You take a scooch closer to him, the outsides of your thighs barely brushing together as you tilt your head to rest against his shoulder. It’s heavy, the weight you can’t help but lean against him, but the arm he wraps behind your back and around your waist tells you that he’ll gladly take it. He’ll take it all, if he has to. 

“Did you already sign a contract to go?” The whisper of your words is so soft, like you’re hoping he can’t hear you. If he can’t hear you, then he doesn’t have to tell you the answer you don’t want to hear. 

“Yeah. Me and Santi did a few weeks ago.” His voice is almost quieter than yours, convinced he has the same idea as you. 

His truth stings worse than the lie he’s been masquerading behind the past four months. You want to scream at him- To curse him with shouts and sobs, question how he could make this choice for himself and leave you in the dark until it’s too late for you to change his mind. You know it’s selfish, the way you want him to stay, the way you would have fought with every bone in your body to keep him from leaving. You know it’s the reason Frankie couldn’t tell you. 

It’s the same reason why Frankie couldn’t bring himself to tell you that if he had given you that chance, he probably would have stayed. 

“Do um- do you know when you have to leave?” 

It hurts to hear the words come out of your mouth. It’s an admittance of defeat. Because once you ask that question, there’s nothing you can do or say that will make him stay. No fighting, no begging, no pleading. You have to accept he’s leaving. 

“Not ‘til the end of the summer.” 

“Where?” 

The more you ask, the more it makes you want to keel over the edge of the bed and vomit, the reality of it all setting in at an alarming pace. 

“Missouri for basic training. I don’t know where after.” 

He doesn’t have to say where. You both know. Even if he doesn’t know the exact longitude and latitude of where the Army will deploy him, there’s nowhere else they’re sending him besides Iraq or Afghanistan or whatever godforsaken, war ridden country in the Middle East he’ll be forced to put his life on the line for. 

And for how much the reality of Frankie leaving scares you, when you’re hit with the reality that Frankie may leave and never come back, you’re absolutely terrified. 

“I don’t want you to go, Frankie.” 

You can’t beg him to stay. There’s no amount of bargaining you can do with him or the powers that be to change what’s been done. All you can do is tell him your truth as you sob into his chest while he holds you. Maybe if you’re not enough to make him stay, you’re at least enough to make him want to come home. 

You’re not sure how long he holds you while you cry. Maybe it’s minutes, maybe it’s hours. However long it is, all the moments you have left with Frankie feel that much more precious. You won’t let any of them slip through your fingers. 

“You promise you’ll come home, right?” 

“I promise, MacKenzie. I promise.” 

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Francisco Morales, it’s that he’ll never break a promise. You just hope the universe is kind enough to let him keep this one, too. 

“I promise that we’ll have a really fun summer together before I leave too, okay? Whatever you wanna do, Kenz, I’ll do it.” 

“Anything?” 

It’s enough to peek your head out from the crook of his neck, trying your best to wipe away your tears with your sleeve, like you hadn’t just stained the better part of Frankie’s sweatshirt with the same wetness. 

“Anything.” 

“Alright, well, I guess we’re gonna go to Dairy Queen and get an extra large blizzard every day until you’re too fat for the Army to want you anymore.” 

The two of you giggle, a quiet symphony of soft snorts and sobs at the idea of rolling an ice cream filled Frankie off to boot camp. It makes him laugh even harder that he wouldn’t put it past you if you really did try. Perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if you did. 

“Whatever you want, MacKenzie. I’m all yours.” 

Frankie, Present 

Frankie’s convinced he might as well start training for a marathon at this point. 

He’s not really sure how else to spend his time. It’s hard to keep himself occupied when all he can do at home is sit around and wait for your dad to die or stare out the window like a creep to watch your comings and goings. 

At least if he’s running, he can’t think about you. 

Well, he can’t think about you as much. 

It’s been a day and a half since he decided to follow you on your run. He’s already pushed his luck enough that you didn’t damn near kill him for it, let alone that you even gave him a chance to talk to him. 

He let you take the first  shift on the morning yesterday, despite the fact he’d been awake well before the sun rose. The irony wasn’t lost on him at the way he watched you through his bedroom window the same way he did most Saturday and Sunday mornings for the first few years of your friendship. You’d be up at the same ungodly hour as him, except you’d be pacing up and down your driveway, stretching and lunging across its length as you clicked around on the iPod wrapped around your forearm, searching for whatever song would pump you up for your run. 

It wasn’t until you had finally noticed Frankie peering out his bedroom window every weekend that you began to drag him along on your runs with you. 

“If you’re awake too, you might as well come running with me, Morales. It’ll be fun!” 

“Fine. I gotta warn you though, Kenz, I am actually pretty fast.” 

“You barely run the mile in gym class.” 

“Savin’ up all my energy for when I need it most, Anderson.” 

There was once a time where you would have to beg Frankie to come with you on a run. Now, he’d give anything for you to tolerate his existence ten feet behind you. 

But he’ll sacrifice another run alone through all too familiar roads of his childhood subdivision if it helps him kill time and keeps you from hating him anymore than you rightfully deserve to. 

Yesterday, he went on two runs to pass the time. Hell, today, he’d consider adding a third run to his underwhelming schedule just to keep himself busy. Fortunately, (or unfortunately, he can’t tell yet) for him, Maria Morales has other plans. 

And when Maria Morales has plans, it’s in Frankie’s best interest to drop anything else he had in mind for the day. 

Even when it means he’s got a hot date with his basement and a mountain full of boxes in his basement. 

“Okay, anything in this pile to the left is for you to go through.” His mom grunts, lifting up one last box to add to the heap labeled “Francisco’s things” in her perfectly curved cursive, “If you want to take it home, find an empty box to put it in, but not my new clear, plastic bins, entiendes (understand)? Those were expensive.” 

“No clear plastic bins, got it.” Frankie chuckles, following the exaggerated step his mother takes over his scattered belongings. 

“If you see something and you don’t want it now but you want me to keep it for later, you can put it over on the shelf by the stairs. If you think it’s basura (trash), leave it over here and let me look at it first before you throw it away.” 

“Comprendido (got it).” Frankie nods, sizing up the stack his mom has set out for him, “Jesus ma, this is gonna take me all morning to go through.” 

“If you were home more, there would be less things to go through now.” 

“Yeah, well, you got me there.” Frankie grumbles under his breath, grimacing at the harsh reality of his mom’s words. He knows isn’t meant completely out of malice, but he can’t deny it’s certainly got some truth to it as well.  

“Okay, well I need to go run some errands, and I want this pile sorted by the end of the day, so standing here and moping certainly isn’t going to help that. Get to work, mijo (son).” 

His mom will never be one to throw a pity party for anyone, and most definitely won’t be throwing one for her son, based on his own, self-inflicted problem. Frankie helps her step over another makeshift pile scattered for sorting across the basement floor, giving him a quick pat on the back before disappearing upstairs, leaving him to quite literally unpack his past. 

“Fuck. Okay.” He sighs to himself, gently kicking one of the edges of flimsy cardboard at the bottom of the tower, trying to formulate his best plan of attack to make his sorting as painless as possible. 

He’s thankful that his brain has always worked in a way that allows him to analyze things so quickly, doing some quiet calculations in his head as to the most effective and efficient way to sort through god knows what may be hidden in the pile his mom has created for him. 

He runs his hand through the still messy curls of his morning bed head before selecting what feels like the lightest boxes and moving them off to the side, opening up a cardboard container from the next layer. 

Besides the trophies still in his room, every prize he’d ever won for every sport he’d ever played sits in the box below him. Frankie chuckles to himself, picking up some from the top to examine them, thumb gliding over the fake gold plating to read plaques like “Florida Junior Divisional Freestyle Swimming Finalist- 2005” or “Regional Championship Winners- Florida Firebirds 2007” glued to poorly sculpted plastic statues of swimmers. A few more medals and certificates had sunk to the bottom of the box, Frankie quickly grazing through its contents before rehoming it to the “trash” pile, unsure of when he would ever need proof he won several swimming competitions in high school. 

The next few boxes were more of the same- His varsity jacket, old t-shirts he wouldn’t stand a chance fitting into, considering the gangly figure that stretched them more than a decade ago, some old books from high school he’d only kept because of how much you loved them and he promised you that one day, he’d read them, too. 

It’s the shoe box that catches his eye next, sure that no matter how much his mom loved to hoard, whatever was in there most definitely was not a raggedy, holy pair of Converse from high school. 

It’s not until he picks up the box that he knows exactly what’s inside. It’s one of the lightest things he’s picked up in the last hour, but when he knows the weight of its contents, his arms want to tremble. 

It’s with a long deep breath that he brings the shoebox over to an open patch of floor, letting out a grunt and cursing his knees as he sits down cross legged with the box in front of him. He gently flips open the lid, hand running over his face and down the back of his neck when his suspicions are confirmed. 

Open envelopes spill out over the edges of the worn cardboard, the box stuffed to the brim with every letter you’d ever written to him while he was away.

Even if he wanted to, he’s not sure he could ever physically bring himself to throw them out. Those letters have more miles on them than most people’s cars will ever reach in a lifetime, flimsy, stamped pieces of paper following him to every corner of the globe he’s traveled to. 

Some letters he’s read so much, they’re worn on the edges where he’s held the paper, smudging the pen that’s reached the sides of the pages. Others, he’s only read once. He’s not sure he could ever bring himself to read them again. But regardless of their contents, he’d made a promise to you they’d stay with him. 

“Better not get rid of those letters, Morales. Do you know how many hand cramps I’ve given myself trying to find the words to send halfway across the world to you? You better promise me you’ll keep ‘em.”  

His commitment to the folded pieces of paper ring in his ears as his fingers drag across the tops of the open envelopes. He can’t help the way his index finger and thumb pinch the paper below his grasp, carefully tugging a random letter out of its shoebox storage. 

It’s a gut wrenching gamble, the game he’s about to play, a roulette of making his heart ache from joy or pain depending on the one he chooses to pull. He’s already placed his bet as he pulls the lined piece of paper out of the envelope- He’s not getting the money he’s already placed on the table back, so he might as well pray he makes a return on his investment. 

With one more deep breath, he unfolds the tri-fold creases, ready to watch his bet play out before him. 

August 18th, 2006

Frankie, 

I hope I sent this letter to the right place! I looked on the website and it said to send mail to new recruits (that’s you, Morales), to this address, so no one better be holding my letter to you hostage. 

Anyways, how’s training so far? Did they make you shave your head yet? I hope not. I’m not sure why the Army insists on making you all look like Dr. Evil from Austin Powers. I’m sure you’ll still look cute even with short hair! I don’t think I can say the same for Santi, but you didn’t hear that from me… hehehe 

I just moved into my dorm yesterday! My roommate seems pretty nice. Her name is Jessica and she’s from Georgia. She claims that she’s neat and she better be, or I may lose my mind. I’ll send you pictures of my dorm once it’s all set up! It’s kind of a mess right now, but I made sure to put the picture of us from prom up on my desk :)

I don’t start class until next Tuesday. Hopefully I’ll meet some new people in my dorm or on the soccer team so I’m not a total loser with no friends. LOL. 

Have you met anyone new yet? I can’t wait to hear all about your new Army friends! I already started a countdown calendar until we can see each other again. Only 70 days until basic training is done and I can hear about everything in person! 

I miss you a lot. I know that’s dumb to say because it’s only been a week, but still. I wish I would have kissed you again before you got on the plane to leave. I promise I will when I see you. Nothing says perfect place to kiss like South Missouri, romance capital of the USA (haha). 

I know you’re gonna be busy, but write me back when you have time. The return address on the envelope is my dorm address, so use that, or risk Doug and Michelle reading your mail if you send it to my house!!! I can’t wait to hear from you. Miss you, weirdo. 

From, 

Kenz :) <3

His luck of the draw sends a wave of relief through him, smiling down at the curvy loops of your perfectly neat printing signed at the bottom of the page. It makes his heart skip a beat, the same kind of butterflies coming to life in his stomach as they did the first time he read it. He’s earned his money back and then some. He gets how casinos never go broke, because the high of good fortune is enough to have him reaching back into the box to put another gamble on the line. 

October 13th, 2009

Frankie, 

I always feel dumb sending multiple letters before I hear back from you, but you know me, I love to worry. I know you can’t tell me where you are right now (stupid military and their secrets for the safety of society lol) but I’ve been seeing stuff on the news and it makes me scared for you. I just hope wherever you are, you’re safe. 

My dad’s cancer is back. He’s been in the hospital for almost two weeks now. They found a new mass on his liver, but they said hopefully they can target it with radiation before it starts to spread. Cassandra at the front desk asked how you were when I was at the hospital yesterday. I said that you were good. I think she’s only asking because if you’re not there, there’s no one to keep me from burning a hole in the waiting room carpet. 

I wish you were here. I feel really lost right now. I just know if you were here, you’d find a way to make everything better. You always do. 

Sorry this letter isn’t longer. I haven’t been sleeping that great and don’t have enough brainpower to write something decent. Just wanted to let you know what’s going on.  

Counting down the days until you make good on your promise. I hope you come home soon, Frankie. 

Kenzie 

He curses himself for an unlucky draw, heart sinking at the tear stains smearing the blue ink of your trembling letters. An overwhelming wave of guilt washes over him, vivid memories of reading your notes in his bunk alone, wishing there was a way he could fly halfway around the world for a night just to hold you and tell you that everything was going to be okay. 

It’s the addictive itch in the back of his brain that makes him decide to pull one more letter from the box, taking one last gamble to see if he can prove the nagging pit in his stomach to quit while he’s ahead, wrong. 

February 4th, 2011

Hey, 

If you don’t want to write anymore, that’s fine. I was trying to be friendly, but clearly you don’t really care. Just let me know and I’ll stop bombarding you with mail you obviously don’t want. Or I guess you not responding is letting me know. If you want to send anything back you can send it to my parents house. I’m moving into Liam’s house and it’s only 20 minutes away so I can just drive there and pick it up. No need to send you a new address you probably aren’t going to write to, anyways. 

I guess I’ll see you when I see you. 

MacKenzie 

And that’s how Vegas will always stay in business. 

Because now Frankie is forced to walk away, all his money stolen from him at the stupid risk he’s decided to take. The one letter he’d give anything not to read again is the one he had to pull. 

Heat seethes in his chest- he can’t quite explain why. Because he lost at a rigged game he’d set up for himself? That he still hasn’t quite come to terms with the ugly truth of what he put the both of you through? That he wishes with everything in him, he could go back and change what he’s done? 

Or maybe, it’s because now might be the last chance he has to fix what he’s broken, and he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to live with himself if he can’t.

He leaves the pile in the basement unfinished, shoes barely tied to his feet before he bursts out the door in a sprint.

He's not sure where he's going. He's not even sure how long he's run for. All he knows is the pounding of his feet against the pavement, trying to outrun the stupid decisions of his past.

He tells himself if he runs fast enough, he'll beat them.

If he goes far enough, they'll be forgotten.

If he outraces them, you'll be there waiting for him at the finish line.

@chaotic-iguana @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem @angelofsmalldeath-codeine

@pedrobaby @fatima-marisa @beboldbebravethings @poodlebae @kittenlittle24

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@kungfucapslock @vannabanana1995 @beezusvreeland

@javierpena-inatacvestnotifs

[sissylittlefeather]

Kink Madness: Round 5

Food Play vs Temperature Play

This one is scorching hot. Hold on to your butts 😂

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, obviously sensory play, also Elvis is a bit sad in one and the other one is straight porn

Food Play: Army Elvis

Elvis has been moping around for over a week now. You don't mind it at all; he has been through an awful lot lately with losing his mama and being shipped off to Germany. And his emotional complexity is one of the reasons you love him. But still, it hurts to see him so sad. You wrack your brain for something to do to cheer him up.

You've been seeing each other for a few weeks now and you are infinitely grateful that your father made you learn English. Otherwise, there would be a language barrier between you and he might not have even noticed you. Hell, you wouldn't have even been in that press conference where you met. You've got a pretty thick accent and sometimes you use German words when you can't find the right English one, but he's drawn to you nonetheless. In truth, you're his favorite thing about being overseas. So, despite his melancholy, he's happy to knock on the door of your apartment one Friday evening.

“Hey, honey, it's me.” You try your best to wipe the flour off of you and go to open the door.

“Hi, Elvis!” You hold it so that he can walk inside, but he looks you up and down first, a slow smile tugging at his lips.

“You're covered in flour. What you been up to, doll?” He kisses your cheek and then moves into the apartment. As he makes his way in, he's hit by a smell that immediately transports him back to some familiar memory. “What is that?”

You try again to brush some of the flour off of your hands and run back into the kitchen. He follows you curiously.

“I made something for you.” You gesture to the dish cooling on the countertop. It's a bit of a mess, sticky and warm, but it looks okay considering it's your first time making it.

“Is that–? Honey, did you make me a cobbler?” You nod excitedly, thrilled that he could recognize it. “Peach! The cookbook said it was a southern dessert.”

He looks at you incredulously, his eyes a little shiny. “You found an American cookbook?”

“Ja! It was in a little shop a few streets over. I know you've been homesick, so I wanted to make something to remind you of home. Is it okay?” He grins and then grabs you, picking you up and spinning you around the tiny kitchen.

“Is it okay?! Honey, it's amazing!” He sets your feet back on the ground and then cradles your cheek in his big palm. “You did this just for me?”

You look up at him and nod. “Mhmm.”

“You're somethin’ else, doll. Thank you.” He leans forward and kisses your lips softly. Up until now, he hadn't thought of this as more than just a fling to pass the time while he's here, but this, this is a girlfriend gesture and it's not lost on him. “Can we try it?”

“Jawohl!” He settles at the table while you grab a small plate and something to serve with. You scoop out a piece for him and set it in front of him, sitting down next to him. He smiles at you again and shakes his head as he takes a bite. When he gets it to his mouth, he moans and closes his eyes. “Is good, ja?”

“Honey, it's incredible. I swear this is the same recipe my mama used to make.” He eats the whole serving, making small grunts and moans of pleasure as he does. By the end of it, his laughter is contagious and he looks like a little kid on his birthday. “Can I have more?”

“I made it for you. You can have it all!” You serve him another piece, but this time you accidentally stick your thumb in the syrup. Before you can wipe it on your apron, he grabs your hand and pops it in his mouth, sucking lightly. You gasp a little with the sensation of his mouth on you. He's kissed you a lot and touched you a few times, but you haven't slept together. And this gesture feels deeply intimate.

“Elvis…” He turns your hand over and kisses your palm.

“You don't want any cobbler?” He murmurs against your hand.

“I-I-I made it for you…”

“And I can eat it how I want?” There's a glint of mischief in his eyes that shoots straight to your core like a lightning bolt.

“I suppose…” You watch as he dips his finger in the sticky peach syrup and then drags a line of it down the inside of your forearm. Then, he licks the line of sweetness from your skin and you whimper.

“Mmm. You might taste better than the peaches, honey. Can I have more of you?” You nod and he pulls you into his lap. This isn't your first time with a man, but this is him and you tremble a little with anticipation as he captures your lips in a deep kiss. The sugar from the cobbler is on his tongue and he tastes even better than usual.

You're not quite sure how it happens, but in minutes he has you stripped down and laid out on the dining table for him, the dish of cobbler next to you. He dips the tip of his middle finger in the stickiness and then rubs it on one of your nipples. It's warm, but not as warm as his mouth as he leans forward and licks you clean. He does it again with the other side and you arch your back and moan.

“Taste so good, baby.” He gets more of the syrup and drags it across your belly, quickly licking it from you again. The sensation of his tongue on your body has you dripping wet with the thought of it in other places. But he doesn't stop. He keeps sweeping syrup across your skin and licking it off, moving around your body until you have goosebumps and your nipples are so hard they almost hurt. “God, look at you. You're so damn beautiful like this. I could just eat you up. In fact, I think I will.”

He picks up the spoon from his plate and fills it with the sticky sweetness, dribbling it on your inner thigh. When he leans in to lick it off, he's so close to your center that your pussy clenches around nothing. “Oh God, Elvis…”

Then, he does the same thing on the other side, his tongue making languid circles on your skin. “I bet you're sweeter than this pie, baby. You want me to find out?”

You nod frantically and spread your legs a little wider, giving him a delicious view of your glistening slit. “Goddamn, doll. That's pretty.”

And then he leans forward and pushes his tongue in as deep as it'll go, his nose pressed against your clit. You bite your fist as he groans into you, pulling back a little to lick around your hardened bud. “I was right.”

“Don't stop!” He chuckles and gives you a small salute.

“Yes ma'am.” And then he dives back in, licking and sucking you with his whole mouth. He devours you like a man starved and it feels so good you could die. You feel the walls of your orgasm closing in and your legs start to shake. “Good girl. Cum for me. Let me have all that sweetness.”

“Oh fuck, Elvis!” You grab the front of his hair and grind your hips into his face as the waves crest and break inside you, your pussy contracting on his tongue. He keeps licking you all the way until you're so sensitive that you start to giggle. His lips and chin are shiny when he stands up and looks down at you all limp and fucked out on the table.

His cock is aching where it presses against his uniform pants and he rubs it gingerly through them. You notice what he's doing and meet his eyes. “Yes. Please.”

That's all it takes for him to quickly unzip his pants, pull out his throbbing dick, settle your ankles on his shoulders, and then sink into you. Your eyes cross with being filled so well and he groans deeply. “Fuck, honey, that's so good.”

He pulls back and then rolls forward again and again, fucking you deep and slow. The head of his cock bumps up against your g-spot with each thrust and you feel another orgasm gather in your belly. He starts to move a little faster, slamming into you with more intensity. Your second climax hits you like a freight train and you pulse around him. “I'm gonna cum, doll. Oh god. Fuck!”

He pulls out of you at the last second and pumps his release out onto your belly. When he finishes, he stumbles backwards into a chair and you lay on the table trying to get your bearings back. He sighs deeply and you sit up a little to look at him.

“Honey, that was the best damn cobbler I've ever had.”

“Me too.”

“You didn't eat any of it.” He laughs.

“Didn't need to.”

“Can I stay?” You look at him and his expression changes. It's not quite sadness, but it's deeper than the mirth from a few seconds before.

“Of course. Why?” He's never stayed with you before.

“I just need a little home tonight and you, well, you feel like home now, honey.” He stands up and pulls you into his arms, kissing the top of your head.

“Then you can stay as long as you like.”

“Thank you, baby.”

******

Temperature Play: TTWII Elvis

Elvis walks into the cool suite after rehearsal with his silk shirt stuck to his back from sweat. It's August in the desert and hot is an understatement. He looks around the room for you, but you're nowhere to be found. Finally, he finds you on the patio laid out on a lounge chair, skin slick with sweat as you sit in your bikini trying to get a tan. Before he walks to you, though, he grabs a bucket, fills it with ice, and plops a bottle of champagne in it, holding two glasses with his other hand. He doesn't normally drink, but today was good and he wants to celebrate.

“It's a million degrees out here, honey. You tryin’ to cook yourself?” You startle a bit at the sound of his voice and cover your eyes to look up at him.

“You know I like to be tan. It is hot though. Almost too hot.”

“Wanna cool off?” He holds up the bucket and the champagne glasses before settling next to you on the chair.

“Oooh yes, please!” You hold out your hand for a glass and he sets the other one on the table with the ice bucket. He pops the bottle open and then lifts it over to you to fill your glass, but it drips icy water onto your stomach and you gasp. “Oh shit, that's cold!”

He laughs and finishes filling your glass. You take a sip and he eyes you from behind his sunglasses. “Just how hot are you, doll?”

“Pretty damn hot, Elvis. Why?” The corners of his lips curl up into a wicked smile and he takes your champagne glass, setting it on the table next to his. He dips his hand into the ice bucket and pulls out a small cube. “I know you don't think you're gonna–”

Before you can finish the sentence, he starts to slide the ice around on your chest, pulling your top out of the way to drag it around your nipple. You gasp again, “fuck, that is cold!”

“Oh, I'm sorry, baby.” He leans forward and warms your icy bud with his tongue. But he doesn't stop with the ice cube. He keeps sliding it around on your skin, heating you back up with his mouth afterwards. You whimper and gasp and moan as he works your body, moving further and further down towards your center. The cube has melted fully, so he uses both hands to slide your bottoms off.

“What are you up to now?”

“You trust me?”

“Always.” He smiles and fishes out another piece of ice, this time slipping it into his mouth. Then, he presses his lips to your thighs, the cold sensation making you shiver as he approaches your slit. You arch into him when he finally makes it there, dragging his cold tongue up and down.

And then he does the unthinkable. He pushes the piece of ice, now small and soft, up into you with his tongue.

“Oh, fuck, Elvis!” Your pussy clenches around the cube and the feeling of it threatens to overwhelm you.

“Hold it in there ‘til I make you cum.”

“Jesus. Fuck.” Your knuckles go white as you grip the edges of the lounge chair while he dives into you, licking and sucking on your clit. You can feel the ice slowly melting and it's like he's teasing you from the inside out. You whimper and moan as he eats you, moving his tongue in slow, lazy circles over your hardened bud. “Mmmm it's too much!”

“No it's not, baby. Just cum for me.”

“Oh God, oh God, oh God…” He licks hard and fast over you now, desperate to push you over the edge. “Fuck!”

When your orgasm crashes into you, it feels like the ice runs in your veins out to your extremities and back again and it feels so good you almost scream. He pushes a finger inside you to make sure the ice is melted and groans.

“Get on top.” You quickly rearrange so that he's sitting in the chair and then unzip his pants. His cock springs free, hard and aching, and you don't hesitate to line up and sink down onto him. “Goddamn baby, your pussy is cold.”

“I told you!”

“Fuck, but she's squeezing me so good.” He growls into your neck as he grabs your hips and starts to move you up and down on his dick. You reach back and grab an ice cube and hold it to your lips. Then, you lean forward and press your lips to the skin just below his ear. He gasps a little and starts to move you even faster on his lap. You pop the ice cube into your mouth and kiss him deep and he groans. The desert sun on your skin is the perfect contrast for where you're icy cold and the sensation of both at once pushes you to the edge of another orgasm. He rips the straps of your bikini down and presses his cold lips to your breasts again, murmuring against your nipple, “Cum with me, honey.”

You roll your hips against him hard and he reaches down to rub your clit while you ride him. It's just enough to drive you into your release and you moan loudly as your body shudders and pulses around him. He grunts and holds you still, letting your pussy milk his climax from him.

“Fuck, that's good baby.” His breath is still a little cold from the last ice cube as he pants against your skin. You collapse on his chest, shaking and sweating as you both try to steady your heart rates. “You cold?”

“Little bit.” He grins at you mischievously.

“Let's go inside, then. I've got a warm bath and some hot wax candles with your name on them.”

“Are you serious?!”

“Honey, do I look like a man who would joke about a thing like that?” You move to stand up off of him and he grabs you and holds you tighter, whispering in your ear. “You know I'll always give you what you need.”

“You really, really do.”

*******

Taglist:

@ccab @aliypop @18lkpeters @dkayfixates @tacozebra051 @your-nanas-house @joshuntildawn13 @lookingforrainbows @60svintage @littlehoneyposts @epthedream69 @louisejoy86 @rjmartin11 @from-memphis-with-love @deltafalax @cinnamoroll-things @burnthheparaphilia @jhoneybees @cattcb @everythingelvispresley @returntopresley @searchingforgravity @msamarican @angschrof @lustnhim @librababe99 @hooked-on-elvis @theelvisprincess @makethemorning @peaceloveelvis @mrspresley69 @pxpresley @kxnnxy @angelriley222 @iloveelvis2 @epletsplayhouse

[beansnsoup]

The World We Knew

Summary: He was yours, emphasis on was. One day, you were in love, at least you were. The next, He was gone, and you felt as if your whole world had gone in shambles.

Relationship: Romantic?

Character: Loid Forger

Warnings: Angst, Long lost love, fem reader, but it's not a huge part of the storyline, Spy x Family VOL. 10 spoilers!!!!

Note: I hate to have put "blank" when talking about loid but considering the storyline circumstances and volume 10 we still don't know his name, like it was literally bleeped out in the volume itself.

Peace.

It's what the both of you wanted. It's what everybody wanted.

You had known him since you were kids, and you always knew it had been a passion of his to move forward with the war to gain the peace of every townsperson deserved. He wanted more with his life, and that was what he chose.

Out of everyone in the little group you had, you were the closest with him. He had always been so nice to you and never failed to make you feel included.

You weren't a big fan of playing war games with him and the other boys, but you remember one instance where they had told you to just go home because they didn't want you moping around why they were playing their army games.

All of the boys agreed except him.

He suggested you be a nurse. What would happen if they got hurt, and nobody was there to help? You happily took on this role. He always found a way to make you feel special.

When you talked about all of these interactions with your mother, she told you upfront that you had a crush on him. At the time, you were too young to think about having a crush.

However, as you got older and really thought about how much you talked about him and how he made you feel, it was, in fact, a crush.

After the bombing in Westalis, you hadn't seen him in years. You had always assumed that he was caught in the ruble of it all. You know that was thinking the worst, but it was completely possible.

You had decided to volunteer as a nurse for the war, the role you felt you were meant to be in. It just felt right to help out. Plus, if he was alive, you'd knew for a fact he'd be fighting in the war, underage or not. One day, you could see him again.

At the moment, you weren't placed in the hospital wing. You'd instead been sent to go provide food for all the soldiers, the ones in care, and the ones walking around freely.

"Wait... Is that you advisor?"

You overhear someone ask over the ruckus of the townspeople and soldiers, your mind immediately went straight to the first face you had locked with that name, but you knew it couldn't be, there was no possible way.

Even though you had been waiting all these years to hear that name and see that face, it just all still felt so unreal, you just couldn't bear to face the reality of it.

"Genral? Corporal? Major?"

"It is him!"

"It's advisor!"

"No way! It can't be!"

You weren't trying to eavesdrop, but it was very hard not to. They went on and on about how they attempted to search for "advisor" and how much he had grown.

This time, you couldn't help but look back, and they were right. It was him, and he did look the same. It took every strength in you not to walk over and talk to them, they were your friends, but it had been so long, and they were closer to one another, you didn't want to ruin their moment.

"Now all we need now is our nurse, and the whole gang will officially be back together again!" One of the men chimed in, if only they knew you were standing just a few feet away from them. "Yeah, I've been trying to look for her just as much everyone else, she's probably been on my mind the most."

The guys all hooted at this, you pretended it also didn't get a rise out of you while you still acted as if you were more interested in the fruits in front of you instead of the conversation happening behind you.

"Are you free this weekend? There's a great restaurant in the next town over!" The advisor proposed, trying to distract him from what he had previously said. They all explained what they would be up to but how they'd keep in touch.

You had turned back around by this point, but you could tell he was smiling as he they put together their plans.

You listened to them all walk away, then you're mind started racing,

"Should I have gone to talk to them?"

"No, it's okay, they wouldn't have remembered me."

"But I'd be with him."

You jolted back around, just to find none of them there, damn.

-

The war had long since been from over. It had probably been one of the worst moments in your life aside from the bombing you'd experienced as a child.

And after seeing all of your old friends names, all except for him, in the charts marked as deceased you knew wouldn't be able to stand another minute witnessing such torture. So now all you could think about was the fact that you could've spoken to them that one day, before they all passed, but you just couldn't muster up the courage.

But now you were starting a new life in a new area, and maybe he would finally leave your mind and just be a fuzzy memory that you joke about with your future children.

At the thought you hear a child start to laugh, you avert your eyes to the direction. She's a young girl, no more than 6 or 7 years old, and she has pink hair that reaches her shoulders, you smile at her excitement.

Moments like these make your mind wander into a field of imagination of the family you could've built by now. But you were fine with not being settled down just yet because you knew with how much time you had been working as a war aid there wouldn't have been any time for love.

And there was no time for love while your mind was still on him.

You glance down back at your book, reading the paragraph over that you were interrupted from.

"Papa! Look! Look at all of the cows!"

"Yes, I see them." He chuckled in response.

Your eyes widen, head jolting back up to the familes direction, that voice.

"Genral? Corporal? Major?"

"...She's been on my mind the most."

"Are you free this weekend?"

It was him, it had to be, there was no doubt about it.

You wanted to walk up and say hi, but you didn't know how weird that would be, considering you had once had your chance for a reunion but blew it. But maybe it was time, even if he had a child next to him, and she called him 'Papa.'

Yet at the same time, you didn't want to regret it for the rest of your life by not going up to speak and reminisce with him like last time.

You would have given anything for him to look at you again.

In that moment, you had decided that it was time, and you would see and talk to him again.

You put your bookmark in, saving your page and closing it, and just as you were about to stand and make your way over, a woman came walking out of the bathroom area of the train.

"Sorry I was gone so long!"

"Mama!"

Your smile dropped, and you felt your world collapse once more. You couldn't feel your face.

She was breathtakingly gorgeous. She had her silky jet black hair that was styled up and beautiful ruby eyes.

She's what he needed, what he deserved.

This made you feel sick to your stomach, but also ashamed, you had been fawning over this man for years. It was embarrassing.

You checked the clock above the door of the train, you didn't know how much more of this you could take, luckily there was only about 15 minutes left of your traveling.

All you could do now was fidget with your clothes and hands. You couldn't even bother to open up your book back up, you know you wouldn't be able to focus on anything that you were reading.

Once the train had come to a complete stop you felt a sense of relief wash over you, you couldn't stand to hear all of them be so happy together, not knowing that her role could've been yours.

You got up from your seat, beginning to grab your bags on the shelf above your seat. You had about 2 or 3.

As you struggled with the bags you didn't know that he had noticed,

"You two wait for me outside, I won't be long."

The two girls walk outside and sit on a nearby bench and wait for him while he helps you, you're still oblivious to everything happening around you.

"Miss?"

You're shocked to hear his voice, you drop your bag, almost tumbling backward but catch yourself on the seat.

He chuckles, "Mind if I help?"

"No, not at all."

You finally spoke to him, you look up at him, locking eyes, it had been everything you dreamed of.

His eyes go so wide, you swear they took the shape of a perfectly round circle.

"Y/n?"

You smile and nod.

He wants to hug you, he wants to hug you for centuries, he doesn't know what to do, this feeling that has just suddenly overcome him is making him feel like he no longer has any control.

There was no other way to explain it, he had thought about you so many nights.

Those nights when he was fighting for peace, he was thinking about you, thinking about how you when you were both still children and you would describe to him your future and the peace that would surround you.

"I-"

He's interrupted by a loud voice outside of the train,

"Passengers need to be making their way out of the carriages , the train will be loading more people soon!"

He rushes to grab your bags and help you off. He stops you outside of the train, a good few steps away from his 'family.'

He knows he shouldn't be doing this, it's reckless, it could ruin everything, but seeing you just opened up something within him and he can't stop himself, he just keeps talking.

"I thought you," he pauses.

"Died?" You finish his sentence, smiling at him still, you couldn't believe this was happening.

"Yeah, that."

"I could say the same for you, blank."

Hearing his real name makes his heart drop a little, he hasn't heard many people speak it since he served in the military and his old friends addressed him by it.

He was glad you were the one to say it.

He sighs, a small smile of his face, "I've missed you, alot.

Tears start to threaten to spill out, "I've missed you too, alot."

"I love you, blank." You say without thinking, he doesn't flinch at this the way he did at hearing his own name, which you don't question.

He stands completely still, looking you right in your eyes, not being able to get enough of this moment.

The next words that come out of your mouth surprise you, "But it's too late," You glance over at his 'family', making eye contact with the little girl, who looks almost as shattered as you do right now.

You grab your bags from him and walk towards the exit, feeling tears roll down your cheeks.

He couldn't feel his face, he felt more numb than he had ever felt before. He hears footsteps come up from behind him.

"Who was that Loid?" Yor asks, Anya clutched by her side, with a sad look on her face, like she had heard the whole conversation, Anya blocked out anything her parents were saying to scan around for the you.

"An old friend," He replies, still looking straight ahead, thoughts racing with what could've been.

my mind has been racing with this concept, sorry for the damage i have caused

[chimneyz]

Blue Christmas

A sharp blade of sunlight stabbed through the blackout curtains right into Tommy's eyes, it was unbearable enough to wake him from his slumber. In a groggy groan, Tommy shifted his body, facing away from the sunlight, pulling the blankets over his head cocooning himself in darkness once more. A sharp pain drilled into his brain making it throb against his skull. The pressure from it makes it feel as if his brain formed thumbs pressing against the back of his eyes trying their damndest to push them out of his head. A botched lobotomy would have been better than his. The stale taste of last night's alcohol coated his tongue, it was bitter. 

Tommy probably had too much to drink last night. It was all just one big blur, that has been happening more frequently... after... after everything. On his nights off Tommy spent his time at his favorite bar, a small little hole in the wall that was never crowded and always playing music from the post-punk genre from the late 70s and 80s. He either spent his time alone moping in the corner or with Sal who would sit there, listen to him and every once in a while offer a friendly pat on the back. Last night he spent it alone. He didn't have to spend it alone, yet he did. 

Sal gave him a last minute invite last week to his house for Christmas Eve. 

"You should come, Tommy," Sal said to him, patting his back. "Don't spend Christmas Eve here. Claire is making her famous chocolate caramel fudge." 

"I'll pop by." Tommy sipped his beer leaning onto the bar counter. 

He lied. 

He will make it up to Sal and Claire some other time. 

With the throbbing pain burrowed into his head, Tommy wondered if he drank more than he usually did. No, he didn’t have to wonder, he knew he did. 

Christmas was the one time of year he always hated. Well, that and the Fourth of July. Fuck the Fourth of July. 

Hate was an understatement, Tommy loathed Christmas. Despised it with every fiber of his being. He didn't remember a time when he didn't like the holiday. His feelings about it changed and evolved as he got older but he never liked it. As a kid his house became more unbearable, everything had to be perfect, and it never was. Not for his father at least. Somehow it was the one time of year he actually was home most of the time. His father had to show everyone that they weren't in his words: "The white trash family that everyone believes us to be, we will show them... all of them." 

Tommy still didn’t know who the ‘them’ even was.

His father's temper became more heated, more violent. Tommy couldn't count how many times he watched his mother lock herself away in the bedroom and weep.

Not only did his house become unbearable, Tommy would watch all the other families on his street be happy. Actually happy. Being happy on Christmas was a foreign concept to Tommy. How the fuck can people be happy on Christmas? 

When Tommy joined the army time wasn't an actual concept many hadn’t had the luxury to afford. Tommy never really knew the time. He forgot about the holiday altogether. Tommy could count on one hand what he was thankful for about the army. Not dealing with Christmas was one. The other, it got him out of that fucking house. 

Once Tommy was discharged, he moved to LA, he never wanted to see snow again. The beginning of snow signified to him the beginning of the dreaded holiday. The only issue with moving to a place with no snow, people tend to go a little crazy with their lights and decorations. Tommy always figured it was to compensate for the lack of snow. His first Christmas in LA wasn't bad, but it wasn’t good. He was looking forward to being alone for once. He just didn't expect it to be just as overwhelming as spending it at home with his family. The silence was just too loud. After a couple of years, the silence became deafening. Luckily by that time Tommy was already a firefighter, and his schedule was always not what most would consider normal. Tommy actually took the time to work on the holiday to not be fully alone. However, the loneliness still ate at him from the inside. 

But this year, this year was going to be different.  

"Hey my sister and Chim are throwing a party this year for Christmas, wanna be my date?" Evan smiled at him, it was brighter than the fucking sun. 

Tommy looked up at Evan's now boil-free face. Tommy should have known the conversation would happen at some point, Halloween was over and most people already started at least thinking about Christmas the day after. Tommy scooched up closer to his face, his entire body lying on top of Evan. It became his favorite place to sleep, on top of him with Evan's arms wrapped around him, his head lying softly on Evan's chest listening to his heartbeat. He now looked directly into Evan's big blue mesmerizing eyes pondering what to say. 

"I-If you don't want to you don't have to - o-or if you have plans already with your family. You haven't said much about them so I wasn't sure if you are still on speaking terms or-" 

Tommy moved closer, cradling Evan's face with both of his hands gently kissing his lips. "Yes," Tommy smiled, "I will go with you." 

Evan stared at him with awe. He could have sworn he saw fucking starlight in there. Tommy relished in the way Evan looked at him after every single kiss. That starlight never dulled, not even once. 

"Ok, good." Evan rested his head against this pillow smitten, holding on to Tommy a little tighter. 

"Also last I checked you called me your boyfriend, don't you think it's a bit middle school to ask for me to be your date for your sister's Christmas party?" Tommy teased, his mouth morphing into a smirk.

Evan playfully swats at Tommy, his body shaking from a giggle he was trying to hide. 

Tommy rested his head back on Evan's heart. Maybe this year will be different. 

Tommy clutched his pillow close, freezing under the mountain of blankets, the lack of Evan's heartbeat ached Tommy’s chest. His head was still pounding away relentlessly. Not that it mattered, he was alone. He wondered if he deserved the pain throbbing between his temples. 

 A wave of nausea washed over Tommy, quickly he scrambled out of his cocoon of blankets running over quickly to the ensuite bathroom. Hunching over the toilet throwing up whatever alcohol and bile was twisting his stomach into knots. Aching from vomiting, Tommy rested his sweaty body against the cool tile floor panting. 

"Fuck Christmas," he mumbled. 

After a while, Tommy finally got up, maybe eating something would help. His footsteps echoed throughout his empty home. Tommy’s home was small, Evan called it cozy, but right now it felt endlessly large and cold. He hated his house, he hated that he hated it. Tommy spent years fixing it up into something of his own, now it felt like it didn't belong to him, that he wasn't 

Once in the kitchen, Tommy opens the fridge, a cool breeze rushes through. To his dismay, there was hardly anything edible in his fridge. Tommy shouldn't be surprised, he hardly bought anything at the grocery store, he hardly ate since... since fucking up his own life. His head pounded, it was getting harder to ignore. Grabbing one of the very few water bottles in his fridge and a bottle of Excedrin, Tommy takes the pills and gulps them down with water. He didn't care that he hasn't eaten, he didn’t care that the meds might fuck up his stomach later, he needed to eliminate that headache fast. 

Tommy’s eyes looked around the cold empty house, not a Christmas decoration in sight. As big as the house felt, the walls closed in around him. It was getting harder to breathe. Why was it getting harder to breathe? What if he was going to wind up dead in this fucking house alone? Would anyone miss him? Would he even miss himself? Life would go on and on, not even realizing he died, alone, in this stupid fucking house. Tommy knew he wasn't going to die soon, he was fit, healthy, went to the doctors, he was fine. Yeah sure, fine. Totally and completely fine... in this cold empty house.

He needed to get out of there, fast. 

He didn't care that he was in his joggers and Evan's hoodie (in which he left behind months ago). Tommy quickly grabbed his boots, wallet, sunglasses, and keys, not even making an effort to tie the laces, and headed straight for the front door. 

After shutting the front door behind him he let out a sigh of relief, of fresh air, as if the air in the house were poisonous to his lungs. Even with the sunglasses shielding his eyes, the sun was still too bright for him to see. Tommy’s eyes eventually landed on a crushed box in front of his doorstep. A small white box with crumbs spilling out of the broken edges. Ants crawled all over it, feasting on whatever was inside. Tommy tilted his head, curious about the mystery box in front of him. From the footprint on the box, all Tommy could assume was he stepped on it last night, too drunk from the bar to realize there was something waiting for him when he got home. He crouched down to the box lifting the lid. Broken crumbled Christmas cookies filled the tiny box. Sal must have left this here last night. Maybe Claire made cookies instead of her chocolate caramel fudge this year. 

Tommy lifted what he could and threw it in the trash can at the edge of his driveway, whipping away the crumbs from his hand. Before closing the lid, Tommy caught the little note taped to the box. To Tommy was written in familiar handwriting, Evan's handwriting. Tommy quickly shut the lid, a nauseating pit formed in his stomach.

Christmas music echoes throughout the shopping isles of the grocery store. The wheels of the shopping cart squealed as they rolled along the linoleum. Tommy could only count a few others that were actually shopping. Talking his time - with nothing else to do - Tommy slowly strolled through the store looking at every little thing. It wasn't until he reached the produce aisle when Tommy abruptly stopped, the soles of his shoes speaking on the linoleum. He looked down at the variety of mushrooms before him. 

"Which mushrooms should I choose, Tommy?" 

Tommy turns to find Evan looking down at the mushrooms. Evan's eyebrows furrowed, his hands on his hips. Tommy watched as Evan bit down on his bottom lip contemplating. Tommy loved how Evan looked while contemplating. 

Tommy loved Evan, he didn’t say it out loud but he loved him. He has for a while now, but it really didn't click until that day in the graveyard. He hoped the basketball tickets he bought just a couple hours ago showed his love. He was a little nervous about their six-month anniversary, he wasn't sure why. He hoped the tickets conveyed how much their relationship meant to him. It was how this whole thing started, right? 

"Which do you think morel or chanterelle?" Evan asked. 

"Uh, I am not sure," Evan chuckled, "What's the difference?" 

"Well morels have this smokey nutty flavor, chanterelles on the other hand have this somewhat fruity flavor. I just can't decide what would be better for this orzo recipe. It has to be perfect." 

"Evan hon' it's just orzo it doesn't have to be perfect. Besides, Maddie and Howie will be happy with whatever you bring for the Christmas party." 

"Yes it does," Evan looked at him. "It’s my first Christmas with you, it has to be perfect." 

Tommy’s heart swelled. 

"Evan..." Tommy kissed the birthmark above Evan's eyebrow, "All I need is you for it to be perfect." 

Tears stung Tommy’s eyes, the memory making him ache. 

Quickly he wheeled the cart away, unable to look at mushrooms the same now. He quickly got the things he intended to get in the first place, a package of chocolate chip cookie dough and a small tub of cream cheese frosting. He didn't know why he took so long in the store, nor did he know why he took a shopping cart for two items. Maybe it was to stall time, to lean on something, to ground him. 

From the speakers the soothing sounds of Wham! sung a little tune. 

Last Christmas, I gave you my heart 

But the very next day, you gave it away

This year, to save me from tears

I'll give it to someone special

"You have got to be fucking kidding me right now." 

Tommy couldn’t get out of that grocery store fast enough. 

Tommy stared up at the screen above him, Babygirl, Wicked, Nosferatu. So many choices on the screen it made his headache again. The package of cookie dough tapped onto his thigh. 

"What would have the least Christmas spirit?" Tommy looked down at the board teen. 

"I don't know man," she said, not really looking up from her book. 

"Wouldn't you've seen these movies?"

"Just because I work here doesn't mean I have seen any of them." 

Tommy slumped down into the movie theater chair with his extra large cherry lime Icee slush, a large popcorn (extra butter), his package of cookie dough, and cream cheese frosting. He must admit he was surprised that the workers let him walk in with food. But he probably looked as he felt, like shit. Nobody really wants to talk to you when you look like you are going through hell, especially during the holidays. 

Eventually, Tommy landed on Nosferatu, it seemed the safest bet, even though Tommy hated horror movies. Couldn't stand them. He always found himself to be anxious and jumpy after every single one he has watched. He never got that much sleep after a horror movie. But maybe that is what he needed, to be anxious and jumpy, to keep his mind off of things, to preoccupy. And the whole not being able to sleep after horror movies... Well, it wasn't like he was getting that much sleep to begin with these days. His bed was too cold without Evan. 

"Babe?"

Tommy flinched, the mattress sunk down next to him as Evan sat next to him, his eyes filled with concern.

"Are you alright? You've been biting your nails a lot tonight?" 

Tommy removed his fingernails from his teeth, he didn’t even realize he was doing it. It was a bad habit he had since he was a kid. His father practically yelled at him about it more times than he could count. Only pussies bite their nails. That is what his father always said. He picked up the habit again while in the army. Luckily it only became a habit when he was anxious. Tonight seemed to be one of those nights. 

"Sorry," Tommy mumbled. 

"Hey, you don't need to be," Evan inched closer, "What's going on inside that head of yours?" 

Tommy sighed slumping his shoulders down, "I hate horror movies Evan, I am sorry I just do. I know you wanted to do this marathon of thirteen movies for thirteen nights but... I just can't stand them. They make me anxious and I can't relax after watching them. I am so sorry." 

"Hey," Evan cupped Tommy’s face pulling him to look right at Evan, "Don't be sorry, we don't have to do it if you don't like it ok?" 

Tommy nodded. 

"Now," Evan smirked, "Let's see how I can distract you." 

"Distract me?" 

Evan hummed as he pulled down the waistband of Tommy’s briefs. 

"Oh," Tommy hummed. 

"Let me grab the lube, and I'll make you forget every scary little thing." 

"You better," Tommy giggled.

Tommy watched the credits roll, he wished he did have a distraction, a good one, to keep the thoughts in his mind at bay. It was too bad that the perfect distraction probably wanted nothing to do with him now.

By the time Tommy left the movie theater, darkness covered the night sky. He got into his truck and left. Tommy didn’t want to go home, not yet. Not to the empty cold unwelcoming house. But where else would he go? Nowhere. Usually, on days like these, he'd sit down and watch Love, Actually and forget about the world around him. But not today, actually not even in the whole month of December. He never could get through the whole thing in December. 

The loneliness was eating away at him. He didn't know how much longer he could take it, the loneliness was becoming too loud, too unbearable. 

As Tommy drove down his street he looked through every house with lights wondering if the families inside were happy. Wondering why his family never was. Even the houses with no Christmas decor still felt warm and welcoming. But not his. Something was different though, someone was there, right at his doorstep. 

"Evan?" 

Tommy pulled his car into his driveway killing the engine. Evan fumbled with the large paper cards in his hands cursing under his breath as he picked them up. Tommy shut the car door unsure how Evan hasn't noticed him yet. The noise from the car door made Evan jump up, looking at Tommy with his big blue eyes, his cheeks growing pink. 

"Uh, h-hey Tommy." Evan rubbed the back of his neck. 

"Evan, what are you doing here?" 

"I uh," Evan gestured to the large cards sprawled on the ground. "I wanted to do something... well. You love Love, Actually so much I thought that this would be-" Evan's cheeks morphed from pink to red. "I-It’s stupid." 

"It's not stupid," Tommy chuckled. "It’s adorable." 

"R-Really?"

Tommy hummed, walking a bit closer to Evan. 

"The last one was going to ask if you could be my date to Maddie and Chim's Christmas party." Evan smiled.

"Evan, I... I can't..." his voice trailed off to a mumble. 

"Why? It's not like you have any plans." 

Tommy winced at Evan's words. 

"S-Sorry, I didn't mean to, that was..." Evan pressed his lips together thinly, his shoulders stiff, "Uncalled for." 

"Evan I don't know if that would work," Tommy murmured darting his eyes away and crossing his arms, "I hurt you. I am sorry for that but I did it anyway. How could you know I wouldn't hurt you again?" 

Evan sighed, he inched closer to Tommy wrapping his arms around Tommy’s biceps squeezing them gently. "I don't... but that doesn't mean we should fight for this. Tommy, I went over what you said that night over and over on an endless loop. You wanted this just as much as I do, don't turn your back on this. On us." 

"Evan, I am nobody's last, I am not someone people love unconditionally, that's just now who I am."

"You're wrong Tommy," Evan said, determination flaring in his eyes, "I love you. I love the good, the bad. Every single bit of you. You are loveable. Whether you are with me or not I will always love you, no matter what."

Tommy could feel the tears forming around his eyes. 

"I wish you will choose to be with me," Evan whispered. 

"Evan..." Tommy's voice cracked, "I-I have so much shit to work through." 

"So do I. But let's not do it apart when we can deal with it together." 

"The last time I let someone get in this close... it fucking shattered me. It took me years to pick up the pieces. I don't know if I can do that again."

"Are you not hurting now?" 

Tommy huffed, "Of course I am, but-" 

"Tommy I cannot predict the future, everything could work out for the both of us. We could die horribly tomorrow. Who knows? But can we just focus on the present and walk our path to the future together?" 

"I am so sick and tired of being alone."

"I know." Evan moved his hand up holding Tommy’s cheek, wiping away a tear with his thumb. "Please don't be alone tonight. We can talk later but don't be alone tonight." 

"You have no idea how much I wanted you by my side, how much I've missed you, how much I needed you." 

"I think I have somewhat of an idea. You are calling me Evan again." Tommy's face felt warm, burning even. "You have no idea how much I needed you Tommy, how much I still need you." 

Evan brought Tommy in closer, pressing his lips against Tommy's gently kissing him. Tommy missed this, needed this, craved this. He wrapped his hands around Evan's waist kissing back desperately needing Evan more than air itself. The kiss went from gentle to passionate making up for lost time, both hungry - no, starving - for each other. 

Both parted gasping for air, Tommy watched Evan's eyes glitter from the stars above.

"I want to figure this out by your side, If you will let me." Tommy whispered. 

"Of course," Evan kissed the center of Tommy’s forehead, "Merry Christmas Tommy."

Tommy chuckled, "Merry Christmas Evan." 

Maybe this Christmas was going to be different after all.

[setmeatopthepyre]

Pole [@118dailydrabble day 10] [bucktommy | 118 words]

so @sugarpenchant sent me this post and said "there's a bucktommy au in this somewhere I'm sure of it" and then we got to chatting about post-breakup tommy deciding to straight up run to the ends of the earth to distance himself, and, well...

-

It starts as a joke, is the thing.

More accurately, it starts with Lucy dragging him to a cocktail bar, and Tommy moping into his third Sidecar (“Please tell me that's some sort of gay army euphemism”) while he contemplates, for the millionth time, calling Evan.

“So.” Lucy covers his phone with a menu. “Holiday plans?”

“Does researching 'most remote places on earth to wallow' count?”

She sips her Old Fashioned thoughtfully. “Well, if you really wanna get out of cell range, my buddy says they always need pilots in Antarctica.”

It's a joke. No one spontaneously decides to spend the holidays at the South pole.

Two weeks later, his paperwork is filed and he's on his way.

[silly-is-trying]

#1 Ikemen Sengoku HCs!

• Comfort / some “It’s going to be okay” vibes

━✦❘༻༺❘✦━

Nobunaga | Kenshin | Masamune

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

“You aren’t focused.”

Nobunaga’s voice cut through the thick silence of the tenshu. His sharp eyes were no longer gazing contemplatively at the goban placed between the two of you and were instead fixed squarely on your face, “What is wrong?”

His question was direct, blunt and you wracked your brain to find a way to cover it up. After all, you came here to Nobunaga’s tenshu to spend time with him, to distract yourself, not mope with him by your side. You open your mouth to make your (made up) case but before you could even get a word in, Nobunaga speaks once more.

“If you’re going to respond with something along the lines of “nothing”, “everything’s fine”, “don’t worry about it” or some absurd combination of the the three,” He straightened up and was back to looking at you with those piercing eyes, “Do not waste your breath.”

Before you could respond to that too, he offers you a hand as he rises, one you subconsciously take. And a moment later you’re in his arms, shielded against the wind as the two of you look out over the city of Azuchi at dawn from the balcony.

“I know my fireball well.” His voice is soft against your ear as his arms that are wrapped around your waist from behind tighten, “Your mind is elsewhere and you are bothered, upset.”

“I don’t know what caused such a thing but I won’t pry. Yet. For now, focus on this moment. You are here, in my arms and I shall do all in my power to keep you content.”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

“When I find the one who did this, I’ll kill them.”

Kenshin stated, his slender fingers rhythmically tapping the sheath of his sword. In his defense, he didn’t start out with the declaration (he’s gotten better about threatening to kill. Perhaps being with you has softened him in some regard). Instead, he brought his army of bunnies to your room and deployed them to bring about your happiness. Only when that didn’t work did he reach for his sword.

Hastily, you convey to him that no one (or thing) was at fault for your sadness. It was just one of those days. One cannot always be happy year round, can they?

Kenshin frowned at this. In his mind ideally, you, his lover, the light of his life, should always be happy. Why should he concede to letting you know sadness at all? That being said, he understands. He stops tapping at his sword, looking to you with a softened expression while he runs through ideas on how to bring a smile back to your face.

You chuckle at this, before turning your eyes back to the beautiful garden the two of you were standing in front of.

“It’ll pass, Kenshin.” You say softly, eyes following the sway of the flowers against Echigo’s cold winds, “I’ll be okay.”

At this, your lover steps closer. Before you know it, you’re tugged gently into his arms, your head resting against his chest.

“Then allow me to stay at your side until I am certain that you are.”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

“Cut the bullshit, kitten.”

Masamune snaps, cutting you off in your attempt to try and convince him that you were okay. With a huff, you turn away from him, decidedly going to storm away from the kitchen that the two you were cooking in prior to this.

Realizing that his words might have come off more biting than he’d intended, he thwarts your move by catching your hand and keeping you there in a gentle albeit firm hold.

“Don’t.” His voice and piercing blue gaze both soften considerably once he notices the tears prickling at the corner of your eyes, “Hey, hey look-”

Keeping one hand around yours so you don’t make a dash for it and using the other to reach into a cabinet, he pulls out a small piece of candy.

“Your favorite, yeah?” He offers, “Say ah.”

Reluctantly, you do so and you can’t help but offer a meek smile of your own back to him as the sweetness of the treat spreads across your tongue.

“Good, hm?” Masamune says, his large palms coming up to cup your face, an action that you allow, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap but you know I can tell when you’re not okay, right?”

You nod because admittedly, he can. You feel the tears coming back to blur your vision once more. He softly asks what’s upsetting you again, thumbs brushing at your cheeks as if in anticipation for wiping off the tears that threaten to fall from your eyes. You simply tell him it’s just been a rough day in general and that you’re at your wits end.

Gently, he wraps his arms around you, chin resting atop your head as he speaks.

“I’m sorry. You know I’d take the pain away if I could.” Masamune understood the feeling well. Some days were just bad days. You respond to this with another nod, not trusting your voice to remain steady.

“But you wanna know what helps me out on days like these?” You could hear the grin in his voice and you pulled away just enough to peek at his expression and try to decipher what he was hinting at.

His eye narrows for a fraction of a second and a moment later you were lifted up into his arms. His smile widens when he hears you let out a yelp of surprise as he placed you on the counter, placing his hands down on either side of you.

“A distraction.”

Your lover chuckles with a very telling smirk and knowing exactly what he means, you can’t help but giggle along with him.

━✦❘༻fin༺❘✦━

[bejeweledblondie]

You Don’t Send A Man To Do A Woman’s Job

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x F! Reader

Summary: Heavily Inspired by the Fast Furious scene with Gal Gadot. While trying to figure out how to get intel on Makarov Y/N’s quick thinking & feminine ways help gain that intel much to surprise to Soap

Warnings: Sexual themes, seduction, mentions of female body parts

Being in the military definitely had it pitfalls sometimes it could mean sitting in a remote shack for days or even not having running water. But it definitely did have its perks. This was one of them. Drinking frozen Margaritas in the Bahamas Y/N, Soap, & Gaz all stood around a high top table staring at a group of Russians. They were given a tip that some of Makarov’s men were on vacation here. Soap & Gaz were bickering over what was the best way to gain intel off of them. Ghost & Captain Price were planted on the roof of the resort god forbid things went south.

“And how do you propose we do that? We can’t exactly just plant a device wherever we wanted to.” Soap replied with attitude. Gaz rolled his eyes & before he could even respond Price came over the radio.

“Oi knock it off you two!” He shouted. “Figure a plan out and let us know.” He sounded beyond frustrated & rightfully so. Y/N kept staring at them brainstorming ways she herself could be of assistance. Then she saw a very attractive blonde woman flirt with the armed guards outside of the cabana. It clearly drew attention to her & the the Russians invited her in. She plopped herself down onto one of their laps & accepted one of their drinks. A light bulb went off in her head.

“Guys.” She said trying to gain their attention. They started to bicker again & completely ignored her. “Soap? Gaz?” She tried again to no avail. “Fuck it, I’m going in Captain. Just make sure you’re recording their conversations.” She said into her hidden ear piece & whipped off her leopard coverup to reveal a cheeky red bikini. As she started to walk away both Soap & Gaz stopped talking.

“Steamin’ Jesus.” Soap said. Ghost & Price both chucked at the expense of his reaction. Everyone knew Soap had a thing for you it was so incredibly painfully obvious to everyone except you. He couldn’t help but admire the way your bikini bottoms hugged your ass or the fact your toned legs stretched on for miles. He licked his lips at the sight.

As she walked towards the cabana she gained some unwanted attention from men scattered all over the pool, but it didn’t phase her. She was on a mission & was determined. Once she made it to the cabana she started to flirt with the armed guards. With her breasts pushed up in her bikini top & her famous smile she had gained the attention of one of the Russians.

“It’s fine Ivan, let the beautiful American woman in.” One of the men said. “Come sit.” He beckoned her to come in & sit down. She sat on the arm of his chair & he immediately grabbed a handful of her ass. Then he said made a remark to his friend in Russian about how good your ass felt. To his knowledge you had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. But after being part of the US Army’s psychological warfare division Russian was one of five language you knew.

Back at the high top, Soap was ready to fight the man who grabbed you. Gaz almost had to physically restrain him.

“Think of the mission, Soap.” He reminded him. Soap grumbled to himself & started to mope into his drink. Over the next hour she had gained some of the most important intel about weapons, imports, exports, hell the whole operation. Soon the Russians started to get up to excuse themselves for dinner.

The man she had been sitting with, whom she come to know as Andrei invited her to dinner. She accepted even though she wouldn’t be attending. A small piece of her felt bad for lying. But she quickly reminded herself these men were war criminals. They profited off of the murder of children, women, & families. Once all of them were gone she walked back over to the high top where Soap & Gaz were.

Soap took the time to take in the sight of her walking towards them. Her breasts bouncing with each step, & the way her hips swayed. He was undressing her with his eyes & imagined her without that damn red bikini. Once she reached the table she put the cover up back on covering her body.

“So how much intel did you gain?” Gaz asked.

“More then we needed.” She replied.

“I have to ask, how on the Earth did you accomplish that?” Soap asked. She turned to him & smirked.

“It’s easy MacTavish, you don’t send a man to do a woman’s job.” She replied.

[ladypiscesmoon]

Update Armie Hammer/Timothée Chalamet

I had a lot of asks about Armie unfollowing Timmy on social media. I came back from visiting friends and felt really restless, so I took my cards as soon as I got home. The reading is done on 9 December (circa 18.00, my local time)

To get a general feeling for where they stood when I was doing the reading I pulled cards from the angel number oracle deck:

Armie: 999: Release

balance

finances

success wealth

cycles

what goes around comes around

Both: 0505: Unexpected shift

divine intervention

sudden challenges

love

pleasant surprises

gut feeling

Timmy: 2222: Feminine Forces

relationships

balance

prosperity

efficiency

patience

humility

It's clear to me that by doing something like this Armie wanted to force Timmy to take a stand. To choose Armie, to not being a coward and hiding behind work or other bullshit. In other aspects of Armie's life but love, he feels in control. He wants a new start with Timmy too, but if Timmy is leaving him hanging he wants to let him go.

Timmy has to listen to what Armie tells him with this message, because Armie means it. Together they would be really strong and it would learn Timmy to find a better balance between (personal) relationships and work. He tends to emerge himself in his work, trying to forget things he find difficult to deal with. He feels humiliated and very, very hurt at the moment.

This is the universe trying again to nudge them together, because that's what should happen, but Timmy is the one delaying it. This is like a wake-up call for Tim.

Why did Armie unfollow Tim?

The wellness oracle:

the runner

ascending

healthy choices

the sword and rose

(this card fell out) not today

This was a sign Armie is done waiting, because he thinks he has given Timmy enough time to get rid of the pr and Kylie. He thinks that Timmy doesn't prioritize him, that he chooses a lot of other things instead of focusing on the relationship they try to build. He's sad and still angry. Probably seeing Timmy everywhere is also too much for him at the moment. he wants to make healthy choices for himself and thinks this could be one

How does Timmy feel about Armie unfollowing him?

abundance

casette

heartbroken

addiction

love call

love

Timmy thought that Armie understood that he didn't have time at the moment to do much about the Karjenners, he has done as much as he could to resist (like not giving in with Thanksgiving and refusing her at the Gotham awards), he thought Armie saw that as a good thing. So he didn't pick up it wasn't enough. Besides he did what he always does: work way too hard and doing it back to back, like filming and doing promo for ACU. So I guess Armie feels like Tim is not giving the attention he wants to have.

Timmy feels really anxious, he's scared he has lost Armie for real this time. he's sad and feeling alone. I heard a few times Why now? What have I done this time? What did I do wrong? So I think Armie's action has taken him completely by surprise. He has to take action, not moping around or overindulge himself. He's also feeling really tired, so he's too much in his head, dwelling in the past, where he should jump up and go get his man...

Light and shadow Tarot:

Armie: 4 of cups/king of cups/ the emperor

Armie feels it will be easier for him to let Timmy go, but it's not easy at all for him, because at the same time his heart wants to reach out to Timmy and begin their life together

Timmy: the magician/the world/8 of swords

It's not the first time Timmy is manifesting Armie in his life, and I think he just had to have this wake-up call.

Blocks to love:

Armie:

feeling incomplete

low self esteem

control issues

I think that Armie is insecure and feeling as if Timmy thinks he's not worth it. Armie likes to have control over things, probably because it took him a long time to get there, because other people took over many aspects in his life. He's impatient, he doesn't want to wait anymore. He wants love and be loved.

Timmy:

insecurities

dwelling in the past

codependency

Timmy is trying to please everyone, he feels insecure about what to do in relationships, doesn't listen to his heart. If he would, and if he did communicate better, this issue of the unfollowing wouldn't have come up.

Hermit tarot:

Armie:

I am addicted to you

i am absolute in love with you

i am obsessed with your body

i am terrified

This sums up how complicated Armie's feelings are. He wants to build something with Timmy, he's absolute in love with him, but he draws a line in the sand. Actually it's one big message to Tim: Please, choose me.

Timmy:

you make my heart full

let me hold you

you know already

yes

I hope you'll wait for me

Again, it's not the love/ being in love part that is the issue here. He just didn't think about the effect the waiting part had on Armie.

That concludes this reading. They were heading in the right direction and Tim should really take this seriously. But, yeah these two have a hard time staying away from each other. I don't think we will see together this year, though.

*As ever: this reading is alleged/for entertainment purposes only. *

[jhoneybees]

It's been a long long time

Back with another fic! Hope you like it❤️

Characters: Army!Elvis X Little!reader

Warnings/triggers: missing someone, crying, little!space, little lifestyle, age regression

_____________________________________________

It’s been so long since you’ve seen Elvis, one year to be exact. Might not be that long for others but to you, felt like an eternity.

You’ve missed him, and during most of the lonely, dark nights alone, you often replace your favourite stuffie with something else, like one of his shirts.

Which Elvis would always tease “Now that is a crime, little”

You do have the occasional call from him but it wasn’t enough, moping around the big mansion without hearing that hearty laugh of his and being held in his arms was just torture for your poor heart.

But when you were told that you were going to meet him in Paris, in France, you felt so relieved and excited.

You didn't want to waste any time and immediately started to pack your luggage.

You thought of what you’re gonna do when you see him and all the things you’re gonna tell him. You even drew him a picture of both of you with love hearts all over the paper, nicely put away into a pink envelope and written on the front of it gently.

Oh you’re just so thrilled that you’re gonna see your daddy again.

_____________________________________________

Brushing the creases out of your pink dress, you take a deep breath.

Your excitement is boiling over, you’re very excited, of course but that tiny anxious feeling still itches at your mind.

Elvis always reminds you that he doesn't mind you slipping into your ‘little mind’ he likes to call it but this time you want to meet him without him having to deal with it.

It's what you want to do for him-

Just then when your eyes shift up at the door opening into your hotel room, you gasp softly when he peeks his head in with that famous grin on his face.

Your adult mind immediately falls head first into your ‘little mind’.

“Daddy!”

Jumping onto your feet, you run into his warmth. Wrapping your arms around his waist as your head is buried into his military jacket, smelling that scent you've been longing,

Those shirts did no justice.

His chuckle chiming brightly making you giggle, you lift your head to look up at him, smiling widely as he does the same “How’s my good little girl, hm?” stroking your hair with his firm hand.

You nod silently as you look at him in awe, your smile falters as your eyes grow watery and a pout forming on your lips.

Blurting out in a small sob “I missed you, Daddy” whimpering sadly as you rest your head back against his chest. Feeling his arms tighten around you “Oh darlin’...” your fists balling up on his chest as you sniffle quietly. He places a kiss on top of your head “I’ve missed you too, Baby…too much”

Both of you staying in the moment for a little while, Elvis pulls away to cup your cheeks in his large hands, gently thumbing away your salty tears as you delicately hold his wrist and lean into his touch. His eyes soften, knowing that little spark in your eye “My sweet girl…” his lips giving you a small smile.

Looking behind you, his smile grows when he spots a pink envelope discarded on the bed with “For Elvis” written carefully on the front “Got me a gift, darlin?” he questions to which your eyes light up and you excitedly nod, grabbing his hand. Making sure to sit him down before giving him the envelope.

Elvis being extra careful as he opens the gift, his eyes crinkle at the corners as they land on a drawing. Knowing that you would've put all your effort into it.

Chuckling quietly, he looks at you “This is beautiful, doll…Thank you” admiring the art as he brings his hand up to palm at stray tears on his cheek.

Your eyebrows begin to furrow, shuffling closer to his side to hold his face with your small hands “ ‘m sorry” His blue eyes looking down at you with so much adoration, awe, love.

Letting out a breathy laugh as you wipe away his tears with your thumbs “Don’t be sorry, Honey” leaning down to peck your cheek and shaking his head as he snickers.

“Just so happy to see my sweet girl again…it's been a long long time”

[maryaandmorevna]

A Song of Swan and Dragons VIII.

Summary: Baela arrives at King's Landing, Aemond has a plan, and Arianne deals with gossip and an uncomfortable discovery.

Words: 102, 950 tw: none for this chapter

Previous chapters: I., II., III., IV., V., VI., VII.

Ao3 link, also tagging @lacebvnny , and I've used the phrase 'kivio zȳrys' to mean special one/mate (not really soulmate as they probably soul bond with dragons), which I learned from here

VIII. Jēnqa

“There is no escape — we pay for the violence of our ancestors.” - Frank Herbert (Dune#1)

(Baela)

The wind lashed against her face like a whip.

Baela Targaryen flew high, the gray-green wings of Moondancer slicing through the pale blue sky, trailing just behind the crimson blaze of Meleys.

Loktys, clinging under her riding cloak, gave a pitiful squeak. He had been a gift from some pompous Volantene trading envoy trying to flatter her grandmother — but the monkey ran up to her that day, not Rhaenys.

And now he was hers.

“We’ll be there soon,” she murmured, adjusting the thick strap across her chest to secure him better.

He screeched again and burrowed deeper into her warmth.

Unlike her, he was not so fond of the air. The cold bit at her cheeks and stung her lips, but she only grinned into it.

When Princess Rhaenys decided they'd come to King's Landing, she was rather excited to explore the capital after so long.

She'd dreamed of horse races through the Street of Sisters, sailing up and down on Blackwater Rush, and crossing it to go hawking, of course, of trying all the different ales her grandmother considered inferior to wine and of dancing until her feet ached.

For the last six years, Driftmark had been her home. Her chambers were splendid, across from the ones her mother occupied before Baela had been born.

Spacious, sea-scented, full of light, and cold during the last winter. A tall pine tree, which she had made use of many times while escaping her annoying Septa, grew just under the tall, wide window.

Baela used to sneak off to the village docks to challenge boys and girls to race barefoot through tide-slick sand. A few times, she had been accused of wrestling with fisherfolk’s children, but it was a lie. She only wrestled with squires of knights serving House Velaryon.

Sitting still had to be some form of art, quite elusive to her.

Baela never could do it, even as a babe. Supposedly.

Only one thing had ever truly held her attention for long — her father’s stories. She’d perch on his knee, eyes wide, as he spoke of Valyria before the Doom — of the twisted, topless spires, of dragon armies and their generals, of fire and blood.

He'd grin at her insistence to hear more about the dark, terrible beauty of it, it was what they had in common. Rhaena would get quiet, hoping her egg would hatch so that she, too, might share in their ancestral glory.

She missed that version of her father. She missed Pentos sometimes. It had smelled of spice and citrus and fresh ink.

Of her mother's warmth.

Baela remembered the ship that carried her across the Narrow Sea to Driftmark — remembered the wet wood, salted rope, and resin; the rhythmic thud of waves below deck. It had also carried her mother’s body, shrouded in velvet, back to her parents to be buried as befits a Velaryon.

Uncle Laenor followed soon after.

With her children gone, Princess Rhaenys had requested that her granddaughters be sent to her.

Her father had agreed, too quickly, Baela mused, still salty about that.

Freshly wed to Rhaenyra and more interested in his new family than in them.

It was customary, of course, but she knew he cared little for customs.

Baela observed the river currents mixing with the sea of Blackwater Bay, holding tightly onto Moondancer's reins.

It had been her mother’s funeral — of all places — when she realized her father’s moping, mercurial moods, and obsession with purity of Valyrian blood and his legacy were his longing for her.

Rhaenyra.

His mirror. His match.

Kivio zȳrys.

His longing for the ugly chair she'd sit upon one day.

She had always imagined hearts to be vessels, to be filled. But her father’s heart had never been whole.

It had cleaved itself into pieces: one for her, one for Rhaena, one for their mother… and more than half for Rhaenyra.

The rest of them had been left to scavenge the scraps.

It was an unpleasant truth to swallow.

Baela’s gaze drifted to the rooftops ahead, trying to blink the sting from her eyes.

It had been Rhaenyra who objected. That, Baela remembered clearly. She hadn’t wanted the girls to leave and had looked at her and Rhaena not as burdens, but as daughters in truth.

Baela still wasn’t sure if it had been affection.

Or strategy.

Was she worried that Rhaena and she might supplant her sons as heirs to Driftmark? Everyone with eyes could see Jace and Luke were not of salt or sea. Yet the dragon sisters were unmistakably daughters of Laena Velaryon.

If Rhaenyra could be the King's heir, why wouldn't Laena's daughter be House Velaryon's heir?

Laena was the firstborn.

Her daughters certainly had more right than the grasping grand-uncle Vaemond.

'Yet, if grandmother truly meant to press my claim, instead of simply opposing Vaemond's, she'd make the situation even more complicated for Lucerys.'

Baela bit into her plump lower lip, thinking of her stepbrothers.

Whatever blood ran in them, they had treated her kindly.

Jace and Luke had defended Rhaena fiercely the day that vile son of Alicent Hightower laid claim to Laena’s dragon like it was his by right. They stepped in after Baela herself was hit, not like two mere boys but like two knights, two true kinsmen.

Luke had even exacted a payment in blood, as true dragonlords do.

Like an eye was enough to pay for Rhaena's heart. Vhagar had been their mother's...

And Luke was now betrothed to Rhaena, a decision made by her father and Rhaenyra, much to her grandmother's chagrin.

"They seek to tie my hand..." The Queen who Never was had grumbled once she had read that particular letter from Dragonstone. Baela had thought someone tattled on her grandmother's ideas about the Driftwood throne passing to Laena's daughter whilst Lord Corlys was several seas away.

Now, Baela didn't know what to think. Her grandmother had her reasoning, but Luke was far from the worst option when it came to marriage for Rhaena. He was of Valyrian blood through his mother.

He had a dragon.

Besides, Baela had liked Rhaenyra's sons, they weren't poor company. Jace had even devised the plan for Rhaena to have a fair chance — between Silverwing and Vermithor. They were sneaking toward the caves when the dragonkeepers caught them.

Everyone assumed she had come up with it. Baela, the instigator.

Then and there, an accord was reached.

Dragonless Rhaena was to stay on Dragonstone, where eggs were abundant, and Baela would take Moondancer to Driftmark, becoming a ward to her grandmother.

And so she did.

There, she had learned what it meant to rule.

Her grandmother sat on the Driftwood Throne in her husband’s absence, and Baela had sat beside her, watching. Land disputes, tithe negotiations, trade deals... Driftmark was no sleepy seat.

Especially not when her family visited her.

She knew Rhaenys held no love for Rhaenyra, or her father, The Rogue Prince. There were rumors...awful, dark tales about her uncle's death. She didn't think they had done it, but she knew her father was capable of much and more to achieve his ends.

No, it was not any fondness for them that made her grandmother denounce Vaemond's ambitions.

It was the love for her husband that stayed her hand. It was likely that she would not deny his wishes - that Luke inherit Driftmark, even if Baela had witnessed her true desires several times during the last six years.

"It should be you, Laena's eldest. My true grandchild."

So, ruling anything was rather like trying to keep your head above water. Everyone had their own goals, everyone wanted something, and everyone plotted.

But it bored her senseless.

Rhaenys had tried to make her see the honor in it. And Baela had tried. Truly.

Vaemond's endless bickering had at least provided some amusement. She learned how to smile politely when merchants pushed too far, how to read a ledger, and how to sniff out a liar from the first word out of his mouth.

Dull business, all of it.

Flying, now that was a joy.

She leaned into Moondancer’s neck and adjusted the reins.

“Let’s overtake them.”

The dragon surged forward, arrowing past the larger Meleys. Baela caught a flash of her grandmother’s profile atop the Red Queen — regal, tall, with long, ivory strands flying behind her like a gonfalon.

The Dragonpit loomed atop the Hill of Rhaenys, its great domed roof shadowing the city below. She would see her sister soon.

She exchanged letters with Rhaena and Jace. Sometimes she felt a twinge of envy reading about all the fun they had on Dragonstone. Rhaena wrote about playing tiles, the dragon eggs, the long walks through smoky caverns. And always, now, about her new friend, Arianne. She had met her as well, though only briefly.

Jace mentioned her, too. More than once.

She’d seemed sweet — charming, in that overly careful way. Baela had broached the subject of her grandmother to her, Princess Saera, half-joking, and Arianne flushed crimson and pivoted to monologue about some scribe named Gessio and his theory on who founded Pentos. Baela, who had lived there as a child, barely kept herself from laughing.

Who cared about stone foundations when there were dragons in the sky and legends in your blood?

Still… there was something compelling about Arianne. Not quite dull, but strange. Rhaena liked her.

Though that wasn’t a ringing endorsement — Rhaena liked mushrooms and embroidery — but Baela was curious. She would have to get to know her better at least.

Arianne had opinions about dragons that were… bizarre, frankly. But they made for good entertainment.

So was Jace fond of her.

It was obvious from the way his letters were constructed. Every fifth sentence was about something involving Arianne.

Grandmother warned Baela that her father would try to tie her to Rhaenyra's eldest son (who was, for all intents and purposes, her grandmother's grandson). She had thought her father would sooner push for little Aegon and Viserys, his sons, to inherit, despite their three older half-brothers.

Maybe she was wrong, and her father esteemed her just as highly.

It...was fine, Baela supposed.

Once she was Queen, she would do as she liked, but...

Baela promised herself she would never find herself besotted with Jacaerys Velaryon. She liked him well enough, but she liked herself much more.

She would never end up like her mother — loving a man who chose her only because the woman he truly wanted was beyond reach.

A second choice. A spare.

She would not be the consolation prize in anyone’s story.

No.

Baela Targaryen would have a Valyrian man who adored her.

Who saw her and burned for it.

If Jace thought to simply woo her because he needed her to survive, he better think again. He would have to court her properly, and she was not as easily impressed as some marcher girl.

Besides, what if he were a poor kisser?

She'd had some delightful kisses and would not settle for less. She’d once kissed a Braavosi envoy’s son at a feast — she'd dared to while he was spinning her between the dancing figures. It had only lasted a moment before her grandmother's ladies dragged her away. He had tasted of cloves.

She thought of the other one, that boy, or man rather, who had not tried to kiss her at all.

It was in Hull, during one of those days when the sea was murky from the rain. She had escaped her tutors, again, and gone prowling down the docks beneath the castle, her riotous hair cropped to her chin, leather boots scuffed from salt and sand.

She saw him before he saw her.

Tallish. Bare-armed, muscles taut from hauling rope, soaked shirt clinging to his back.

Baela thought couldn't have been much older than she was, perhaps a year or two. Dark, clear skin, hair shaved close to his skull, though there was a faint sheen of silver there.

She stopped, openly staring.

The salty wind played with her cloak.

When he finally noticed her, he didn’t bow. Didn’t stammer.

Just looked up with a scowl decorating his face.

"I'm working, my lady. 'Tis no place for you."

Baela laughed at that, unbridled and unapologetic. She swung herself up onto a rusted bollard, one leg dangling over the dock’s edge.

“Are you telling me to leave? Don’t you know who I am?”

His lips twitched, like he wanted to smile but thought better of it. She realized he muttered something inaudible and went back to coiling rope.

He ignored her.

That never happened.

She was a Targaryen.

Close to Gods.

Every squire, knight, page, and pompous young lord she’d ever met had tried to impress her. Even some ladies, if she were honest about it. They puffed up like peacocks, reciting feats, offering poems, pretending to spar while really showing off.

They gazed at her like she was fourteen flames in flesh, or worse, a prize to be won.

But he turned away.

As if he didn’t care.

As if she were... ordinary.

It was rather insulting.

Baela had cocked her head, watching the corded forearms, the sure way his fingers tied knots.

It made her blood hum.

With his hair, he was surely one of the Targaryen or Velaryon bastards.

He was called Alyn, she would learn later. She had been so shocked that someone would shave off the hallmark of their Valyrian blood, as if it weren't something to be proud about.

The idea was preposterous.

Moondancer circled once, wings slicing low above the Dragonpit, before plunging down like a dagger. The great stone yard shuddered beneath the weight of her arrival, talons scraping and tail snapping as she skidded across the dust.

Baela slid from the saddle before the dragon had fully stilled, landing hard on booted feet, pearlescent hair wild — it was growing back, already touching her shoulders, after she'd cut it a few months ago.

Loktys shrieked in protest and clung tighter to her collar.

She patted him absentmindedly.

"Jiōrna, Ābrāzma Baela." (Welcome, Lady Baela.)

The dragonkeepers greeted her, already preparing to usher Moondancer inside.

The young dragon hissed, smoke trailing from her nostrils.

"It must be the stink of King's Landing making her so," Baela retorted in High Valyrian with a crooked smile.

Behind her, the great shadow of Meleys descended upon the landing area, graceful like a falling star.

Her red wings folded with dignified ease as her claws clicked to the ground.

Already, the guards and servants were running with a prepared carriage, eager to welcome the Queen Who Never Was and the Rogue Prince's daughter.

Baela glanced towards the city proper, wondering if she could steal a horse without her grandmother noticing.

She loathed carriages.

.

.

.

(Arianne)

"Stop scowling, it's unbecoming." Prunella Celtigar's contralto tickled her ear. They had been seated with the younger children in one of the banquet halls, while all the important folk occupied the other end of the long table.

Princess Rhaenys held a seat of honor, though it didn't seem to soften the harsh contours of her face.

Arianne stabbed at the honey-ginger partridge piled on her plate.

The holy week of the Maiden had already begun, which meant she kept to the fast. No meat, but poultry was permitted as per the Queen's edict.

Princess Rhaenyra had not followed it, of course, for she was far along in her pregnancy.

Growing babes needed nourishment.

Her princess aside, no one seated at the other end of the table seemed to care for the Maiden's Day.

Prince Daemon, in particular, scorned the Seven with almost gleeful irreverence, and Jace had a helping of the same suckling pig that Lady Baela ate. All procured under the Queen's nose by Arianne's own effort!

For which Rhaenyra simply smiled, thanked her, and called her efficient.

Efficient!

Like...a steward, not a future daughter-in-law.

Well, at least it was a compliment. Perhaps it meant her princess forgave her for the book mishap. Which had been his fault.

Arianne frowned, taking a sip of her hippocras. Her evening was miserable enough, she needn't think about Aemond Targaryen.

Her mind kept pestering her with him and his firm hands — particularly the way they settled securely around her waist, until a melodious baritone coming from the other end of the table interrupted it.

Arianne glanced up, her lips absolutely not tightening at the sight of Jace laughing, so humorous must've been some bawdy joke coming from the older of Daemon's daughters.

She was certainly not observing Baela's beautiful, thick, silver curls that were chopped scandalously to just above her shoulders.

Nor that...ludicrous monkey of hers that was currently hanging off Jace's arm and throwing roasted almonds at chagrined Rhaena.

The creature, whose name was Loktys, Baela had insisted, greeted her by pulling on her hair!

Arianne had been stunned mute, firstly because she had expected a carriage with both princess Rhaenys and her granddaughter inside, yet Baela arrived on horseback, riding hard across the stone bridge with the reins steady in her gloved hands.

No squire at her side, no guard to aid her dismount.

She slid from the saddle with a quick, fluid motion and hurried towards Rhaena.

The hairy, little thing wiggled out of the cotton strap while Baela embraced her sister, and jumped on Arianne.

"Ah, Loktys likes you! He does prefer ladies." A blithe grin spread on her lovely, oval face.

Arianne swallowed and attempted a smile of her own, though her instincts screamed to swat the thing off and run.

Thankfully, the attack had lasted mere moments before Loktys lost interest and switched to tormenting Rhaena's ladies in waiting. She had three, two picked by Rhaenyra, and one sent by her grandmother, a cousin named after Queen Alyssa, Jaehaerys and Alysanne's Velaryon mother.

"Lady Arianne." Baela had greeted her with strange warmth, looping her left arm through hers, her right holding her sister's, as they entered the castle. Arianne had to quicken her pace because Lady Baela's stride was brisk and assured.

She moved as someone who had not tripped once in their life.

"Rhaena enjoys your company, so we might be friends as well. Though I'm much more fun than she is." Her sister scoffed at this while Arianne struggled to formulate an answer.

"Ah...eh...I'd be honored." She stammered, wondering what kind of ploy this was.

Didn't Baela wish to marry Jace?

Now that she thought about it, she did not know. It felt foolish ever to ask Rhaena about it, considering they were sisters.

It would've been intrusive, or even disloyal.

'If she did want Jace for herself, was she attempting to befriend me as per one of those stratagems which stated it would be beneficial to keep one's enemies closer than even friends?' Arianne decided she would have to think on it later.

It was enough that she had one Targaryen for an enemy, she did not need two at this moment.

As Baela left her arm to reunite with her father and family, Arianne thought of Aemond. Of the utterly foolish way she had declared her plans for the future to him, and how he was probably laughing at her now, when everyone knew Jace was Baela's escort for the Ball.

In that irritating voice of his, with that infuriating tilt of his shapely lips.

Unfortunately, Aemond was right about one thing, she couldn't simply end him. Not by taking up swordsmanship or commanding an army from her solar — though would an army even make a difference when he had Vhagar?

Oh, he'd be doing the scorching, Arianne imitated his resonant baritone in her mind. Because he was such perfect dragonlord, and, ohhh did he mention he was a Targaryen, well, he was closer to Gods than men in case someone failed to notice. 

She scowled.

He was so aggravatingly vain and spiteful that he couldn't accept an honest bargain.

"Will you tell me a story, Lady Arianne?" Little Aegon pulled on her sleeve. She blinked owlishly at him.

"Ah...now? Perhaps after dinner."

"Well, you're sad." He noted with a brutal, childish honesty.

"You told me once that when I'm sad, I should remember stories about bravery."

She stared at him, searching his indigo eyes.

Was it that obvious? Transparent even to a boy half her age?

Arianne's gaze shifted to Princess Rhaenys, sitting stiffly and ignoring the succulent cuts of meat and glazed vegetables. She did not seem to enjoy Daemon or Rhaenyra's company. Not at all.

Arianne pondered the implications.

Would Rhaenys support her brother-in-law, Ser Vaemond Velaryon? If Luke were truly to be stripped of his inheritance, what would it mean for Jace? Her Prince would have his legitimacy questioned, which was not good for his standing with the court, nor his claim.

What would it mean for Rhaena, who was betrothed to Luke? Would their betrothal be rendered void? Arianne assumed not, as betrothals were father's prerogative, and Daemon seemed content to wed her to Lucerys.

But why would Rhaenys side with Vaemond? She had nothing to gain by handing Driftmark to her husband's brother.

Unless...those ill-conceived rumors about her princess having a hand in Ser Laenor's death were true.

Arianne had a hard time believing Rhaenyra would ever commit such a thing, yet something inside her bones told her that Prince Daemon absolutely would.

"Perhaps you should tell him the Seven Sorrows of envious Thayla." Lady Prunella offered, with certain pointedness.

"It's all about what happens when one lets jealousy fester."

Arianne flushed.

It was a tale of maid Thayla of Cornfield, golden-haired and comely beyond words, the youngest of her siblings. She held a love for a fair lord of her lands — Arianne always thought it had to have been a Swyft, their house ruled Cornfield — but when he came looking for a bride, it was her own older sister who sent her to do errands and wed the man herself.

Now, a lady wife of great importance, her sister offered her in recompense any of the dozen neighboring lords to choose for a husband.

Enraged, Thayla stole a carving knife from the kitchens and slit her older sister's throat.

Cursed by the Seven, for it was the worst sin of them all, Thayla fled with rot in her soul. For seven moons she wandered, feet blistered and bloody, until she leapt to her death from the cliffs near Crakehall.

"I am not jealous." Arianne muttered tersely.

Besides, it was just a tale, one did not need seven moons to reach Crakehall from Cornfield.

She peered up from her plate to look at Jace.

Their eyes met briefly, verdant moss and rain-damp earth, before her gaze dropped back onto the caramel glaze coating her partridge.

Great, now Jace will think she was staring at him!

Pining like a sad, dreadfully pleasant girl.

Complete opposite of what Johanna was advising in her letter.

"You should not be." Prunella dabbed a napkin over her thin lips.

"Rhaenyra will broker you an advantageous marriage once this matter of inheritance is settled. Do not harbor some foolish hopes. There are many comely young lords who befit your station."

Arianne held in the grimace.

She did not want some comely lord! She wanted Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, and to marry him and have his children. 

It was mightily unfair!

Baela had nearly everything.

A dragon, a Targaryen name, and locks the color of pale stars in the firmament!

She had a lovely and wonderful sister, Rhaena, while Arianne had her annoying older brother, who only ever mocked her.

Baela's grandmother took her in, cared for her, and loved her.

Arianne didn't think her own grandmother knew she existed at all.

If only Princess Saera had been less awful, perhaps her father would've been considered more seriously during the Great Council, perhaps Arianne and Robb would've been raised at Court, dragonriders both of them, and properly schooled in the arts of governance. Perhaps she would have been betrothed to Jace long ago, her fate stitched to his like a golden thread.

Since none of those things were a reality, couldn't she have this one thing?

Her Prince.

(And a beautiful golden crown like Queen Alysanne's. One day.)

She would make a good wife for him, Arianne knew it. She had taken it upon herself to study Septon Barth's Great Code, Lord Massey's Rullings of Jaehaerys, and any histories she got her hands on.

She took care to dress finely, and her penmanship was neat.

Arianne was a poor dancer, she was well aware of it, but she was halfway decent with a high-harp. Her mother often said her voice might not enchant the noble coteries, but it carried well. She knew the correct hymns and rites for each of the Seven’s feast days.

She had learned which blessings a Lady of the House was expected to give, and how the Faith might be used to silence dissent when need be. Numbers never daunted her, nor did the logistics of fund allocation.

She was even making a progress with her High-Valyrian.

Her hands greedily gripped every tome on ethics they could find. She pestered Jace's tutor on governance and diplomacy until he gave her the recommended scrolls.

Yet, if she were honest, there was another glaring problem: her complete lack of charm.

Arianne knew she was missing that unstudied spontaneity, that careless elegance which drew people in like moths to oil lanterns.

There was something about the soft, airy way Rhaena moved through the Court that made ladies and lords wish to share her company.

She did it rather effortlessly, a water flowing over smooth stone.

On the other hand, Arianne felt like she was constantly arranging herself.

She sighed, eyeing the salad of turnips, fennel, and sweetgrass.

At least she had been following Rhaena around for months now, so something had to have rubbed off on her.

She could also ask Johanna for further advice.

It wasn't as if Baela Targaryen was perfect, Arianne frowned, and she was completely impartial, of course, it hadn't been jealousy seeping through her veins.

Baela supposedly wrestled with men, cut her beautiful hair, and did all sorts of things the Seven did not approve of.

Arianne concluded that Daemon's older daughter clearly did not care to perform the duties of the Queen one day as properly as her.

"I am not. It gladdens me that Lady Rhaena is reunited with her sister. She missed her terribly." The words rolled off her tongue like a polished recital. They weren't entirely fabricated, because she truly was happy for her friend at least.

Across the table, Rhaena lifted a finger in mock-threat toward the monkey still using her as a target practice.

"Oh, she is not jealous." Mathilda Strong interjected merrily, giggling as she tried to coax a spoonful of mashed beets into Prince Viserys's mouth.

"Our lady Swann has consoled herself already."

Arianne blinked twice, her fork pausing above the turnip.

What?

"I've heard the most salacious gossip earlier today." Mathilda turned toward Lady Celtigar, dark eyes alight with mischief.

Arianne sensed the lines of her face forming a deep frown. What possible gossip about her?

The Fires of the Freehold incident was old news by courtly standards, and not so salacious besides. Did someone see Jace and her in the Godswood? They had been careful!

He hadn't even touched her inappropriately or any such thing.

Oh no.

She couldn't mean —

A bout of nausea racked through her stomach before Mathilda opened her mouth.

"That our dear Arianne visited the tiltyard and... swooned!"

"That is clearly false!"

"Into a man's arms!" Mathilda continued, unperturbed by her denial, soft hand pressed to her mouth as if she'd just uttered the contents of Nymor Martell's letter to King Aegon.

"Who is spreading those calumnies?!" Arianne stabbed at her turnip with vehemence. 

Swooned?!

She'd sooner swoon herself into the Smoking sea than into that condescending twat's arms.

"Who is the man?" Prunella asked mildly, pretending to inspect the gravy.

Mathilda grinned.

"Prince Aemond, supposedly."

All the ladies seated nearby glanced at her, not discreetly at all. Little Aegon's pale eyebrows knitted together.

"That is not true!" Arianne's voice rose an entire octave, her hands growing damp.

"I've never been in the yard."

"Really?" Mathilda attempted to take a sip of wine while the toddler in her lap swatted at the cutlery within reach.

"Lady Ruskyn swears it was you. As does Prince Joffrey's guard."

"They're mistaken."

Mathilda raised one dark brow. Arianne downed her remaining hippocras, not very ladylike at all, while her brain worked through the explanations that would kill this exaggerated mockery in its crib.

"Sometimes we mistake one person for another. Just yesterday, I realized one of my cousins was serving as a lady in waiting for Lady Fell, you wouldn't know her, Cyrenna Dondarrion. We look much alike. Perhaps it was her."

Viserys chose that moment to slap the spoon from Mathilda's hand with a chubby, beet-stained fist.

Arianne sank into her chair. She did indeed have a cousin named Cyrenna, but she was nine.

"I wouldn't mind." Mathilda leaned towards her, whispering conspiratorially.

"He's very handsome, despite that...unfortunate scar."

A muscle in her cheek twitched. 

Handsome? No, no, absolutely not! She would never think that again lest sin find her once more.

Did that evil bore have to be so tall? With those sleek, silver tresses, pronounced cheekbones, and hollows beneath them? With splendid hands, large and sinewy, and warm — and she was now cursed to know exactly how they felt against her.

Prunella shook her head resolutely, cleaning the beet off the little prince's chin.

"You should mind. There is no love lost between our princess and her younger brothers. It is not a union she would support."

Arianne felt her face burn, all along her hairline.

A union. With Aemond.

She wouldn't wish that upon her worst enemy.

Well, if she thought about it, her worst enemy was Prince Aemond.

Mathilda leaned onto her shoulder in a mock surrender.

“But Arianne swooned into his arms,” she sang, low and gleeful. "Like in a ballad about Ellenei and King Durran."

"I didn't —"

"And he saved her. It’s the Gods’ will—”

“There was no swooning!” Arianne hissed, rising to her feet before her brain could stop her mouth.

Down the ornate table, several heads turned her way. Jace. Rhaena. Baela. Luke. Her silver-haired friend frowned slightly.

The other three just appeared confused.

Arianne dropped back into her seat, cleared her throat, and gave her goblet a small, nervous tap.

“I just tripped. And if you had bothered to read that ballad till the end, you'd know the gods were mightily angry about that union.”

A long beat.

Viserys chose that moment to begin wailing.

Thankfully, Princess Rhaenys rose just then, murmuring something dry about farces and Rhaenyra’s desperation, before sweeping from the hall with her guards in tow.

Arianne drew her brows together, observing how Rhaenyra interlocked her fingers. Tightly. So tight they turned sickly white.

Mathilda refilled her cup.

"So you tripped into his arms, then?"

.

.

.

...My dearest daughter,

This letter will reach you from Fellwood. Robb has been sent ahead to King’s Landing on horseback, accompanied by a third of the guard. You might think your mother's and mine's delay as something unfortunate, but do not. She has taken ill along the road. Lady Fell’s maester suspects she is with child, several weeks along, though no one dares confirm it just yet... I have arranged everything for her to return home, but she won't have it, citing your betrothal as a reason. Jeyne is still miffed about my refusal to give your hand to that insipid Caron boy, she imagines it would solve the grudges between our houses. Considering how fond she is of calling you her pearl above the ocean, she should find you, as I do, better suited for far more illustrious matches. Arianne, this ill-conceived petition over a settled inheritance should not daunt you. I know you will not disappoint me.

                                                                                                          Donnel Swann, Lord of Stonehelm, Lord of the Marches

Arianne balked.

"Mother is carrying again." She turned to Miriam, who had been sitting on a window ledge and nibbling on a piece of soft-cheese, one stockinged foot tucked under her skirts.. She paused mid-bite, eyes drawn to the parchment in Arianne's hand.

"Oh..." She exhaled.

"Truly?"

Arianne only nodded.

It wasn't that she was unhappy, but there was unease biting at her gut.

Her mother had lost more babes than she wanted to count. Arianne had had a little sister, once, a decade ago, born too early and tiny as a kitten. She had adored her for all six weeks she drew breath. They'd named her Carellen, and Arianne would collect wildflowers to leave at the stone marker beneath the willow tree. Wallflowers and forget-me-nots, and blue chicory that grew near Stonehelm.

She needed to go light a candle at least.

Arianne glanced at her reflection in the beaten silver mirror, then at the neatly placed figurines on her lapis-lazuli board.

Her thoughts drifted to the Great Hall and the throne itself, to the high, narrow windows with stained glass, to the sheer number of courtiers, to Lady Baela and her boldness, to the petition, to Rhaenyra's disapproval, to Jace's invitation to fly with him, to Balerion's skull, to the tall walls of King's Landing and the maze of narrow streets she could see from her window, to the cyvasse game she had lost, and to Aemond Targaryen.

Someone much braver would be daunted.

Now, there was this foul hearsay about her. She could only pray and hope her parents would never hear of it. Their maiden daughter swooning, swooning, by the Seven, who even came up with that, into a man's arms. 

His arms.

The very notion brought her blood up to a boiling point.

Arianne puffed her cheeks, pouting with theatrical indignation.

She has had enough of that smug, rankling twit tarnishing her reputation! Did that spoilt one-eyed princeling have nothing better to do than test her patience? She would get even one day, she promised herself again.

Mayhap, Jace would grow jealous once he heard the gossip. One could hope at least something good could come out of the damned stumble.

"I need to do Rhaenyra's correspondence today. Then sort...Well, I assume Elinda will need some help with organizing us for the Maiden Day's Ball." She muttered, adorning her ears with small, pale pearls. The very same ones she had hurled at Aemond's head. 

Miriam raised a thin eyebrow.

“Doesn’t the lady of the house host the Ball? That would mean—”

"The Queen, yes." Arianne cut in, twiddling with her teal trebuchet before kicking the bronze dragon with it.

"But Rhaenyra believes the Hightowers will use this opportunity to once again sideline her. The less visible she is, the easier it becomes to remove Luke from the succession of Driftwood Throne."

Miriam lifted herself off the sill, straightening her skirts.

“The Maiden can’t be faulted for casting her grace upon the Queen and not the Princess.”

Arianne paused, questioning eyes shifting to her maid.

"That's quite the statement, you know."

Mirriam shrugged, crossing her arms.

“The Queen visits the Great Sept at least once per week. They say she gave enough gold in her daughter's name to raise a statue of the Smith in that street where shops are. She reveres the Seven. Properly. Unlike Rhaenyra.”

A frown made its way across Arianne's face.

"How do you even know all this?"

Miriam gave her a lofty look.

“You think all we ladies handmaids do is gossip about combs and pins? Honestly.”

Arianne flopped backward onto her bed, huffing. “Well. It is different. Rhaenyra is a Targaryen. They accept the Seven, but they are not beholden to them. There’s the whole...They're exceptional. The blood of Old Valyria."

She stared at the ceiling.

Jacaerys was a Velaryon, but he would take his mother's name once he ascended. Their children would be exceptional too, silver-haired....well, maybe not silver-haired. But they'd ride dragons and rule.

"And I dislike how being in their proximity affects you," Miriam said pointedly, dragging her back.

“You read those strange books at night instead of saying your prayers—”

Arianne sat up.

"There is nothing strange about it. I want to know more about my grandmother's blood. Besides, I am studying. You can't pray your way into power, Miriam."

Mentioning her grandmother reminded her she needed to get her hands on Elysar's writings. Surely, they would contradict Aemond's horrible insinuations — ...the last time a Swann, a Mooton, and Saera played their games in Court. — that implicated her grandfather.

Perhaps she’d pen him a lengthy, meticulously sourced refutation and demand a vindication for his vile slander against her family's honor.

Idly, Arianne wondered what shape his lips would form while uttering an apology.

“You forgot to light the incense yesterday,” Miriam noted, yanking her back from her musings for the second time.

“Perhaps I’ll pray you marry someone else, then —"

"Don't you dare!"

She stood up so quickly that her world spun.

Miriam smiled, sickly sweet and cloying.

"Ohhhh, but I thought my measly prayers couldn't touch the blood of Old Valyria."

Arianne squinted, glaring at her handmaid.

"I will wed my prince, and then you'll feel bad for this mockery —"

"Bahh." Her maid exhaled, waving her hand.

"I answer to Lady Jeyne Swann, not to you. She tasked me with looking after you, so that is what I'm doing."

She sighed.

"You worry for naught, Miriam. Jace and I will enjoy the full support of the Faith. I will ensure it myself."

Even if Jace preferred to keep his distance from the Seven, he'd see reason. It was sensible and practical to have a cordial relationship with the High Septon. It would help immensely with their public image.

Arianne rushed to finish her breakfast. She couldn't be daunted now.

Plagues of Zamettar were nothing compared to her father's disappointment. Besides, the Maiden would bless her if she pursued her true love. That was how it worked here, despite what Johanna wrote. Lys the Lovely was all the way across the Narrow Sea.

.

.

.

She had almost made it to the end of the verbose import report from Lord Bar Emmon's steward when Miriam found her, arms full of rolled parchment. The solar assigned to Rhaenyra's household was quite empty today, as the princess went to be with her father, the King.

“These have been coming in for the past hour!” Miriam declared, letting them spill unceremoniously onto the divan beside Arianne. She blinked, her mind stuffed full of dock numbers and trade tariffs.

“I didn’t know what to do with them. One of the servants said something about your escort? Are you not going with your prince?"

Arianne rose from the damask settee, realizing at once what those were. Rhaena had an entire satchel full of them.

"No." Arianne shook her head, trying not to dwell on the image of Jace escorting Baela, who would look beautiful and queenly no matter the cut hair or unsubstantiated rumors. She reached for the first tiny scroll. Surprisingly, it was a name she had heard recently.

No, those were ridiculous accusations; he was simply being mean.

Arianne went for the next one.

She would probably not have half as many as her friend, but they were no less galling. One by one, Arianne untied them all, lips tightening with irritation. They were courteous invitations, flowery and flattering in the dullest way possible.

“So… who are you going with, then?” Miriam asked, careful as a cat near a new vase. She was aware that Arianne wanted to go with one man only.

“I don’t know.” Arianne had no energy to lie. She didn't know yet.

“It doesn’t really matter.”

Miriam let out a long-suffering sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“It does matter. Also — where in the Seven hells is our gold? I’ve three of your dresses to get stitched and no coin for the tailor. How am I supposed to keep you looking respectable if we’re rationing like hedge knights?"

.

.

.

(Aemond)

"She has been here scarcely a week!" Alicent gripped her fork tightly, her tone dripping with rage.

"Already she seeks to humiliate me! Rhaenys should have come to me first!"

Aemond's eye tracked the grim twist of his nephew's mouth as he inspected the porridge.

They'd been seated in the dining part of the Queen's spacious chambers.

The Keep was practically buzzing after the arrival of the Queen who Never Was and his wretch cousin Baela — who had punched him that cold night on Driftmark because he told his other cousin how things stood now. He claimed Vhagar because he dared, and snivelling little cowards like her could ride pigs, just like the one Jace and Luke presented to him.

Aemond slept soundly last night, his body granted rest now that his mind was made up. Arianne Swann was going to be his paramour, there was no question about that.

He only needed to develop his strategy for conquering her.

She had already compared herself to a castle, and he was the dragonlord and the army, which she would soon realize. Once he tore down her stone defenses, brick by brick.

How difficult could it actually be, wooing a woman?

He'd never attempted it before, but certainly not as difficult as studying the military campaigns and poring over maps for hours, or reading on cyvasse theory.

Besides, Aegon wooed women all the time, and he was a witless slob. And he was married, Aemond thought irritably. Every new affair was an insult to his sweet sister.

He had no such predicaments, and he already knew the gist of it.

Impressing her.

Of course, some would say he ought to write love letters, poems, send flowers, and ply the lady with cloying compliments, but that was beneath him. Scurrying for a lady's favor was for soft, weak men, those with nothing else to them.

What he needed to do was demonstrate his worth.

Strength.

He could break that Mooton's nose while sparring, and while Arianne was watching; there would be no point otherwise, and she'd see that she had been wasting time with lesser men. She'd see the difference.

She'd see him. 

Then he could invite her to play cyvasse, which she enjoyed — and win, of course, though she was no easy opponent, which should impress her. Perhaps, he could further prove to her that her knowledge about anything couldn't compare to his, and that she ought to submit and stop arguing.

Then, he'd take her to see Vhagar.

Let her ignorant head glimpse at what true power looked like. How could she not be awed? How could anyone resist when faced with something so ancient, vast, and terrifying, and under his command?

...Well, that was that.

She'd find herself haplessly besotted and proceed to invite him to her bed.

"Give it rest, daughter. There has been another dispute in the Riverlands that the council will have to debate on today." Otto Hightower offered mildly, pouring himself a cup of mint tea.

Aemond pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek.

He had meant to share a quick breakfast with his mother, but it appeared his sister, along with his grandsire, had the same idea. So now he was stuck listening to another pointless courtly maneuver between his mother and her opponents. What did it matter what his whore-sister ate or fed others? Cole was right, she was an irredeemably spoilt cunt.

Aemond had the perfect solution to all his mother's woes, but she would not like it. It would go against the Seven. Or something of that sort.

Alicent Hightower fumed.

"Rhaenyra sent one of her ladies to bribe my seneschal!" His mother hissed.

"Into serving lamb and suckling pigs during the holy week of the Maiden, no less! I had thought the years might have brought some maturity to her, but she continues to make a mockery of everything!"

Truthfully, Aemond was glad his mother was fixated on his whore-sister, it left her with less time to remember she could order him to play the escort to Lord Redwyne's daughter, or one of the Costayne sisters, or whomever was now her favorite.

"When I had him questioned, several kitchen maids made testimonies about donations for the celebration of the Maiden, in Rhaenyra's name! She does not care about —"

Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra...

Aemond let the name slide past him like a knife through butter. His mother had the strangest obsession with her. Both she and Cole — as if the whore were a second Maegor.

Couldn't they comprehend that it was not Rhaenyra they ought to fear?

That if they wanted to deal with his half-sister, they only needed to deal with Daemon.

He was the true dragon, fueling her designs.

Rhaenyra was merely a woman, and if it came to a conflict, it would be his uncle who'd command armies in her name. Though from what Aemond had gathered, his grandsire rather thought the conflict could be avoided.

Of course, it couldn't.

There would be no peace as long as they contested Aegon's right as the King's trueborn son.

Aemond would rather disembowel himself than kneel to that licentious harlot and her brood of bastards that stole his birthright.

Alicent continued her tirade.

"It is a clear bribery, despite what they all say. I will have it further investigated!"

He knew she meant to send that slimy lord Larys to...investigate. Why in the Seven's name did she keep that toad around? What possible use was there for a crippled kin of Rhaenyra's bastards?

Otto sighed.

"We must focus on the petition. I've received another letter from Ser Vaemond, he is to set sail in a fortnight."

"Well—"

"Daughter," He cut in with patronizing gentleness.

"It would not serve us well to punish one of Rhaenyra's ladies for giving donations in the name of the Seven. Even if it was bribery. Perhaps you ought to learn from it."

Aemond felt the corner of his mouth curl into a sneer. 

Learn from it? What right did his grandfather have to lecture his mother about the Court? He was the one who got himself dismissed and left her alone to fight for herself and her children. As if Aegon and he didn't spend their entire childhoods watching how favored by the Court and the King the bastards were. It was only Ser Criston who always defended them steadfastly.

"Learn what?" The Queen questioned tightly.

"That you should've placed a lady as astute as that one at our Helaena's side. Someone sharp and capable to advance her cause instead of the simpletons you've surrounded her with."

His sister glanced up from her piece of bread, generously topped with blackberry preserves.

"I like my ladies."

Aemond's pale eye flicked to her, then back to soft-boiled eggs and smoked fish filling his plate, still untouched. Rhaenyra's astute, sharp lady? Could they mean —

His lady Swann?

He relaxed his jaw into placid neutrality.

Surely not.

His whore-half-sister had older ladies, much more suited for those...tasks? Perhaps, it was the Celtigar one, considering the amount of gold one needed to bribe half the Keep's kitchen staff. He could consult Lord Beesbury on the matter.

Or better, Ser Tyland, because unlike that old fool, the Lannisters weren't kissing Rhaenyra's shrivelled cunt.

"And who is this lady serving that wh...that half-sister of mine?" Aemond asked, and to feign disinterest, reached forward to give Jaehaera the oatcake she was eyeing.

"Saera's granddaughter," his mother scoffed offhandedly, but before Aemond could react, or not react, she interlocked her fingers and leaned on them.

"And since when does this interest you, Aemond?" His mother was now focusing her large, brown eyes on him. For a moment, he felt terribly seen, as if she knew all his thoughts.

"It doesn't, mother. Merely asking." He leaned back into his chair.

Cool as the Night's King.

"Perhaps it does now that you're playing the gallant knight in the courtyard? Who was the lady they told me you've helped?"

He felt the tips of his ears burn.

By they, she had to have meant Cole. Aemond would have words with his mentor. Firstly, to explain to him that he was no longer a boy, but a man grown, and that his affairs in the training yard didn't need to be reported to his mother, even if she were a Queen.

"How would I know? I didn't linger long enough to find out." The lie slipped off his tongue.

He held her longer than necessary, apparently too long if his actions were now parroted around the Court like some sordid affair.

Aemond could already imagine Lady Arianne fuming about it, her soft cheeks pink from frustration, her lips pursed into that particular shape they took while she was arguing, prepared to profess her innocence in the matter, invoking Gorghan's treatise on accidental happenings, or something similarly defensive.

Perhaps, she'd attack him again, seizing a practice sword in those dainty hands and flailing with it like a hysterical hen.

His fingers flexed around the fork.

Gods, she truly was a nettlesome tart to trouble him so.

Idly, he pondered what philosophical concepts held her interest. Did she study the Volantene elections?

Or perhaps the legends about the Old Ones from the island of Leng or the Great Empire of the Dawn? They were, of course, myths and fables, as the Citadel noted. And Aemond was ready, having prepared several arguments should she try to claim otherwise.

Was she pragmatic? He supposed she was, considering she wished to rise — saw herself as queenly, saw her blood carried in future heirs — and one cannot do that with a meek heart.

No, underneath that coy, fluttery facade she presented, there was a tangible essence of steel, of obsidian, mingling with her blood. He could practically smell it on her, it was the Valyrian warmth underneath the Marcher wildlands.

She would fit perfectly underneath his sheets.

The tales of Saera Targaryen's depravity were as numerous as there were starving stomachs in Flea Bottom, and Aemond couldn't help but wonder if, secretly, his little swan was just as lewd.

He wasn't so irrational as to consider marriage, though Arianne Swann was better in some aspects than most maidens his family had in mind for him. She had at least a smidgeon of Targaryen blood in her veins.

It would ensure their children became capable dragonriders.

But no, if given the choice, Aemond would not wed anyone. Not a Lannister or the Dornish princess, not a Redwyne daughter with a fleet, not even one of the Baratheon sisters. Certainly not Arianne Swann. 

Mind was mind, flesh was flesh.

This was a weakness of flesh. 

His mind was still sovereign. 

Or, if he really had to pick, he'd wed the girl who had given him his lucky handkerchief, on the premise that she'd bring him more good fortune still. If he were forced to share his space and life, give his protection, and endure her name being attached to his, at least he should get something out of it.

He'd imagined that, back when he was nothing more than a maimed boy, because it couldn't have been a coincidence, the Grandmaester declaring the daily cleanings of his wound, which included boiled wine, scouring, and bone-shattering pain, were no longer needed that same night he met her.

He shouldn't have called her a toad.

Even if she had been a foolish, meddling girl-toad. 

His lady fortune.

Aemond's nostrils flared slightly from the inhale.

If she really had been novice back then, she was surely a Septa by now.

Besides, had never been just a maimed boy. Vhagar was the proof of it, and she was worth a dozen eyes. A hundred. Thousand.

He needed nothing capricious as luck.

The One-eyed Prince debated whether he should do something about this irksome gossip. He was not someone the tongues should freely wag about.

"It is a good image for us." His grandsire interjected, severing his train of thought.

"The gallant prince who rides the largest dragon in the world. The smallfolk will adore you."

Aemond scowled.

As if.

.

.

.

(Arianne)

The afternoon sun was high in the sky when Princess Rhaenyra returned from her father's sickbed and was ready to make her way around the Great Hall, and to see the decorated gardens. Long, golden shapes danced on the marble floor while she paused here and there for a practiced pleasantry.

Arianne followed in her wake, trailing demurely behind Lady Elinda Massey, clad in a matching dress of fine, black silk. She adorned her waist with pale, milky moonstones set in the elegant silver chain.

It was rather fortunate that Rhaenyra's supporters often wore black, because this way she could honor her own heraldry.

Arianne had spied Lady Wylde from across the Hall.

The woman was much younger than her husband, and while she could hardly be considered a great beauty, she was tall and willowy.

Even though her house was also in the Stormlands, just on the northern tip of Cape Wrath, Arianne had been dispatched to make pleasant conversation with Lady Buckler and her daughters instead.

Well, Bronzegate was an important castle on the Kingsroad to Storm's End. By the time she was done complimenting one of the daughters' azure dress, Lady Wylde had found her, and, after a short discussion on the cyvasse game they played, had pressed a small note into her palm.

It was a dinner invitation for tonight.

"Do be careful, Arianne. She is the Queen's creature." Elinda Massey warned her, the words catching her by surprise.

"What do you mean?" She was chary to learn the reason, because she quite liked Lord Jasper's wife and they shared a fondness for cyvasse.

Jasper Wylde was the Master of Laws, and law was not partial to anyone. It was the essence of it.

Not to mention, if she was going to consider having Lady Wylde's stepson Jorlan as her escort, at least she could pry some information about him. His name stood out to her from the offers, due to Aemond's scathing remark.

How could she possibly have seduced someone she talked to once?

"You really ought to read less and pay attention more. She is Alicent Hightower's lady in waiting."

Oh.

Arianne pressed her lips together. It was not like they were obligated to argue or discuss the Princess and the Queen.

They could delve into the intricacies of the dragon's gambit, discuss the defenses based on a heavy horse rather than trebuchets and catapults, or even play tiles, which Arianne realized was rather popular with the ladies of the Court.

She just hoped Lady Wylde wasn't into embroidery, because it would not do to present herself poorly through her meager handiwork.

The afternoon wore on, heavy with polite laughter and the slow decay of small talk.

She was drained from all the mingling, but glimpsing Lady Elisa Stokeworth, who always had that easy smile on her face, made Arianne's own lips quirk.

Her joy didn't last long once her new friend entwined their elbows and led her into the gardens.

Between Mathilda's already inaccurate fable from yesterday and what Elisa was animatedly recounting now, the gossip grew, as thistle root does through dry earth, to contain the vilest of lies.

Arianne Swann now not only had swooned, but had also thrown herself at the Prince, overcome by his masculine gravitas and the failings of her sinful blood.

She had apparently acquired a taste for powerful men, just like the infamous Black Swan of Lys, her grand-aunt or a cousin, you know, and Aemond Targaryen was just the scrumptious opportunity she couldn't pass on.

The soft contours of her face twisted into a furious rictus.

Wonderful.

She was going to murder whoever opened their yapping mouth first.

"Is he the one you wish to marry? That's why you dressed so prettily the other day." Elisa twirled the golden bracelet around her wrist as they promenaded between the cypresses and the fountains. The gardens were splendidly adorned with ribbons, garlands, and flower arches that were in full bloom for the Maiden's Day.

"Seven! No!"

Elisa nodded, seemingly in agreement with her outburst.

"He does seem a little...harsh. The Queen's second son spends all his time in the library or the tiltyard. 'Tis a bit strange."

Arianne was taken by the calm waters of the Blackwater Bay, her mind reasonlessly wondering why would diligent pursuit of knowledge or dedication to swordsmanship be considered strange. Was it not then better for a husband to be a strange man, then, rather than a wastrel or a drunken lecher? 

She had already admitted that Aemond had some qualities, his unfairly handsome visage aside, but they were vastly overshadowed by his appalling manner and his complete lack of gallantry.

He was discourteous, unkind, and argumentative in the worst way.

Not to mention, a terror.

"I assure you, the Queen's second son is the last man I'd ever consider marrying." Her answer came, clipped and resolute.

"Oh." Elisa's dark eyes widened.

"Then, the gossip is untrue?"

"Of course it's untrue!" Arianne insisted, resisting the urge to yank at her hair. Miriam had made an effort in pinning it in an elegant updo, with two braids left to adorn the side of her neck.

Her companion shrugged, waving towards the group of courtiers from Crownlands. Arianne realized Elisa was quite well-regarded for an unwed lady with no clout like the one Rhaena Targaryen had. Her thick, almost-inky hair fell obediently behind her shoulders.

The purple brocade dress she wore suited her.

„Well, I imagined so. See, I’ve visited the Keep often since my family lives so close…You wouldn't want a husband like him. Prince Aemond is always so solemn. Not rude, but he seems so taciturn and morose. I would be too afraid to speak to him!"

Arianne held in the urge to scoff and laugh in that brazen, unladylike manner.

Not rude?!

Were they talking about the same One-Eyed Prince? 

"He never asks any lady to dance during feasts. Or, I've heard that he never even invited any lady for a walk! You know...to speak to her. Supposedly, he hates the frivolity of the Court, but..."

The muscle in Arianne's cheek spasmed .

He had asked her to dance. However, it had sounded more like an order than an invitation. Well, he'd asked her to walk the gardens too, but she was not so naive to believe that he didn't have some ulterior motive — like naming her the culprit when all the flowers wilted, or the fish in the pond died.

Elisa leaned in, gripping her arm tightly.

"Claris Costayne thinks he prefers the company of men."

Her breath tickled the fine rim of Arianne's ear.

"What?" The word tumbled forth before she'd shaped the thought. Arianne blinked, eyes flitting confusedly between all the cypresses.

It was not the claim that struck her but the soft, sinking twist it gave beneath her ribs.

She couldn't quite pinpoint the reason why the idea of Aemond being completely indifferent to her, well, not her, of course not her, but women, was so dispiriting. His hold on her waist had been enticingly tenacious, like a girdle of firm hands. It invoked sinful thoughts.

She'd be rid of those once she performed the purification rites for the Maiden.

Elisa's voice lowered into a conspiratorial murmur.

"Prince Aemond was her escort for the Maiden's ball last year. Yet, he did not wish to dance or hear her sing! And Claris has such a pretty voice, you know? Instead, he asked her about Walgrem or Walgrim or something, and poor Claris…well, she thought it was some Essosi delicacy, but apparently it was something he had been reading about. He hadn't spoken or looked at her after that, as if she were a lemon tree!"

Arianne narrowed her brow. The pebbles beneath their shoes gave a dry, cracking protest.

"You mean...archmaester Walgram? He wrote The Reckoning of Time."

Elisa's eyelids fluttered several times, mouth forming an 'o'.

"You...Well, my point is...." She appeared as if waiting for Arianne to turn what she'd said into a jest.

With a small huff, she gave up.

 "I had no point. But what do you think about him?"

"Oh...I think he was right to note the often overlooked aspects we must consider when studying old records. Walgram gives several valid examples." Arianne clapped her palms enthusiastically.

She turned to Elisa.

"Some important events seem to be happening years apart when they should only be months, because the time is not noted the same in various sources. Take Braavos, days are counted differently there—"

"Arianne, I meant about Aem—" Elisa interrupted her, only to halt midway.

"Oh, Your Grace." She sank into a curtsy with practiced ease.

Arianne followed her gaze to where Jace emerged between two neat rows of cedars that led into another part of the castle grounds. He paused, dismissing the two guards who were shadowing him.

Arianne took the chance to quickly straighten her skirts and fix her earrings.

"Forgive me the interruption." Jacaerys Velaryon smiled, and it was one of those boyish, utterly disarming things.

"I do not believe we have been introduced." He turned to Elisa.

Arianne noted the Velaryon blue doublet he wore complemented his dark hair.

"I'm Elisa Stokeworth." Her friend offered, lowering her head. "Ah, nothing to forgive, my prince. We were just talking about Walgrem."

His eyes shifted, briefly, to Arianne, inquisitive.

"Walgram's The Reckoning of Time." She clarified.

Elisa's cheeks colored like bruised raspberries.

"Yes, him. I mean, his book."

Jace shook his head, chuckling.

"I do not fault you for mangling his name, Lady Elisa. Between us, I couldn't read through the first page of that torture on paper." He shrugged and raised his arms slightly, palms up, as if we were confessing to a crime.

Elisa laughed, hiding her mouth behind her hand.

Arianne observed him and understood, suddenly, what it was — that thing that she lacked and Jace had in abundance. That was a charm.

Not the flashy kind, but one that mended things quietly and made allies of strangers.

He’d made Elisa feel better. She, however, knew he had studied through three or four first chapters before his interest in the criticism of record keeping waned.

Perhaps she should've done the same? Elisa was kind to her. She hadn't meant to be unkind in return!

She made a mental note to apologize for her gaffe later.

"Unlike my dear lady Arianne here." Jace turned to her, mischief tugging at the corner of his full lips.

" The more tedious the book, the deeper her devotion. Stubborn swan."

Arianne wished to retort something, but that tiny phrase — my dear lady, dried her mouth. Elisa seemed to pore over her face for a moment before something shifted in her expression.

She reached out and gave Arianne’s arm a soft, knowing squeeze.

"I am dreadfully, unforgivably late for my errands," Elisa announced suddenly, dropping into a polished curtsy.

Arianne stared after her for a few seconds before fixing one of the pins holding up her hair.

She hadn't really been alone with Jace since the Godswood. Well, they weren't alone here, as every now and then the guards, the ladies, and even servants passed by.

"Would you walk with me, Arianne?" Jace was already offering his elbow.

The right one, and she just realized he carried a square-shaped parcel beneath his left armpit.

"Briefly, my Prince. I am awfully busy today." Arianne found it much easier to follow Johanna's words if she remembered that her prince was escorting Lady Baela and not her. Feigning serenity, she glanced past him, to the rare blooms just beginning to open along the trellis — mauve, delicate, vaguely decadent.

Unabashedly, a thought of how she should be just like Johanna if the Court thought her a courtesan anyway drummed against her skull. If only she were like Johanna, her prince would dream of her already.

Alas, such wicked musings would only ever stay musings, because Arianne could never disgrace her family so, earn her father's scorn, or break her mother's heart. She was only using bits of practical advice, to not disappoint them. She would not be daunted.

Placing her fingers onto his forearm, she attempted what she thought was an intriguingly distant ladylike smile.

"The weather is agreeable today, my Prince."

Jace paused mid-step, his arm tensing underneath her palm.

"Arianne..." He uttered her name so carefully, like it was something sacred.

"Have I done something?"

Arianne tilted her head, batting her lashes demurely.

"No, my Prince." She declared, pretending to peruse the details on the nearby fountain instead of the way his riotous dark curls were combed today.

She should not give him all her attention or be dreadfully pleasant.

Jace frowned, having had enough of their play-pretend already.

"Then why am I 'my prince' now, and not Jace?!" His voice came out louder than either of them expected.

He took half a step back, not enough to let her hand fall.

"Is this about the ball? I swear that is purely political, Arianne. My affections for you are unchanged, and yet ever since I've declared them, you...You ignore me! Is your lady's heart truly so cruel?!"

Arianne froze, being unused to such sizzling heat covering his words.

His brows, the color of black walnut, were drawn together, not in rage exactly, but in what appeared to be some wounded disbelief.

Jace huffed, trying to rein in the torrent of words and remain princely, though in vain.

"You spent half the morning with that squire! That...nobody! During dinners, you only whisper with Rhaena or one of the other ladies and ignore my existence! Even Luke noticed you were cross with me!"

Arianne inhaled.

Her heart bloomed with the realization of what had just happened. Tender petals opening through her ribcage.

Jace was jealous, and if she hadn't had to deal with his terrible uncle, perhaps she would've noticed it sooner. She caught the way his fingers curled and uncurled, just like Johanna described it.

"Well, I have been overwhelmed with everything..." Arianne recited after forcing her incessant pulse to obedience.

Jace caught the word and threw it back.

"Sooo overwhelmed that you faint into the arms of my uncle?! And he, what, just happened to be there?"

The words stung worse than she let on. A small, sharp needle behind the neck — clean and precise and all the way to the bone. It hurt. She didn't care if that one-eye twat thought her a wicked, scheming hussy, but Jace! Jace couldn't possibly believe she would do something so indecent?! Oh, she would join the Silent Sisters out of her own will, then!

Anger flared in her throat.

That utterly idiotic slander.

The next time she saw Aemond, she was going to throttle him!

Arianne straightened.

"That never happened!" Her small hand dropped from his arm.

"And...Seven, help me, I hate this...this place!" She cried, pulling at her earring.

"No matter what I do or say, it is twisted to fit everyone's already formed opinion of me. As despicable as my grandmother, am I? Do you think I dress like a Lyseni harlot, too? Or...Or like a fruit tart, a cherry pudding or something equally stupid —"

"You dress fine! What are you talking about?" Jace shook his head in disbelief, his cheekbones flushed.

Arianne wiped the lone tear from her lower lashline.

"Jace, do you really think I fainted and threw myself into a man's arms?"

For several seconds, her prince didn't speak. He only stared, his symmetrical face oddly pink, lips parted as if he’d lost the thread of whatever clever thing he might’ve said.

Jacaerys Velaryon appeared even more handsome like that. Pouting without knowing he was.

"No." He answered finally, reaching for her hand.

He pried it away from her ear to interlock their fingers.

"Of course, not. The Red Keep isn't my favorite place either." Arianne felt her breath reach her lungs now. Though they now walked holding hands and which wasn't exactly the most proper thing in the world. She tried to ignore the little warnings at the back of her mind, constant little nagging about conduct, duty, and sacrifice for the betterment of one's family.

Jace squeezed her hand.

The air smelled of rosemary and thyme, despite the flowers.

"And I, too, know what it's like to fight against the gossip. Like carrying a stain you didn't earn." There was a melancholic trill in his tone before he masked it with a grin.

His umber eyes met hers again.

"Besides, you're not the girl who faints." He teased, as the lopsided grin pulled at his mouth.

Arianne grinned back.

"I'm glad you think that."

They resumed their walk in somewhat companionable silence, her dark sleeve brushing his blue one.

"Look," Jace gestured ahead. "See that part of the gardens? With the statues. There's a stone bench behind them."

Arianne lifted her gaze.

"Ah, there's so many..."

A coterie of sculptures stood on a raised plinth, set in a broad circle. The older ones were decorated by the passage of time, a faint green moss covering them partly. At the center, newly scrubbed and more finely carved, stood the Seven: Father, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Warrior, Smith, and cloaked Stranger, arranged in the pointed star. The details on the Warrior's armor were exquisite.

Jace let her observe before tugging her between them.

"The Valyrian deities. I believe they were commissioned after Maegor finished the Holdfast."  He explained, adding wryly:

"I am surprised they didn't remove them."

The comely lines of his face twisted into a scowl at the central piece.

"But I see the Seven are added in the place of honor."

Arianne had to laugh at that.

She feted the Seven, but there was unmistakable pettiness in adding them here, and placing them in the center no less.

"That one is beautiful." Arianne nodded towards the sculpture closest to the bench. It depicted a beautiful, plump woman with a gentle, knowing smile. Her hair cascaded in long waves down her back like a cloak, and though carved from pale stone, her lips looked soft, almost warm.

"That is Syrax. Worshipped for love and fertility." He explained once they sat down. She enjoyed the undisturbed view of the bay, the sea calmly licking at the shores.

Jace reached under his left arm and set a wrapped bundle into her lap.

"You mentioned it to Rhaena." His voice lowered.

"Elysar's original writings. If you truly wish to read them —"

She tore at the twine before he finished speaking, unwrapping the parcel and flipping open the aged pages.

It began in the year 60 AC, when Elysar took office, but she searched until she found the first mention of her grandmother.

Jace was quiet.

He only nodded when she asked, offhandedly, if he’d read it.

Apparently, Saera Targaryen had been an unruly, albeit clever child. Arianne went through that quickly, stopping only after reading that during the tourney for her fifteenth name day, Saera had been crowned a Queen of Love and Beauty by the —

Her breath faltered.

With his father's recent passing, the young Giulian Swann was now Lord of Stonehelm and the most comely of Saera’s admirers. Having won a tourney in her name, he joined her favorites. Green-eyed and raven-haired, oft he was seen at the Princess’s side — dancing, hawking, and staging mock matches to entertain her.

Arianne glared at the passage as if it were some form of Ghiscari language no one knew. This was...this had to have been a lie!

Her palms dampened profusely, so she had to release he page lest she ruin it.

How could this be?

This could not be! Didn't they send Elysar away from the Citadel precisely to be rid of his cruel tongue?

Something pricked behind her eyelids.

"My father lied to me." That was all she could manage to say before sniffling.

"He said grandfather had never met Saera before the wedding."

Jace shifted beside her.

"Arianne..."

“I always thought— how did grandfather even marry her?” She turned the page, but her hand trembled.

“A Targaryen princess. That’s supposed to be...”

“A blessing?” Jace offered gently.

Arianne bit down on her lip, chewing it.

“But marrying Saera…” Her voice trailed off.

"A punishment?" His tone was bitter and sweet both, like a bruised fig.

He moved closer, his shoulder brushing hers.

She had read through it all — through her grandmother shamelessly boasting she could marry all of them, a Mooton, a Swann, a Connington, as Maegor the Cruel did his brides, to one of her girl companions being pregnant out of wedlock, to the King himself slewing Braxton Beesbury. Through Saera weeping for once in her life and begging the King to spare Giulian. And then the King's mercy, if mercy it was, offered on one condition: she would marry tomorrow.

Through a few short sentences depicting how, after a year of marriage, as even love was not to hold Saera bound to propriety, she boarded a ship to Lys and later to Volantis. The debaucheries mentioned, that pertained to her time on Lys, made Arianne's mouth dry and her cheeks burn.

She started bawling.

Loud, gasping, raw sobs, the kind she hadn’t cried since she was a child and still believed her father incapable of lying to her. His only daughter and his favorite child.

How could he not tell her this?

She had grown up believing her grandfather was just, moral, steadfast — a true Marcher. Not one of her grandmother's playthings!

That foul Aemond knew all this, and that was why he hated her.

Because there was wickedness in her blood.

"Arianne...I'm sorry." Jace looped his arm gently around her shoulders.

"It doesn't really matter. At all. Not to me." He murmured, his fingers tracing soft, soothing circles into her shoulder. Tender as rain.

"D-did you know, too?" Arianne searched his face.

Her lashes clumped together from tears.

“I read it a while ago,” He admitted. When she gasped, he raised his free hand, placating.

“I was only curious. You said it yourself...It seemed odd, the Good King forcing a young, promising lord to wed his most wayward child.”

She wiped at her cheek with the sleeve of her gown, the dark cloth darkening further.

"Why didn't you tell me? You should've told me, Jace." Arianne sniffled again.

"I didn't wish to hurt you. Being confronted with truths you don't really want to know isn't easy. It's horrible."

There was a mountain of something in his voice. Arianne could agree that this was horrible.

How many times did her father scold her for inquiring about her grandmother?

Naming her a blight, a stain, a blemish upon their proud house. It had always been Saera's fault, or the Old King’s.

Never her grandfather's.

He had been the victim, the good Marcher boy dragged into fire and ruin by those blasphemous dragon lot.

Much as Arianne disliked Saera, her grandfather was four years her elder; he should've known better than to lie with an unwed princess!

If he was brought up properly, like all marchers were, on moors and plains, with a sword in his hand before he could walk, how could he have been seduced by the haughty, ill-mannered, Valyrian sinner like Princess Saera?

Where was his honor?

Where was his duty? Discipline?

"Don't let this affect you so much. You're you, Arianne." Jace reassured her, though something in his voice strayed close to fragility.

Arianne knit her brows together, gaze sharpening.

"Father deliberately lied to me! Giulian Swann was dishonorable too, and our blood matters!" She fumed.

"You wouldn't be...you without your parents. They made you and raised you. So who made my father, who in turn made me?"

Jace's lips parted open before he closed them tightly together.

A flicker passed over his face — barely visible, like a shadow.

He glanced away, jaw clenched.

"I'm still going to be me regardless of all that." He proclaimed, nodding to no one in particular.

They sat closer than before, pressed to each other's side, the birdsong wrapping them like a shawl.

"I'm glad...you're you." Arianne leaned into him ever so slightly. Jace perked up.

"Even if I'm not Myles Mooton?" His shapely mouth curved into an exaggerated pout.

Arianne couldn't stop the laughter bubbling from her throat at that.

"You...sound jealous." She dared, because his earlier outburst confirmed it to her.

Besides, Johanna urged her to forget timidity.

She could follow her advice now, if she were already so corrupt.

Jacaerys Velaryon removed the tome from her hands and then turned to her, eyes bright like polished hematite.

"That is because I am." He confessed without hesitation.

"I dislike seeing you with other men. Be it him or Aemond or—"

Arianne choked on nothing.

"Aemond?" She repeated the name as if it personally offended her. Well, it did!

Jace shrugged.

"You enjoyed playing cyvasse with him. Why do you think I...? You also danced and talked awfully long. And I just—"

"He is the last person you should be jealous of." Arianne interrupted his veritably mad rambling.

A small frown slid over his features.

"He fights well. He was always ahead in studies." Jace complained. Then, as if he were considering not saying it at all, he added:

"He looks more like...You know what I mean."

Arianne shook her head.

The only thing he looked like was a sin, a Valyrian, wicked, terrible sin.

She would never be like her grandfather. Never.

Ever.

Not even if the moon cleaved in two.

She stared at Jace.

"He is a vain, mean bore. As charming as a Skagosi cannibal."

That made him laugh, boyish and unguarded and melodious, and he caught her hand in his. His other arm was still draped across her shoulders, steady, warm.

Safe.

He pressed their palms together, his was wider, fingers longer and thicker. Arianne thought her hands might look better if she wore rings like Rhaenyra.

"Who are you going with?" Jace cleared his throat after a while.

Arianne shrugged, eyes following a ship in the distance.

"I don't know yet. It should be someone my family would approve of."

She could absolutely not be associated with any Mooton after reading Elysar's account. Or any other house name among her grandmother's entourage. She didn't have that many options.

Perhaps Ser Jorlan Wylde, then. The only problem was that she barely knew him beyond one brief conversation. His father was Master of Laws on the small council, though. His stepmother invited her to dinner.

"Baela suggested we go together, the three of us." Jace smirked, nudging her shoulder.

"She thought you were going to cry yesterday."

Mortification erupted cold up Arianne's spine.

"First, I swoon, now I cry at dinner!"

She lamented.

"Besides, how do you mean the three of us?"

Jace grimaced.

“She wants us to go masked as Aegon and his sisters. But only if she gets to be Rhaenys. Apparently, everyone expects her to pick Visenya, so she wants to keep them guessing.”

Arianne paled.

She what?

"That is against the...propriety. Against everything! The Queen would have us banished."

Jace chuckled, brown eyes glimmering.

"Then I won't mention that her alternative was her as The Conqueror. I'd be gallant and let you pick between the other two."

It was so absurd that Arianne laughed again. She'd pick Rhaenys, of course. It would leave Jace as Visenya, yet she couldn't imagine him as her.

Jace was warm, like the sun. Or a fire.

Visenya was solemn, cruel, and so unpalatable that Aegon supposedly went to Dragonstone while she oversaw the construction of the Red Keep just so he would be rid of her company. Her harsh, Valyrian beauty equaled her harsh, unforgiving heart.

Lady Baela was bold and beautiful — her pearlescent hair strikingly contrasted her dark, clear skin, so that she appeared as if she stepped out of a tale — but Arianne didn't think her cruel, and she certainly wasn't solemn. 

If anyone would make a good Visenya, it would be Prince Aemond. He was unpalatable. And...harshly beautiful, too.

It was Jace who spoke first, retrieving her from her musings.

"Sometimes I wish I weren't me."

Arianne blinked.

Then her gaze snapped to him. He was the heir to the Iron Throne, there was no one anyone would rather be.

He rolled his eyes at her horrified expression.

"I just meant, If I were in Joffrey's place or...I don't know, even uncle Aemond's...there wouldn't be all this..." He gestured vaguely, then brushed his curls back.

"I'd fly Vermax with you to Essos." His voice turned playful.

"We'd visit those wondrous caverns north of Norvos, the triple walls of Quarth, and even Asshai. We'd drink sweet wine in Lys, and eat only cake until we're too fat to climb on Vermax. They'd have to haul us up."

Arianne pressed a hand to her mouth, laughing.

"So, we'd be adventurers like Lomas Longstrider?"

Jace beamed, the grin lighting up his face with something utterly, hopelessly boyish.

"More infamous. We'd have to elope first."

Elope.

She laughed again — though this time, it came out thinner, nervous, because the word itself was tender and too real.

"Elope? You'd be risking your position."

Of course, they couldn't elope. 

Jace was to be King one day.

"Well, I'd have a new position." He quipped with mock seriousness.

"I'd rest my head on your lap while you sit under a peach tree, reading about roads in Myr, or something equally tedious."

She swatted at his chest lightly.

"My father would renounce me if I eloped!"

Perhaps, she really should, Arianne scrunched her nose, it would serve him right for lying to her! Why could he disappoint her but not vice versa?

Tilting her face back to him, she'd expected another jest at her expense, and she had excellent taste in books, mind him, but not the way the golden light caught in his unruly hair, or the way his deep, dark eyes became lakes to drown in.

They were close. Too close.

"Would he do that,” Jace murmured, voice bleeding with molten fire.

“If I kissed you?”

Her lungs collapsed.

A kiss.

Her first kiss. First. First. Veryfirstkiss.

Her thoughts disintegrated, and for a fraction of a moment, all she could do was to settle her gaze on his impossibly full, ruddy lips.

Arianne swallowed.

"He wouldn't know." Her response was so quiet, she wasn't sure he heard her. She could hardly hear herself over the fierce thumping of her own heart.

His irises darkened, flecking with unmistakable resolve. Jace heard her.

Oh, he heard her.

Arianne felt the heat leave her knuckles as he slowly lifted his hand until his fingers touched her jaw. Brushed so gently over it, as if she were something to be revered.

The pulse in her neck leapt at the contact.

Jace tilted her chin gently, his thumb grazing the corner of her mouth — featherlight and tentative. His other arm remained firm across her shoulders, holding her in place.

And then he leaned in, slow as the land during winter.

Their noses nearly touched.

Arianne’s eyes fluttered shut. She could feel the heat of his breath against hers — shallow, uncertain, laced with the faint aroma of sweet cider he had sipped earlier.

So close.

So —

A thump.

Then, a child's cry startled them both.

Arianne jolted to her feet, skin fevered, scorching, sizzling from her neck to the roots of her hair.

They glanced in the direction of the sound.

Princess Jaehaera Targaryen had tripped over the stone foot of a statue and now sat inspecting her palm, wide-eyed and frightened. Her lower lip trembled.

"Are you alright?" Jace managed to find his voice first, though it was still a little rough.

The girl glanced up, tears welling in her sea-blue eyes.

She was pale as the rising moon.

“Is she—?” Jace turned, half-toward Arianne. His cheeks were tinged with pink.

“I’ll see.” Arianne drew closer carefully, passing two statues and kneeling down near the princess.

“Let me look.” She urged gently.

Jaehaera held out her tiny hand, palm up.

“Oh, it’s an ouchie,” Arianne nodded gravely, slipping a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressing it to the scratch.

"I have one of those, too."

She went to lift her skirts just as Jace asked about the girl's ladies or septas, making Arianne halt.

"She runs from them...Jace, turn around."

"I — What?"

Arianne glanced up at him sharply.

"It is the confidential business of ladies." She insisted, raising a brow.

With a suffering groan, Jace spun towards the Blackwater Rush.

Satisfied, Arianne gathered her skirts and rolled down her stocking, revealing a faded yellow bruise on her knee.

“See? They don’t last long.”

Jaehaera’s tears dried, her gaze inquisitive. Then she smiled softly and glanced at her own scraped palm.

“I ran too fast,” She concluded solemnly.

“That always brings trouble,” Arianne agreed — then promptly lost her balance and thumped backward onto the grass with an indelicate yelp.

It wouldn't have been the end of the world, because the grass was soft, but her reaction, coupled with Jaehaera's startled gasp, prompted Jace to turn back.

His gaze initially landed on her face, worry written across his brow.

But then it dropped.

And stopped.

Her skirts had ridden high, tangled around her hips. One stocking was still bunched uselessly around her ankle. And the curve of her bare thigh was shamefully, brazenly visible.

Jace seemed stock-still, eyes glued to it. The apple of his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

His lips parted.

He blinked, then dragged his eyes back up to her face — slowly, reluctantly, like it pained him to do so.

Arianne fought the urge to scream bloody murder.

Her skin went up in flames as if someone had doused her in wildfire. She yanked her skirts down in one frantic motion, nearly toppling herself again in the process.

He saw.

Mother!

"Arianne, my apologies, I thought —"

Gods, please no! Her reputation was in tatters already.

She was punished for her grandparent's sins! This hadn't been deliberate! She'd sinned by accident!

"Arianne, I saw nothing!" Jace insisted, but she couldn't look at him.

Her breath was shallow and was failing her.

Jaehaera laughed with airy innocence, and the sound was so jarring, so out of place in the molten silence between them, it broke the spell. His eyes, rich brown like the land itself, fell to his shoes, and Jacaerys Velaryon had no choice but to remain silent, red blotches painting his cheeks.

He looked like a boy caught stealing fruit preserves from the kitchens.

Arianne sat stunned, her legs tucked beneath her, skirts firmly down now.

Then she remembered —

She failed to have her first kiss.

Again.

“Princess, must you do this every day?” Lady Mullendore’s voice rang out, exasperated, as she finally caught up with them.

Jaehaera shrugged and offered back the handkerchief to Arianne.

“No, keep it.” She insisted, managing a smile as she stood and dusted off the back of her gown.

“I know my embroidery’s not very pretty, but I always have the Septon bless them with the seven oils. Maybe it’ll help your ouchie.”

Jaehaera nodded gravely, cradling the cloth like a talisman.

 Arianne resolutely stared after the small, silver-haired retreating figure, ignoring that she would have to face her prince eventually.

After this horrifying blunder.

Jace cleared his throat.

"Elysar also wrote about the Myrish Bloodbath and exiles who occupied Tarth." He still avoided her eyes. "There's a story about Prince Aemon's death and how my great-grandfather avenged him. If you'd like to...read with me?"

Yes, Arianne thought, she could read.

[ceescedasticity]

Unforsaken, 16a

(All sections on tumblr)

(AO3, lagging behind but more polished)

There have never been so many Quendi fëar bound for Mandos at one time before. Not after the Changing of the World, not in the darkest days of Beleriand — never.

And they are grievously wounded fëar. Some bad, some worse, some better than it's reasonable to expect but still not good.

There's a massive shuffling of maiar to try to get anyone with experience in the Halls or understanding of hurt fëar assigned to the Halls — besides Námo's maiar, that's most of the followings of Nienna, Vairë, Estë, and Irmo.

(Olórin is excused on account of (a) the hobbits being highly unlikely to accept a substitute, (b) his being rather attached to that fána, and (c) fiery spirits are… counterindicated.)

Then of course other maiar have to be shuffled in to take on what they were doing before. Lórien's gardens — both horticulture and healing — are left mostly to the care of Yavanna and Vána's followers. Ulmo has carefully selected a group of maiar who are, if not as adept at pity as Nienna's dedicated, at least very good listeners. A very very few carefully chosen maiar of Aulë are helping with Vairë's looms.

(Most of the rest of maiar of Aulë are trying not to be too obvious about their general mood of 'score! the umaia wasn't one of us this time!' Some are better at it than others.)

Námo also tries to move other fëar out of the Halls. Not all of them, obviously. Most of the elves killed in the War of the Ring — only eleven years ago now — aren't ready for reembodiment. Other recent deaths. Souls of orcs who went into the Sea in the Third Age who aren't healed yet. Some prisoners of Dol Guldur. Several dozen goblin-men of Dunland killed at the fall of Isengard who are quite sure they're not mortal but who are absolutely not ready for Aman.

And of course Fëanor still hasn't been willing to let go of his Oath, so it's still not safe to release him. Finwë is keeping Fëanor company.

(One of the discoveries during the Ages of the Sun: It is often possible to dissolve oaths sworn by Iluvatar. You need to be dead, and appeal for the dissolution of your oath via the door by which the souls of Men leave Arda. Sometimes departing humans will agree to carry an appeal; some particularly bold elves go right up to the threshold and 'shout'. Since most elves don't make a practice of swearing by Iluvatar, it is used most often, though still rarely, for dissolution of marriages. But the point is you can be released from the Oath of Fëanor. If you want to be.)

(—And Finwë could appeal for the dissolution of one of his marriages. He will not.)

But elves who, say, died in the Battle of Five Armies? Avari killed by a bear twenty years ago? Drowning in the Sea of Rhûn ten years ago? Extremely embarrassed Vanyarin herdsman who startled a cow four months ago? It's a little early for any of those (once manner of death is considered), but if they would rather give it a shot than be in the Halls for the upcoming influx, that's doable.

And there may have been a few people who maybe possibly could have been described as 'moping' who got a tiny bit of a nudge.

[setmeatopthepyre]

moodboard: antarct-fic [wip]

tagged by @beanarie <3 this was so much fun to do!

rules: Either: choose one of your published fics (or a WIP if you'd prefer), create a moodboard for it and share it along with a snippet. Or: Create a moodboard for your fave episode of the show, fave character, or a fic someone else has written that you love, and share it with some sentences about why it's a fave! (and tag people!)

It starts as a joke, is the thing. More accurately, it starts with Lucy dragging him to a cocktail bar, and Tommy moping into his third Sidecar (“Please tell me that’s some sort of gay army euphemism”) while he contemplates, for the millionth time, calling Evan. “So.” Lucy covers his phone with a menu. “Holiday plans?” “Does researching ‘most remote places on earth to wallow’ count?” She sips her old fashioned thoughtfully. “Well, if you really wanna get out of cell range, my buddy says they always need pilots in Antarctica.” It’s a joke. No one spontaneously decides to spend the holidays at the South pole. Two weeks later, his paperwork is filed and he’s on his way.

[read more in my antarct-fic tag]

tagging: @sugarpenchant @leashybebes @epiphainie @ambernotember @trombonechurchill

moodboard text snippets are from an absolutely amazing (and educational and funny) polar manual from 1965 I found this pdf of. highly recommend skimming through it. how else will you learn how much milk is in a dead walrus? / nearly all photos from the antarctic sun

[ethereal-feline]

Ok so I've been getting a lot of Invincible in my youtube feed and yo Cecil in MHA would thrive. Not that its necessarily good for everyone else but either through dimension hopping/time travel shenanigans or Cecil born in MHA during time of Quirks, I think he's gonna still be Cecil.

Like, if its through dimension/time travel, he's just gonna adapt like "ok, a dimension/time period where superpowers are a lot more common and even lawfully regulated" and then find the GDA in some fashion and if its GDA wholesale, you can bet Donald Ferguson is still gonna be around. So then they get to work on sending Cecil back no problem, but in the meantime Cecil is gonna Cecil and see if he can bring back any Quirks.

If Cecil is born in MHA, that would be a perfect view into the gritty underbelly of Pro Hero work. Like how Underground Heroes were supposed to be I think? Anyways, his job is more or less the same. Coordinating Pro Heroes and keeping eyes on potential threats. If his backstory remains the same just in MHA, someone like All Might or Izuku would definitely be shocked with his methods.

"But its All Might! He's the Symbol of Peace! He would never harm civilians!" Izuku probably says after finding out he has a micro chip taser in his neck that would stun him at Cecil's discretion.

"He can turn a thunderstorm into a clear sky by snapping his fingers. I'm making sure you don't do the same to someone's skull." Cecil after already getting blood samples to compare All Might and Izuku if he doesn't already know about OfA and AfO and probably thinking of how to fan Endeavor's one sided beef to make sure he's in tip top shape because a focused and locked in Endeavor is now their best shot at AfO with OfA in a first year high school kid, so Cecil is gonna chuck the adult at AfO first before yeeting the kid.

Its not like Cecil doesn't care. He does, really. He just commits atrocities like hiring a mad scientist to create a robot zombie army because he believes its for the greater good. To Cecil, you're either a good person or someone who can save the world, but not both. So I think he's gonna remind Endeavor about his goal to surpass All Might and press the Touya Button if/when Kamino happen because if it ever gets out (Cecil is probably helping investigate the LOV and has a hunch about Dabi) about how Endeavor treats his family he's gonna need a shit ton of PR so keep the moping at home and hop to it soldier, we'll check on the wife and kids for you.

Cecil wouldn't even bat an eye at the previous HPSC president's methods of having Nagant take out corrupt Pros (ok maybe with how close range it seems she's a sniper!) or at how the next one basically buys Hawks like a puppy from the store to train. Cecil would just do some mental math about the budget and nod, reminding himself to keep an eye on the kid because Fierce Wings is real versatile (flight + each feather can be sharpened + can detect subtle air changes to hear conversation + pick up weight up to an adult human) while he monitors on the American Pro Heroes.

I haven't fully caught up yet or read the comic but Cecil seems like he'd be a good foil to Izuku. Does the right thing with the most questionable methods because he tried the "right" way in the past and it doesn't work, and Izuku challenges that. Pro Heroes do not kill for PR reasons but they absolutely can, Cecil is gonna remind Izuku of that, especially about Shigaraki, and Izuku will insist he can both save and stop Tomura/Tenko. And Cecil's response?

"Better be in the budget, kid."

Might go looking for Invincible/MHA fics now lol