#mother in law's cushion

[boschintegral-photo]

Golden Barrel Cactus (Echinocactus Grusonii) Grugapark Essen, Germany

[faguscarolinensis]

Echinocactus grusonii / Golden Barrel Cactus at the Sarah P. Duke Gardens at Duke University in Durham, NC

[ellemarianne555]

Mother Issues

Summary: Aegon’s new wife is a Hightower and he isn’t sure how he feels about this. Fluffy smut.

Author’s note: this is so fluffy and self-indulgent and my first time ever writing smut so if it’s cringey and too much plot I’m sorry! Please leave feedback, I know my grammar can be iffy sometimes xoxo

Content warning: mdni, slight mommy kink, implied breeding kink, severe praise kink, heavy mommy issues and mentions of alcoholism and childhood neglect. Aegon is a dick for half of this but don’t worry he comes right in the end (literally lol).

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With your long wavy hair and big unblinking eyes, the court had been whispering about how much you resembled a young Alicent since you were a girl. Your father was a brother to Otto, and rumours had long been rife that Otto had laid with your mother and had her married hastily to his kin to cover the scandal. You knew this wasn’t true though, as your mother was devoted to your father and you possessed his wit and kindness as well as your grandmother’s looks that had seduced Viserys into making your cousin, Alicent, his wife.

The rumours and gossip became even more pronounced when you were betrothed to Aegon. The sulky young King with his disheveled blonde hair and the pouty lips stained permanently red from the wine he had been known to imbibe. Aegon had thrown a fit when he heard you were to be married as he petulantly resented anything to do with his distant mother and belittling grandfather. He barely talked to you on your wedding night, since he had gotten so drunk that when he stumbled into your bed early in the morning he was unable to perform his marital duties. Flushing red, sweating and swearing to all who would listen that it was his wife and her Hightower features that were to blame; you two become even more distant as you became married in name alone.

So you kept to your chambers, armed with your ladies in waiting and mountains of mind-numbing embroidery to hide from the shame of a husband who couldn’t stand you. You heard that Aegon was busy with his whores down in the Street of Silk and though your ladies pushed you to take a handsome young lover, you were committed to the Faith and your role as a dutiful wife.

Time passed and you seemed to see even less of your husband as he struggled with the roles and responsibilities of being in charge of the realm. You heard snippets of fights and arguments, the rare times you ventured outside of your apartments for more reading materials, between Aegon and his councillors as he fought to have his voice heard and opinions valued.

Doors banged and shouting echoed down the hallway to your bed chamber as you heard arguing through the cracks of the stone wall.

“But it isn’t my fault!”, one voice said as another voice became more clear.

“How can you expect anyone to take you as their King when you can’t even prove yourself as a man?” Angrily responded another voice, that you recognised as that of your mother-in-law.

Your husband and his mother were arguing. About you. In front of your bed chamber.

Suddenly the door flew open as Aegon burst in, scowling and seething with anger.

“Are you happy now? I’m in her damn chambers and I’ll fuck her until you have all the precious heirs you want!”.

You nearly stabbed stabbed your thumb with a needle as you jumped out of your perch of a wide cushion nestled into the window. Fortunately your ladies were not there to witness your mouth open and close in sheer shock as your husband entered.

For not the first time, you wondered how miserable your life could be that when the man you were married to entered your room, that it was as shocking as though if Vhagar had started wearing gowns and demanding weekly tea parties in their honour. Shaking the image out of your mind, you could see your husband grit his teeth in frustration.

The door clanged heavily behind you and you heard short angry footsteps disappear down the hallway until you were both alone. For the second time in your marriage since you had stood at the altar, you were alone with your husband. But for all his cruel words that had passed around the court and confined you to these chambers in humiliation, you weren’t scared of him. He looked slightly small in fact. With his lips trembling and eyes glistening he looked more like a furious king and more like a lost boy.

He scowled at you, with his lower lips jutting out in such a way that you felt more like wiping his cheeks then scolding him for the embarrassment and isolation he had put you through.

“I’ll have to stay here.” He said petulantly. “For at least a few hours until Mother thinks my duty has been performed.”

He looked over to where your abandoned embroidery lay and his upper lip curled in disdain.

“I see there’s nothing to entertain myself with, so I might as well sleep.” He looked pointedly at you upon saying the word “entertain”, but again it seemed to came off as less hurtful but sulky and strangely self-conscious.

“What do you do to pass the time in here? Seeing as you never bother to come to court.”

Your mouth gaped open again as you realised that your husband was actually talking to you for once, instead of at you.

“W-well, I embroider.”

His eyes rolled nearly to the ceiling.

“A-and I read.” Your voice choking in your throat as his red rimmed stare snapped to your trembling lips.

“Really? I thought it wasn’t becoming of such a high-born lady to entertain herself with such foolish pursuits.”He said mockingly, and instead of rising to his disdain, you laughed.

“It seems I am not the only one in this marriage who amuses themselves with frivolity.”

His nostrils flared in anger as you realised that in your attempt to jest, you had instead struck a delicate nerve.

“I am not as foolish as you or this court believe you know. I have a great interest in my family’s history and that of the realm. Of course everyone just assumes that there is nothing else to me but the drinking and the whoring.”His mouth curled upwards in a way that showed you he had long been used to demeaning himself in front of others .

“I’m sorry.” You paused hesitantly, “I just don’t know how to talk to you. It seems like we are more strangers than when I had never met you.”

“Well, you don’t have to treat me as if I were an idiot. I get enough of that from my own kin.”

Again, you felt a pit form in your stomach as you thought how it must of been to grow up feeling lesser than. You had had not exactly an idyllic childhood in Old Town, but you knew your parents loved you. Even if they were misguided enough to agree to betroth you to a man who clearly hated you.

You tried again, “I’m sorry. I also find the stories of our history fascinating.”You held out a worn copy of folklore and fairytales from under one of the cushions from your childhood, one of the only things you had managed to take with you from home.

“You’re reading children’s stories?” Aegon scoffed.

“They’re not really stories at all. They introduce the stories of our past to children so they take an interest in the way things came to be. My favourite is how Visenya Targaryen and how she conquered the Vale.”

“Really?” Aegon said catching himself quickly before he sounded too interested.

“When I was younger I always dreamed of being like her, so strong and brave.”

“So did I.” He said almost begrudgingly.

“It must be hard. To grow up with a brother who often thinks less of you and diminishes your accomplishments.”

Aegon blinked, again surprised at how this woman who he had pushed away so harshly seemed to know him so well.

“I was just finishing this chapter. I could read it aloud? If that is alright with you, your grace.”

He nodded stiffly and sat at the edge of the window seat as though he were afraid to come any closer.

You patted the worn cushion next to him and smiled, “I don’t bite, my lord.” You teased. Again a smile seemed to escape from him as he slowly inched closer.

As the chapter progressed and the pages turned you noticed that your husband was falling asleep, first on your shoulder then burrowing down to your lap. You stiffened, unsure of whether to wake him but you decided that he seemed in need of a good rest and slowly wound his straggly blond hair through your fingers.

Before you had realised, you too had drifted to sleep. Only woken by a soft chiming of the bells from the Sept declaring that it was late at night, and a rather peculiar stiffness poking into your thigh.

Your eyelashes fluttered open, only to look down and see your husband, mouth slightly agape and sleeping peacefully. You realised what had happened, he had clearly brushed against you by accident and gotten aroused.

Trying to be respectful, you gently tried to move his head out of your lap. His eyes snapped open, blinking as he tried to place where he was.

“You look very beautiful when you sleep.” You blurted out softly as though scared he would bolt. His cheeks blushed a delicate shade of pink as he looked down and noticed his cock as though for the first time.

Scrambling out of your lap, he tried to cover himself with a pillow while cursing angrily with himself.

“I-it’s okay, you know.”

He froze, unsure of how to respond. So you decided not to let him.

“It happens to me too.” His eyebrows knit together in confusion as he was unsure if you were saying what he thought you were saying. That you also dreamed of him? And you felt the same attraction you denied yourself when awake?

“We don’t choose our thoughts when we dream. You must have been dreaming of a beautiful woman or an old lover perhaps.”

He frowned, if only you knew that it was you he wanted. Why had he pushed you away so much? Because he resented the lack of choice? Because he was so determined to despise anything related to his mother? The woman who had been so absent and cold towards him throughout his childhood, yet was unable to see why he drank and surrounded himself with whores to cope with the emptiness he felt.

You looked at him again, worried that you had somehow upset him. “You can go back to sleep, you know. I don’t mind.” You said, patting the cold space in your lap where he had been.

He smiled softly, and shyly lay back down.

How odd this man was, you thought. One moment he was fire and hatred but the next he seemed so lost and scared.

You started humming to yourself quietly as you again stroked his face. His eyes cracked open again.

“What is that song? It sounds familiar.”

“It’s just a song we sing to children in Old Town. My mother taught it to me so that maybe I could one day sing it to my own.”.

“It’s nice.” Aegon said gruffly and closed his eyes once more.

The rhythm and lyrics poured out of your mouth as you sang a nursery rhyme praising the child that grew in your belly, promising they would grow to be strong and that you were proud of him. It was an old song said to promote fertility and help form a bond through the womb.

Suddenly, you noticed something again poking into your lap as your husband blushed red with shame.

“M-mommy” he choked out in heaving gasps, his greasy hair wrapped around your fingers as you froze, tugging the roots sharply. The whimper of pain he released sounded almost like a moan and looking down you noticed the damp spot on his breeches.

Aegon jumped up as though he had been doused in icy water and backed up against the door. His chest falling and rising with small gasping hiccups.

You realised that this was probably the first time anyone had shown him the tenderness he so desperately craved, and that he had been seeking in the bottom of his cups and the bottoms of well, prostitutes. It was only natural that these feelings of shame had combined with arousal, and how he was attracted to the softness he had never known but always craved. You smiled kindly, reassuringly as if to let him know it was alright.

“I didn’t mean to-“

“It’s alright,” you said speaking to him slowly with your hands reached out, as though you were tying to tame a horse rather than a king with serious mother issues. “You can call me whatever you need.”

His lips were still quivering as more tears leaked out of his eyes and caught on his round chin before trickling down below his shirt.

“I am so sorry.” He whispered, so faintly it took a few seconds to sink in.

“It’s alright.” you repeated.

“N-no, it’s not. The moment I saw you I thought you were the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. But then I became aware of the comments about your resemblance to my mother and I became so angry and confused at how someone I could desire so much could resemble someone who hates me so.”

You froze. Then before you knew it you were up against the door, pinning him to the cold iron that seemed to only increase the heat between your bodies.

He looked into your eyes, and you slowly traced the tears that had fallen down his soft chin and placed your finger in your mouth. As if to show him you wanted all of him. His sadness, his love, his unease.

Your husband seemed to snap at the image of your plump mouth slowly sucking the finger inside and gripped the back of your head, as he wound his shaking fingers around your long wavy hair. The kiss was searing, harsh and longing as you seemed to fall down and down into the feelings you had been denying for so long.

His length was aching and hard against your thigh as you suddenly pulled yourself from his embrace. Breathing heavily, you moved to untie his breeches. But he surprised you yet again. And got down on his knees.

This time it was you pressed against the door, as he lifted your skirts hurriedly only to look up questioningly as though asking your permission.

“I know I’ve been a cunt. But I hope that I can show you how sorry I am.” He grinned broadly as he waited for your approval.

“It’s fine, Aegon. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“Well, my wife you clearly don’t know me very well if you think I would find tasting your sweetness unpleasant. Let me make amends…With my tongue.”

As soon as your head let out a shaky nod, not sure whether to believe what was happening. He was back under your skirts. Licking and tasting like this was the first meal he had all day, knowing him it was probably the first that wasn’t liquid.

You had never felt such an intense pleasure before, never in your nights of touching yourself under your sheets, your shaking fist shoved in your mouth as you thought of the stories your ladies had told you of all the ways a man could please a woman. As you thought of how beautiful your husband had looked in his armour the day he was crowned, so unsure and so vulnerable. You really seemed to have a weakness for sad men. But mainly just him, just your husband who was licking and sucking at you as he deadly slipped his tongue between your folds.

You cried out as he slowly breached your entrance with his finger.

“Is this alright?” He said worriedly as he looked up for your approval.

“Of course, sweet boy.” And in response your husband groaned, deep and full. His efforts redoubled as he sought to press his fingers inside at you at the point your inner walls started to crumble and be torn down by his efforts. Crying out in ecstasy, you collapse to the floor. His head still in your hands as he looked up at you adoringly, chin glistening with your release as he proudly smirked and wiped it off with the back of his hand.

You sat there together. On the floor for a moment. As you thought of how misunderstood the man who rested his head in the crook of your neck was. At how he loved you, every part of you. Even the parts that resembled his mother. Because maybe with at was what he needed. To see a version of himself, reflected in yourself as kindness. And maybe he wasn’t afraid anymore. Of loving you so entirely.

You smiled at him softly as he panted into your shoulder and you noticed how the hardness in his breeches had only grown fiercer and more pulsing.

“May I?”, you spoke, gazing into his eyes and now he was the one who was shy as he nodded gently.

Reaching into his trousers, you took his cock in your hands. “Pretty.” You could not help yourself say. You worriedly glanced at your husband only to find his face bright red yet again. He pulsed in your hands and you realised what he needed. What he had been denied for so long.

“Such a good boy.” You murmured into his neck. The reaction was instant, his head burrowed further into your chest as he moaned low and unashamed.

“You’re doing so well. Being such a perfect boy for me. So so pretty.”

He latched on to your breast, yanking them out of your gown fiercely as he began to suck harshly on your nipples. You moaned, as you increased your efforts on his aching red cock.

“You’re a good man, Aegon.” You choked out between sighs, “You’d be such a good father to our children, I’d be honoured to be their mother.”At these words, your husband pulsed furiously and exploded into your palm.

Shaking from pleasure, he again rested his head in your lap. Looking up at you as though you were still strangers and he was still shy, despite his tongue having been inside your cunt moments before.

“D-did you mean that?”

“Mean what?”

“That I’d be a good father. That you’d want to have children with me.”

“Of course. I couldn’t think of anything I’d want more. Stop denying yourself the love you want to give and receive, from me, from any children we may have.”

He smiled at this, like the sun was breaking across a clouded sky. Like he was seeing what his lifecould be for the first time.

“Well.” Your husband grinned; “I think we should start trying to make children more productively.”As he again pushed you to the floor, both of you laughing and smiling as he kissed you again and again.

[troublesomesnitch]

The Novice

Aemond x Septa!Reader

The one-eyed prince makes a late night confession.

Contents: Book!Aemond. Pure filth, extremely dubious consent/non-con. Confessional dirty talk, coercion, power imbalance.

Words: 4200

Mostly book!Aemond, but with some show elements added to make him a real piece of shit.

CW: sexual assault!

Proof read, but I am not good at proof reading.

-

Twice a week, the grand sept receives fine visitors.

It is always something you look forward to, something special and exciting; hearing guards in the streets outside, and the swift feet of errand boys running to inform your superiors.

The queen will be arriving shortly. 

There is not much preparation that needs to be done, because you never tarry in your duties - there are always fresh matches laid out, candles ready to be lit, not a spec of dust on the altars. But for the queen, you go above and beyond. You fetch cushions for her dainty knees, you light incense in every corner, and you usher out any crowds that are not worthy of her presence. 

You greatly admire the queen. She is all that a lady should be, the very image of womanhood. Gracious, pious, beautifully but modestly dressed, and always kind and courteous to you. She says thank you, and blessed day, sweet Sister, and she asks about your training, your health and wellbeing, what charitable causes you wish to devote yourself to. 

The older septas say that the queen seems to have taken a liking to you, and that perhaps if you are lucky, she will request for you to join her household once you have taken your vows. To be a helper and companion to her daughter, and to teach the little prince and princess - her grandchildren, which is a strange thought, because the queen is so young and so beautiful to already be a grandmother. 

She is certainly much younger than her husband. The king is old and frail and rarely leaves his castle now, but even in his youth, he never came to the sept. At least that is what you are told. Septon Alester says he is an unworthy husband, and an unworthy ruler, too. A heretic, like all the rest of his Valyrian kin, who flout divine law and believe themselves above the gods. 

You would never dare to utter such a thing, but it seems at least partially true - in all the time you have served the sept, the king has never accompanied his queen to prayer. Not even once. She always comes alone, escorted by her guard and her maid. And sometimes by her son. 

The one-eyed prince. The one who rides the largest beast in the world. 

There are many rumours swirling about noble lords and ladies, but especially about him. In the taverns and winesinks people say he is of a sullen disposition, and that the loss of his eye at such a young age has left his face hideous and deformed - clearly they have never seen him, but you have, and you know it is nothing more than malicious slander. 

The prince is as beautiful as his mother. 

They look lovely when they kneel together by the altar, with their hands delicately folded and their heads respectfully bowed. Regal, godly. Like the Mother and the Warrior, you think. You often wonder about the contents of his prayers - what could a royal prince possibly wish for? Not as many things as a queen, it would seem, because he never kneels for as long, retreating after a minute or two to stand and wait for his mother. Watch over her; look at her with devotion and reverence. You cannot help but steal quick glances at him; at his graceful posture and his strong face, and you are always too slow to look away, so sometimes he catches you in it. Even when you stand on his blind side, he somehow knows to turn his head and meet your gaze. The little bow he gives you is courteous, but the taunting smile that follows is not, and you must always remind yourself that you have done nothing wrong. 

It is not a sin to be curious. 

—

When the evening bell tolls, and the city gates close, the High Septon calls to prayer. But one person must always stay behind to keep vigil until the morning, and the duty is shared between all servants of the Faith. Septons and septas, novices, even holy brothers and sisters, sometimes. Only the Most Devout are exempt from it, as well as those who are weakened by illness or old age.

You are neither, but you do not mind taking your turn. It is an easy task, as all of the city is asleep, and those who are not would much rather drink and carouse than come to a place of worship. Here, the night is quiet and calm, and you quite like these hours of solitude. Alone in the sept with only the statues, and maybe the gods, for company. 

On this day though, you are startled from your thoughts when the heavy doors are swung open. 

You have never before encountered guests at this hour, so your fearful imagination is quick to jump to conclusions - the man could be a thief, a common brute, a scoundrel hiding from a brawl, or - gods forbid - from the City Watch.

But when you peek out from your little corner, you are surprised to see that it is the prince. And that he is alone. 

He is dressed differently tonight, in dull colours and coarser fabrics, far simpler than what he usually wears. Perhaps in an attempt to go unnoticed among the common people - but if that was indeed his intention, he has very much failed. Everything about him is unusual, from his hair to his eye to the shining silver clasp at his neck; the immaculate tailoring of each of his garments. Even the way he carries himself makes it abundantly clear that this is no grocer or stonemason. 

You cast your eyes down as his steps echo through the sept, purposeful and determined.  Clearly heading towards you, but you would hate to be presumptuous, so it is only when he is right in front of you that you rise from your seat to curtsy. Reverently, so deep that your knee almost touches the floor. 

“Sister,” he nods. “I have sins I wish to confess - a troubled mind I wish to unburden.” 

You curtsy once more, though not as low this time.

“I am not ordained to hear confessions, but I should be happy to fetch a septon - “

“No,” the prince says. “I will speak to no one but you.” 

What he demands is a breach of the rules, and a cruel thing to ask of you, but there is not much to be done about it. You can hardly refuse a prince of the realm, and what if he tells his mother that you were unhelpful? After all, it is your sacred duty to comfort and guide the faithful. To lead them on the path to righteousness. 

So you nod, draping your veil over your head as you both sit down on your little bench. Right beside one another, so close that your legs almost touch. A proper septa would say confess, and may the Father judge you justly, but that is not appropriate for you, so you merely look down at your folded hands and wait for the prince to speak. 

“I am plagued by impure thoughts,” he begins. 

The colour drains from your face in an instant. Oh, not this. 

Anything else, you do believe you could handle. Envy, drunkenness, greed, gambling, even violent offences, perhaps. Anything but this. But you remain calm; force yourself to keep your composure as you speak. 

“All young men have impure thoughts. It is perfectly natural.”

From the corner of your eye, it looks as though the prince smiles ever so slightly. 

“Of course,” he nods. “But mine are by nature nefarious, because the lady I desire is a chaste and pious woman… a maiden, and justly proud of her innocence. She would be distraught if she knew the wickedness she inspires.”

You feel yourself blushing. Although you are sufficiently educated on the matter, speaking of such things makes you feel ashamed and uncomfortable. As it would most young women. Confession or not, nothing about this conversation is appropriate, and you want nothing more than to be done with it and return to quiet contemplation. You keep your eyes cast down, and you are as curt as you dare when you answer. 

“Then you should not sully her, My Prince, even in your thoughts. You should pray to the Smith for strength, or to the Warrior if you prefer, and occupy yourself with noble pursuits. Prayer, studies, and so forth.”

“Oh, but I do,” the prince says gravely. “I devote my every hour to noble pursuits. And yet time and time again I sully her, and my own hand too in the process -  yes, I must confess that I have sinned exceedingly, in both thought and deed. These urges of mine are so unbearable, I simply must relieve myself…” He pauses to look at you coolly, his brows drawn together in a disapproving frown. “You look quite pale, Septa, is my confession too scandalous for you? I should hope the Faith would not admit a novice so unfit for her position…”

“Of course not,” you quickly mutter, though in truth, you are mortified. This is far beyond your station and skill. Not only is the matter highly delicate, but you must also carefully choose your words so as to not offend a member of the royal family. And one with a - supposedly - unfortunate temper at that. 

“It is not for me to command a prince,” you begin, “but it is my duty to remind you that the Faith condemns such practices - surely you know that by indulging your urges, you will only make them stronger.”

“I have tried to refrain from it,” the prince laments. “But even then, she haunts me…  at night, I dream that I lie on top of her - that I spread her thighs and press her body to my own. And these dreams are so vivid, so terribly arousing, they often cause me to - forgive me, Sister - emit my seed.” He sighs deeply, and turns his face away, his shoulders tense; his handsome features full of torment. “A rather shameful predicament, for a grown man - is it not?” 

Perhaps, you think, but a common one nonetheless, and not something he should be chastised for. You know perfectly well that there are some functions of a man’s body that are beyond his control, as do the gods who made it so. It is best not to dwell on it. 

“My Prince,” you say instead, with what little confidence you can muster, “ - with your permission, I would offer you this advice: if you cannot restrain yourself, and if you care for this lady, then you should court and wed her.” You fiddle nervously with your dress, lowering your voice to barely more than a whisper. “It is a wholesome thing, for spouses to give their bodies to each other - for a man to make love to his wife…”  

The prince hums, either in agreement or contemplation, you can’t tell. But you hope he will take your words to heart, and make this irresistible woman his wife. If the mere sight of her can stir such passion, then he would surely grow to love her deeply, and their union would be happy and prosperous. Blessed by the gods.

- Or maybe not.

“I am afraid that is not possible,” the prince says. Slowly, thoughtfully. “Because you see, my lady is a septa - a novice, as it were…” 

His words trail off, and his hand reaches to caress your face, right by the edge of your veil, where a strand of hair has loosened from its pin. 

You recoil at once, springing from your seat to look at him with shock and horror. 

“This is highly improper - “

“I have thought of nothing but you,” he exclaims, impassioned, rising quickly to reach for you once more, “ - since the day I saw you, I have wanted no one else - ”

Again you manage to evade his embrace, but the prince is tall, and his legs are long and agile. Each one of his strides is worth two of yours, and when you back away he follows, stepping ever closer until you are backed up against a pillar.

Oh how you wish that it had only been a thief come to rob the sept. You could have easily escaped out the little hidden door by the dias; let them take whatever riches they could carry.  There is only silver here, and the Faith has no shortage of that.

The prince is after something far more precious. 

“Don’t touch me - ” you plead, feeling your pulse quicken, the hair rise on the back of your neck. He is too near, moving to loom over you, intimidating and imposing, and so tall that he must bend to brush his nose against your hair. 

“It is a waste,” he murmurs. “That such beauty should only belong to the gods.”

You should flee. You should defend your virtue. Maids and ladies, harlots and tavern girls, all women know to protect themselves, to kick where a man is the weakest, to scratch, bite, shout, make a racket. There are guards patrolling the square outside, and septons sleeping nearby in their cells - if you were loud enough, someone would hear you and come to your aid. 

But at what cost, when your assailant is a prince? 

You dare not risk it, so you stand frozen in place, too frightened to push him away, too frightened to even look at him as he gropes your body, touching it in ways that it has never been, and should never be touched. One of his arms wraps around your waist, the other trails over your dress, feeling your shape underneath the fabric. Your stomach, your hips, your bottom, and especially your breasts. 

He cups them with both hands, kneading and massaging them hard, pressing his fingers into your flesh.

“I would take you right here,” he breathes. “Against this very pillar, for all your gods to see - ” 

The blasphemy, the shameless vulgarity - you gasp, and at the sound, the prince chuckles faintly. 

“You said yourself it is a wholesome thing…”

“For husbands and wives -” you squeak, “please, you mustn’t hurt me!“

“Never,” he says, bringing your hand to rest on his chest, over his heart, as if to reassure you. “If you would only oblige me, I swear I will be gentle…”

You shake your head, but it does not dissuade him. He kisses your hair, your cheeks, the shell of your ear, touching his lips to every little sliver of exposed skin. Not just your face and neck, but your forearms too, your wrists, the insides of your elbows. Anywhere that lets him truly feel you. Feel the rapid beat of your pulse; the warmth and softness of a woman’s body.

And as he touches you, you feel him. His manhood, stiff against your hip when he presses himself against you, moaning softly at the feeling. It is a most intimate sound, and you are ashamed to realise that your body instinctively responds to it; to the closeness, the touch of a man. You feel warm in your chest, and wet between your legs - unnerving, and so at odds with the panic that still grips you, with the tears that prickle in your eyes. 

“Please don’t - ” you whimper, just as his teeth graze your jaw, drawing a single, involuntary sigh from your lips. One that spurs him on to swiftly yank the veil off your head and discard it, fully exposing your hair and neck. 

He pulls back to look at you, your neatly pinned tresses, your smooth throat and collarbones. Your beauty that he has long wished to admire. 

“Like an angel,” he says softly, longingly, taking your face in his hands and stroking your cheeks with his thumbs. “A little angel - the Maiden in the flesh - “

“That is a blasphemous thing to say,” you sniffle. 

It only makes him laugh, and before you can say anything else, he tilts your face up so he can press his mouth to yours. 

No one has ever kissed you before. Many boys have wanted to, but none were ever allowed the privilege. You always knew you did not want to be a wife. That you had a different calling. 

It is a very strange sensation, this kiss. Hot, wet, and sticky. You do not return it, and yet the prince is undeterred, parting your lips softly but insistently, just enough to slip his tongue inside. It gives him pleasure, even when your mouth is slack and unresponsive - you can tell from his blissful sighs, and from the indecent way he moves his hips, rubbing the prominent bulge in his trousers against you. He is so entranced by your mouth and your body that you feel a treacherous sense of relief, thinking to yourself that if this is how he wants to gratify himself - by licking your tongue and humping against your hip - you will let him. No real harm has been done to your virtue, and the gods will understand you had no choice. Already you are silently saying your prayers, to the Warrior for courage, the Mother for compassion, the Father for leniency  -

But you are cruelly interrupted when the prince draws back and begins to loosen the closure of his breeches. 

“No - oh no, no - ,” you shriek, but as you try to wriggle from his grasp, his face hardens and his gentle touch becomes like a vice. Rough and unyielding, holding you in place. 

“You must forgive me,” he rasps, his gaze dark with lust, his nostrils flaring, “ - for I can no longer deprive myself of what I so desire...”

He is so much stronger than you. With an impeccably polished boot he shoves your feet apart, his one hand pinning your arms behind your back, the other hiking up your skirts, determined, deaf to your frantic pleas. 

“You don’t understand, I must remain chaste!”

“Don’t lie to me,” he hisses, “I know the workings of the Faith, you’ve taken no solemn vows yet - “

“No, I have, I have!” you cry. “I pledged myself to the Maiden when I was a girl!”

It is the truth, but the prince does not care. He silences you with another desperate kiss, crushing his face to yours, reaching to hook his hand under your knee and lift your leg. He has you trapped, pinned between his body and the stone column, and you can claw at him until your hands bleed, it makes no difference. Your dress is bunched up, your legs forcibly parted, your most intimate secrets laid bare to be violated. A great sin, made even greater by the circumstances, and yet the gods have abandoned you, left you here to suffer. 

They must be occupied elsewhere, and the statues too stand motionless on their plinths, with their tranquil faces, staring blankly into the distance as though deliberately blind to your tragedy. 

To the hand that worms its way underneath your smallclothes. The nails that dig into the back of your neck, holding your head in place. The mouth that swallows up your sobs until he is forced to break the kiss so he can reach between your bodies and finish unlacing his breeches. 

You gasp for breath, looking up and straight at him, your eyes wet and pleading, your lip trembling. 

“Don’t ruin me, please - I beg you, don’t take from me what can never be replaced - “

The prince’s hand hesitates on your thigh. His one eye flickers between your two, between the tears that flow uncontrollably down your cheeks; your little hands clenched into fists against his chest.

For a split second there’s a shadow of something softer on his face, a strange draw around his mouth, and then he curses and releases your leg. And you bolt, without thinking, ducking under his arm to sprint towards the door and safety. 

You manage all of two steps before the prince catches you and pins you to the pillar once more. 

“Not yet - ” he orders, slipping a hand down the front of his trousers to finally free his member from its confines. He cradles it at the base to proudly show it off before he begins to stroke himself, shamelessly and urgently, while you look on. At once frightened and sinfully curious. 

You have never seen it before. The masculine organ. Only in drawings, of which some were intended to educate young women, and others were of a much lewder nature. The prince’s manhood does look much like those anatomical illustrations, only it is bigger in person than you had imagined. Hard and swollen with need. It fits perfectly in his fist, and the skin glides back to reveal the head, which is thick and meaty, and a dark purple red. It almost looks as though it should be painful for him, having it filled and engorged in such a way. Having it stretched to be so big. But of course you know that is not the case. And even if you didn’t, his gasp of pleasure would have made it very clear. 

He reaches for your wrist, tugging it down between his legs, and you are quick to look away when he closes your fingers around it, with his own hand on top. Somehow, you reason that if you keep your eyes averted, it is not as sinful. Not as deserving of punishment. 

But you can still feel it. In your palm, against your clammy skin. Warm, and pulsing as he squeezes your fingers tight around the shaft, moving them from the base to the tip and back down again, using your hand to pleasure himself. Slowly at first, but as his arousal grows he quickens the pace, moving your hand only over the tip of his member, massaging the bulbous head with quick movements. All the while groping at your chest.

And you let him do it. All of it, resigning yourself to be used at his will and pleasure. It is the best and safest course of action now, and all you can do is bear it. You keep your sobs inside, and your eyes cast down, staring mindlessly at the patterns in the stone floor until the prince’s hand seizes your jaw. 

“Look at me,” he commands through gritted teeth, running his thumb over your mouth, pressing against your lips. “Open - suck, use your tongue - “

You do as he says, wanting so desperately to just be done with it - once he has finished he will surely let you go. The thought prompts you to suck on his fingers with increasing fervour, taking them deep into your mouth, running your tongue along the length of them, along his knuckles; making him gasp at the feeling.  

“Fuck, like that - gods yes,” he moans, letting go of your hand to lean against the pillar for support, his eye falling closed, his hips making shallow, instinctive thrusts.

You continue with the same movements, up and down over his manhood, trying to mimic exactly what he did before, whilst still sucking on his fingers, too. Letting him feel your soft mouth and your warm lips; your little wet tongue caressing his skin. You haven’t a clue as to what you are supposed to be doing, and there is no grace or skill to your licks, but each swirl of your tongue makes the prince moan regardless. He would probably much rather feel this attention somewhere else, but clearly he has the wits to know that shoving his member into an unwilling mouth is not a wise idea. So he contents himself with this. 

And thankfully, it does not take long before your efforts are rewarded.

When you choke back a mewl his hips jerk forward, and his hand flies down to close around yours again, guiding you to squeeze him harder and faster. His jaw goes slack, and his manhood stiffens even more, and even though you are inexperienced, you know what it means. You can feel it, feel his sac tighten, feel him twitch in your hand as semen travels up his shaft. He bends to lean his forehead against yours, and finally, finally, he spurts, moaning with pleasure as he empties himself onto your hand, his seed pulsing out in hot, wet squirts. Soiling not only your skin and your dress, but your conscience too; your virtue, honour and dignity.

And at last it is over. 

The prince slumps forwards against you, hiding his face in your neck. His body trembles with the final waves of his rapture, and he brushes his fingers over your hair in a strangely intimate way, a tender way. As though you were lovers. 

In a sense, now, you suppose you are. 

Before he leaves you he quickly tidies his clothes, throwing his cloak around his shoulders and tucking his shirt into his trousers. And once he has made himself presentable, he retrieves your veil too. Brushing it off with a gloved hand and draping it over your head once more. 

“Thank you, Sister,” he says sweetly, cradling your face to kiss your lips and then your forehead. “I feel much more at ease now.” 

No sooner have the doors closed behind him before you fall to your knees by the Maiden’s altar to beg for her forgiveness. 

Part 2: The Devil You Know

Please feel free to come into my asks or DMs with critique of my fics! Constructive is preferred, but not required.

Tags. @arcielee, @helaelaemond, @targaryen-madness, @qyburnsghost.

[blueparadis]

❝ FIRST CODE RED ❞ !

( 𝐢 ) → f!reader, established relationship ( they're all married ), some flashbacks, suggestive, fluff & humor, mention of periods, sanitary pads, parenting, them being adorable dads. headcanon format plus scenarios about their daughter experiencing first time bleeding. characters include—sae itoshi, nagi seishiro, isagi yochi, bachira meguru.

( . . . ) → kudos to dawn for this. @lalunanymph-main . A small gift for her when she comes back. | redirect to blog navigation| tagging –› @tokyometronetwork @fueledbysano

⌗ SAE ITOSHI

Those teal restless eyes dance all around the house and then land on the wall clock. Although occasionally but Sae seems to lose patience with each tick of the clock, each breath growing longer than the bygone moment. He remembers being like this when his wife was in the washroom with a pregnancy testing kit while he was in another country, following another time in another country. He almost cried after his match, and still thinks it was for the victory and not for the positive news of her pregnancy.

And now, he has to sit in the lounge waiting for her daughter who just had her very first bleed. She thinks she got her mother's presence of mind for calling her first and since she was not able to pick up the phone Sae witnessed half of her daughter’s face through the opening of the washroom door, lips parting, and voice steadily asking for sanitary pads. His first instinct was to call her but his daughter quipped, “I already tried calling her. She isn't answering. Probably busy.” So, rather than scouring her cupboards for sanitary pads, he got them from the store, easier and faster.

“Are you feeling all right?”Sae asked with tension brimming all over his body.

She shakes her head, grabs a pillow places it over her belly saying, “um-hm. Just. . . just feel tired.”

“Alright, come here princess.” His daughter carefully walks in between the space of the tea table and the sofa while holding her father's hand as support. She glances at him, pouting, and then sits beside him for a while only to rest her head on his lap.

“I wish I could talk to Mama” Sae smiles at her confession running his palm over her head, caressing and saying, “I wasn't there for her so many times. Always busy with soccer and as such. When I heard that I'm going to a father over a text, all I thought of was to leave the game and come home. But she never complained. She said she's gonna come to visit me. ”

“Are you listening?” Sae asks since the rise and fall of her chest is long, relaxed and he could hear a low purr. “Ah! She missed the best part. ”

“Well this is a rare sight ”

“jealous?” Sae asked taking another cushion to rest her head on it.

She responded, “try again.” before emptying half of the water bottle.

Sae curls his hands around her waist and rests his chin on her tired shoulders murmuring, “She had her first period. ”

“Oh god. Oh my god,” She checked her phone. “I couldn't pick up the phone i was on the bus.” She was aware that her daughter was calling since she had different ringtones for her daughter, her husband, and her brother-in-law.

“It's okay. I took care of it. And was telling her about you”

“ about me?”

“um-hm. How you were so quick to convince Rin that he took the next flight with you and came to visit me. . . and when I saw Rin carrying your bags I was so jealous ”

“Ah! There we go again ” Rin exclaimed in a whispering audible voice throwing his hands in the air in disappointment, from the entrance of the room watching all of these unfold. Sae recoiled like a spring from his wife glaring at his brother, Rin who was being a major hindrance for all the hard work Sae did to get his wife a little in the mood.

⌗ NAGI SEISHIRO

The cash machine beeps making Nagi more nervous than before as he weakly taps his feet on the floor. He has never done this before, not for his girlfriend and definitely not for his wife. Sure, there were times when he witnessed other people buy sanitary pads, maybe even when he went out shopping for groceries with his wife, but never alone like this, standing at the apex of the queue waiting ( and being the center of attraction ) for that particular thing to cash out. Why does it have to be like this? He just came to the nearest grocery store to buy a few things and that is when his daughter called saying that he needs to buy a pack of pads too.

He hates it, hates the fact that he is not there for his family. Not enough. His daughter is alone in the house, god knows what's running through her mind and his wife is on her way home, stuck in traffic. Well, he is no better. He is stuck in a queue. Even though both of them were aware, they could not do much other than wait.

Somehow he thinks his daughter is tougher than him or the fact that she was aware of what's happening to her body. He is thankful that his wife taught her things at the right time and talked her out of it because some firsts can be terribly scary, if not adequately aware of it's happenings.

The cashier looked at him with surprise asking, “this pack has the same price. But it has wings. Would like me to switch? ”

He tilted his head taking both the packs in his hands mumbled to himself,“Do they make you fly or something? ” He looks up to the cashier noticing a tug on her lips that instantly pushes him into a hole of embarrassment. Why does he have to be like this?. “I’ll take both,” he comments and leaves as soon as the payment was done.

Fifteen minutes. It took fifteen minutes for her to freshen up and come out of the bathroom. The longest fifteen minutes Nagi has ever been through. He was on the couch watching TV, trying to and when he noticed his daughter walking towards him and then slouching beside her he couldn't help but chuckle. It reminded him of himself.

“Here, I brought these” he hands out a packet of ice creams and chips to his daughter. “Mama is gonna scold me for having these. I wouldn't be able to eat dinner for sure.” She protested while Nagi grabbed a juice from the packet exclaiming mischievously, “Who says you're getting scolded alone?” handing her a gamepad.

⌗ ISAGI YOICHI

When Isagi walked out of the store buying pads he did not think of the consequences of not picking her up after school for the past few days. It has been weeks since he picked up his daughter from school and sadly that is the only time he properly gets to talk to her, hear her smiles, and see if she is holding up alright or not. It is not like he did not want this, albeit he wanted this, he worked for this to build a home with her. Guess it really takes a toll on the child when both parents are working.

"All okay?" Isagi asked as he walked into the drawing room holding two bags in his hands.

"What is all these?" She asked throwing her hands up in the air, her voice keeping low as much as possible so that she does not wake up her mom. She came straight home when she saw Isagi's text; a text that conveyed that their little girl is now a big girl. And of course, with all the rush, nervousness, and work exhaustion she forgot to buy a fresh set of pads.

"don't worry. I did not forget to bring pads." Isagi said handing her one of the huge packets filled with different types and different brands of pads. He leans to take a look at his wife who was asleep seated on the couch with her head resting on her hand. "no wonder my calls and texts were not reaching her." Isagi carefully lays her down on the couch while his daughter grabs a pack of pads and heads toward the bathroom.

Something does not fill right by Isagi. It is Friday. His wife is supposed to be working late on Fridays but she is here asleep on the couch. He is supposed to pick up her daughter from school, not her. He is supposed to cook dinner for today yet she has been doing it for some Fridays. When did his home start running on fuel? like a factory .

His daughter walks out of the bathroom and halts in surprise in front of the kitchen counter seeing her dad behind the kitchen counter and chopping vegetables. "What?" Isagi asked while his daughter squints her eyes at him saying, "Did you fight with mama too?"

"Probably." and she chuckles at that.

"can I help you?" she chimes walking towards her dad, standing beside her peeking to see what was boiling. It smells nice.

"Only if you tell me what were you talking to mom while I was out..." Isagi says holding his fist out towards his daughter.

"Sure," she exclaims giving him a fist bump.

⌗ BACHIRA MEGURU.

From the moment his daughter told him that she had her first period he has not stopped googling, texting, or calling. It is back-to-back. His immediate reaction was to call her, his wife and luck seems to be on his side. At least he felt so when he heard her mellowed voice saying, "hello." And there it is. the calm in the chaos of his life.

He tells what happened and when it happened to ask where he could get pads, as in, if they're out of it or if he can find them in the usual place. Many times he has done that. She had told him where she kept the pads and he would bring her while she was still in the bath. So, it is nothing unknown to him, nothing to be freaked out about. He drags the drawer in gasping finding it empty. Of all the days, she had to run out of pads for today. So, he wastes no time doing the needful but the question is how? he has never bought pads before. He tried calling his wife again but it was all in vain, must be in a meeting.

Bachira can feel it, feel her stares on him while his eyes are glued on the stretch of selves that has different types of pads of different brands with different types. How does anyone manage to pick the best from all these options? He tried calling his wife again but the call beeps after ringing for a while. out of reach. He looked around totally clueless as he ran out of time. Luckily, one of the staff turned up asking questions. Questions like, "Does she goes to the bathroom a lot? Does she change her pants regularly? does she has trouble sleeping?"

And, how on earth Bachira could answer all of those? He does not know the answers to any of them, not that he is supposed to so he says that, very clearly, that he does not know because his daughter is having her first period and he is freaking out because her mom is not around her. . .So after the staff explains the benefits of various brands he picks the one that his wife uses. Phew! that was easy. why didn't he think of that earlier?

He calls his daughter letting her know that he is on his way home and if he should buy anything to eat since mom will be late today. "Ahhh... then I want some ramen, the one that we always eat," she responded before hanging up. She did not sound nervous but rather bubbly about it. Maybe the food lightened her mood. Bachira smiled since he was already standing in front of that Ramen shop where he used to take his missis once a month when they were still not married, when they were just seeing each other, when everything was so uncertain "She got her mother's spicy tongue." he texted to the number saved Y/N xoxo.

—

[externalmemorycomic]

Image description: A black and white illustration, designed to look like a book cover. On a decorative ribbon, the title at the top reads “External Memory”. A scroll work border of leaves and flowers divides the illustration into three rounded panels. The largest panel is in the center and shows a caravan surrounded by greenery, puddles and potted plants. The two smaller panels beneath it show a cartoon cat and mouse respectively, facing each other. At the bottom is another decorative ribbon with the text “a diary comic by My Murphy”. After the cover follows an 8 page comic. The style is cartoonish and the colours are soft pastels. Page one: An orange cat waves and says “Hello! I’m My.” The cat holds up a white mouse and says “This is Mouse, my girlfriend.” Caption: My name is actually My, but Mouse is a nickname for comic and privacy purposes. Caption: When I started this project, me and Mouse lived on a little island off the Swedish coast. The panel shows a stylised, tiny island with a lighthouse, spruce and birch trees, leaning houses and a little dock with a row boat tied to it. The cat and mouse are standing on the cliffs and a swan floats on the water in the foreground. Page two: Caption: Now we’ve moved to Ireland where we live in a caravan in the middle of nowhere. A small caravan, surrounded by greenery, overgrown trees, rocks, puddles and potted plants. The caravan has two windows and the cat and the mouse are looking out of one window each. Caption: We lived on the island to be close to my family. A ribbon with writing on it separates and labels four characters: “mom”, an ermine, “dad”, a wolverine, “brother”, a marmot and “step mom”, a squirrel. The ribbon has been torn in between “mom” and “dad”. Caption: and we moved to Ireland to be close to Mouse’s family. Three characters are shown, each with their own ribbon label. “mother-in-law”, a deer, “sister-in-law”, a jack russell terrier and “brother-in-law”, a hedgehog. Page three: Caption: Me and the mouse are currently in our thirties. The cat lounges on an antique fainting couch and the mouse sleeps on a cushion on the floor. On the floor is an open bag of “let’s” crisps and a laptop. Caption: We’re both pretty decrepit in various ways, so for this comic I draw couches and beds as often as I draw people. Caption: Disability isn’t especially interesting to me, but if a fish made an autobiographical comic… A fish under water paints a four panel comic with a brush held in its mouth. The panels the fish has painted show bubbles, waves and splashing water. Caption: …it’d probably be partly about water, whether the fish cared about water or not. Page four: Caption: My memory has always been pretty crappy. If a friend asks me: “do you remember when...” The question is shown asked by a red robin Caption: I usually have to answer: “no, I don’t.” The panel shows the cat giving this answer while looking away and blushing. Caption: There are many things in my life I’d like to remember. Mom the ermine watches as the cat opens a Christmas gift in front of a Christmas tree. The cat is much smaller than usual, its tail is bushy with excitement and it holds up a big book, “Mort”, with a skull on the cover. Caption: This comic is my EXTERNAL MEMORY so I can capture some of those moments… The cat admires a butterfly hovering above its outstretched paw Caption: …great or small. Page five: Caption: I try to make one strip per day, give or take. Pages with dates written on them blow off of a daily wall calendar by a strong breeze. As they turn over, comic pages are revealed to be drawn on the back. One comic shows the mouse with long fangs, biting the face of the cat and then hissing behind a bat wing. One comic is a pastiche of Tim Buckley’s “Loss” comic and one features a portrait of Frasier Crane and the Seattle skyline. Caption: and on the days when nothing interesting happens A close up shows the cat’s paw drawing a comic panel. In this panel a smaller, rounder version of the cat runs happily in the sunshine carrying a backpack. Caption: I reach back and draw something from my past. Caption: If you read this comic and wonder: A coyote looks at the comic on its phone, strokes its chin suspiciously and asks “did that really happen?” Caption: the answer is always yes. Caption: If you read this comic and wonder: A monkey reads the comic in zine form and think “did they really say that?” Caption: the answer is usually yes. Page six: Caption: When a specific phrase is the point of the strip, it’s recorded verbatim. The mouse says “you’re marching to the beat of the potato drum.” Caption: is a direct quote. Caption: When the point is something else, I sometimes take small liberties to make the memory fit well inside four panels. The cat sits at its drawing table, holding a pair of scissors in one hand and a paper with two comic panels in the other. Caption: Usually that means I make myself or the mouse play the part of the straight man because it will improve a joke. The cat and the mouse, dressed as clowns, stand in a circus tent. The cat pulls the clown nose from the mouse’s face and holds up a pie, ready to strike. Caption: In reality, neither of us is much of a straight man, but all art demands some sacrifices. Caption: In every way that matters, this comic always tells the truth. The cat looks up at a large, glowing, winged sphinx statue version of itself. The statue and framing is a reference to the all knowing Southern Oracle from the film adaptation of “The Neverending Story”. Caption: I am doing this to aid my memory after all, so it wouldn’t be very helpful to make my life seem more funny, interesting or relatable than it really is. The cat draws a comic while watching paint dry on the wall. Caption: That would be a pretty cruel joke to play on my future, more confused self. The cat scratches its head at a drawing of themselves as the winner of a beauty contest, wearing a sash and crown, waving to the crowd and holding flowers. Caption: She’ll probably have enough to contend with… The cat looks suspiciously at its own reflection in the mirror, not recognising it. The drawing is a pastiche of a panel from the webcomic “Gunshow” by KC Green. Caption: Maybe some of my comics will be funny or interesting or relatable to you anyway. That would make me very happy. The cat smiles and presses its paws to its face in joy, seeing that a bear and a horse are reading the comic together and laughing. Cartoon hearts float over the cat. Caption: Some of the comics probably won’t do much for anybody but me, but that’s okay too. The cat presses a page of the comic to its chest, looking contented and protective. In the last panel, the cat and the mouse are floating on air with a blue sky and white clouds behind them. The cat is smiling and twirling around, holding a paint brush out like a wand. From the brush flows paint that swirls around the two figures and making shapes of green leaves and orange and yellow flowers. On two looping blue ribbons appear the last captions: This is a record of my silly little life. Good or bad, I’m glad I get to share it. End ID.

Here’s a little introduction to External Memory! It was fun to make a proper neat and full colour comic - it’s been a while ^^

(If you like this project, please reblog this post! You can also subscribe to my patreon where I post one comic every day ^^)

[letsgetrowdy43]

Home Sweet Home—

Nico Hischier x reader

I'm slowly starting to get through my requests from that Blurb Celly I did but couldn't finish!!

Request from @whenmypartysover “Can you pretty please do the prompt "I love you, I swear I do, but if you buy one more cushion for the sofa I'm moving out." with Nico or Luke”

Nico had been trying to get the house as ready as possible for the arrival of her mother, the woman who had single-handedly raised his wife, and this was the first time she was going to see the couple forever home.

The man had been running around the streets of Jersey for weeks searching for all the best for his mother-in-law, buying new duvets and hand towels for her bathroom.

His wife was beginning to worry with the stress he seemed to be manifesting within the preparation of their house.

“Babe,” she whispered as she watched his eyes wander over to the home decor aisle, she said softly, reaching out to gently touch his arm, drawing his attention away from the display of home decor items and to her. "Do you think this pillow would look good with the other ones on the couch?" he asked, attention still fully not on her as her brows furrowed. “You’ve been working hard to make everything perfect for my mom’s visit. I appreciate it, but is everything okay?” As he ran his thumb over the cushion fabric, Nico hummed, "So was that a yes or no to this design?"

His wife laughed at how distracted he seemed to be, her hand squeezing his as she pushed the pillow down so he could look at her, "what's going on?" Nico cleared his throat as he looked down at his feet and then into his wife's eyes “I guess I just want everything to be perfect for her, you know? She’s done so much for us, for you. I want her to feel welcomed and comfortable here.”

His wife smiled, her heart melting as her thumb swiped over the soft skin of his forearm as she squeezed him reassuringly, eyes full of understanding as Nico grew shy under her stare. “I promise you she’ll appreciate everything you’ve done. But remember, she’s coming here to see us, not to inspect the house. She’ll be happy just to spend time with her family.”

He nodded, chewing the inside of his cheek before pursing his lips and pressing a kiss to her cheek, "you're right," he mumbled against her skin as she nodded. "I know," she patted him on the chest as she ripped the cushion out of his grasp, "and I love you, I swear I do, but if you buy one more cushion for the sofa I'm moving out," she threw the pillow back onto the pile of others before standing on her tiptoes to press a short peck on his lips.

Nico nodded, a hint of relief washing over his features as he let out a laugh at the way her hand grabbed him and she pulled him out of the aisle, "Our house is perfect already, now get me out of this Homesense, I'm starting to get Stockholm syndrome," she announced as she turned back to see his face flush from the attention her announcement gained.

He pulled her closer to his chest as they got out into the street, "thanks for keeping me grounded," he mumbled into her hair as he let go of her hand and wrapped it around her to rest on her hip. "That’s what I’m here for, babe" Nico nodded, feeling a warmth spread through his chest at her words. The house might not be 'perfect', but it was theirs, filled with love and laughter, and that was all that truly mattered.

-

-

-

This is not my best work… sorry :)

[janeyseymour]

La Cosa Nostra- pt 5

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

cowritten with @schemmentis let us know what you think! 🤍

summary: the girls spend some time with nonna while you get a few moments with melissa... and then someone visits you late at night.

WC: ~4.15k

“With—” You blink slowly as your wife’s words sink in. “With Barbara Howard?!”

“She’s the safest place and you know it. They’ll never think she knows anything because she doesn’t. Hell, she asked me if we were committin’ fraud, Y/N. I only told her the truth; we aren’t and it’s an extra copy of the financials and they were gonna take the originals from the salon. They did, didn’t they?”

“Of course they did, they took everything that wasn’t nailed down. But Barbara? If she finds out the truth, Mel—”

“She won’t.”

“If she does,” You barrel on over your wife speaking. “You and I both know she’ll turn it over to the Feds. And…we’ll probably lose her in both our lives- the girls’ lives… It won’t matter how much she loves you or me or the girls. Barb is all about the right thing no matter what.”

Melissa’s hand runs through her hair, pushing it away from her face. “That won’t happen, alright? We just have to get through this. Eventually they’re gonna realize there’s nothin’ here, and they’re gonna fuck off. Then I’ll take the ledgers back from Babs and everything will go back to normal.”

You sink back into the couch cushions, sighing heavily. You want to believe your wife. You want to think that’s true. Except the amount of pressure from the Feds just the last two days is more than you’ve ever had to deal with. You might have Sammy representing you, who is just as confident as your wife that they won’t find anything at all, except you can’t help but think they will. 

Every day this drags on, every bit of extra pressure put on, it’s beginning to wear at you. You grip Mel’s hand lightly, inspecting the newly wrapped injury all over again though you don’t undo your own work. Your thumb lightly strokes her knuckles before bringing the bandaged hand up to your lips in an effort to comfort her and you both. You’ll never give up Mel or your girls. You won’t endanger them.

Still, a part of you wonders if it would be safer for them if you gave up yourself. You could go back down to the station, request Agent Danik and Shaw, return to that godforsaken gray interrogation room and tell them everything. You wouldn’t cop to killing Bobby, because you didn’t, but you could come clean about the salon if it means it would get them away from Mel and your twins…it would be worth it, wouldn’t it?

Melissa’s arms wrap around you as she curls into your side. Her head rests on your shoulder. “You barely got any sleep last night and after today…I won’t say no to a nap. Ma called me to let me know she’s getting the girls…we could rest awhile and head over there for dinner.”

Instantly, thoughts of giving yourself up shift into fighting for yourself instead. With your wife curled against you, and thoughts of dinner with your mother-in-law and your girls. You wouldn’t give up for the world this little life of yours. 

You turn your head to kiss Melissa’s hair, gently easing the both of you to lay on your couch as you return her embrace. “Best idea you’ve had our whole marriage.” You tease, already half asleep.

It earns you a light slap to your arm. “Yeah, right. We both know the best idea of our marriage was the girls.”

“Yeah,” You mumble, your fingers lazily carding through red locks. “You’re right.”

“I usually am, amore, I thought you knew that already.”

You can’t even bring yourself to argue or call her over confident. You only smile, warming over with your affection for your wife like it’s the first time all over again. You never get tired of that feeling.

After a nap that perhaps was a bit too long for your liking, you blink your eyes awake to see that wonderful woman you get to call your wife scrolling on her phone as she continues to lay on you.

“How’s your hand feeling, mo ghrá?” you ask her gently as you kiss her temple softly.

“Hurts like a bitch,” Melissa sighs. “But I’ll be okay. You know I always am.”

“I know, I know,” you chuckle lowly. It didn’t happen often, but when she first opened her restaurant, the nicks and cuts to her fingers and knuckles were more frequent because she was always flying around trying to handle everything all at once. The number of times it's happened since she settled into her role and the business took off dwindled, but each time it happened you were always there to wrap her hands and nurse them back to health.

“What time is it?” you ask as you stretch just slightly, but you can’t with her still on top of you.

“5:30,” she replies. “Ma has the girls eating dinner right now I’m sure.”

“I suppose we should go be mothers to our children,” you sigh softly as your hand settles on her forearm and rubs it soothingly.

Melissa puts down her phone, and when you think she’s going to slide off of you, she only curls further into you.

“Ten more minutes,” the woman requests quietly. Her grip tightens on you. “Just ten minutes of the two of us... I don’t know how much longer we have.”

There it is- as much as she tried to convince you that you were going to be fine with your church friend holding onto the books, she’s terrified- terrified of losing you for an uncertain amount of time, maybe forever if things take a turn for the worst and your fate turns out to be the same as Bobby’s.

You oblige her request, pressing yet another soft kiss to her temple before holding her tightly against you. The two of you together silently pray that everything works out in your favor, you’re able to evade the feds over this debacle, and continue on with life. You contemplate how you can get yourself out of the mob, how she can get herself out of the mafia, and you can leave this dark world that you know. Unfortunately you know that the only logistical way out of this all is death- or to fake your deaths. But you still hope and pray that you can find a way out- if only for your daughters. They don’t deserve to grow up with two parents always putting them at risk and then to have to take on your debts once you are no longer walking this earth with them. You want them to have a chance to go to Heaven, because if Heaven and Hell are real and true... you and your wife are almost certainly going to Hell.

Those ten minutes pass by almost silently, aside from your breathing, and then you sigh, “We really should go over to your ma’s and spend some time with the girls.”

“We should,” Melissa smiles softly as she lifts her head from the crook of your neck. She kisses you gently. “Ti amo, mi amore.”

“Tá mé i ngrá leat,” you reply just as softly, mumbled against her lips.

She’s up and off of you a few seconds later, offering you a hand to help you off the couch. The two of you quietly make your way out to the car and drive off in the direction of the matriarch of the family and your girls.

“Mam!” Rosie runs as fast her little legs will take her towards you. You scoop her up in a hug and press a million little kisses to her still chubby cheeks.

“Mommy!” Cat echoes as she runs for Melissa. Your wife crouches down with open arms and is nearly taken to the ground at the force of your oldest twin daughter. 

“Gentle, my love,” the redhead says softly as she sweeps your little girl off her feet and props her on her hip- the right hip as opposed to the left that Cat usually sits on.

Ever the observant, the little girl crinkles her nose just slightly in a way that screams Melissa. “Why am I on this side?” she asks.

“Mommy can’t hold both of you for a bit again,” you say softly. “She cut up her fingers again at the restaurant.”

“Silly Mommy,” Rosie chirps from your own hip. She leans over in your hold to press a kiss to Melissa’s cheek while Cat sloppily kisses your own.

“Girls! I told you to say hello to your mothers and then come back to finish your meals!” You can hear Melissa’s mother from the dining room. Both girls make faces that clearly say, ‘Oops!’ before giggling.

You and your wife carry the girls back into the room with all of the food and set them down in their chairs before leaning down to kiss Melissa’s mother’s cheeks before sliding into your own chairs.

“Oi, Lissa,” the older woman groans. “Cut yourself again, did you?”

“It was an accident, Ma!” the redhead groans.

“You need to stop flying around that restaurant of yours,” her mother scolds lightly as she scoops out rather large portions of the ribollita. “Everything will get done in time, and you need to take care of yourself!”

Dinner is loud, as it always is, and then you find yourself holding both of your girls on the couch while Melissa and her mother clean up dinner and prepare to bring dessert into the living room. Both girls chatter on about how their days at school went, and it’s quite hard to keep up with who is saying what, but you do your best to keep their stories straight.

Once you’ve all had your share of dessert, you stand, both girls on your hips. “I think it’s about time we get the girls home and to bed... I promised a story last night, and while I couldn’t keep it yesterday, I’m here tonight.”

Both girls yawn against you as Melissa slings both of their book bags over her shoulder before you all bid her mother a goodnight. 

You're tucking the girls securely into their car seats in the back when you hear a shout. “Oi! Youse left your bag, Lissa!”

You glance over your shoulder to see your mother-in-law leaning out the door with your wife's large purse. She's always carried too big of one since the day you met. You glance back to Melissa in the passenger seat. She looks exhausted but is about to open her door to get back out of the car.

“I got it.” You say, stopping her short. You smile at her question if you're sure. You lean between the front seats enough to kiss her. “Anything for you.” You whisper. “You know that.”

You turn and jog back up the sidewalk from the driveway to the front door. Your fingers curling around the handle next to Melissa’s mothers. “Thanks, Ma. You know she'd be lost without her bottomless bag.”

She smiles at you, though her fingers do not release her daughter's bag. She uses the handle to gently tug you closer. 

“I'm hearing whispers, Y/N.” She says lowly. “Ya know things ain't good when the gossip starts reaching the old folk like me.” 

“You're not old.” You reflexively say. It earns you a smile that mirrors your wife's from the older woman.

“I said it the day you married Lissa. I'll say it again today. Take care of my girl, Y/N. She chose you. Don't turn that into a mistake. You know I hate cleaning up mistakes.”

You answer exactly the same as you did on your wedding day. With a smile and, “Always, Mrs. Schemmenti. Takin’ care of your daughter is the only thing I care about.” You lean forward to kiss both her cheeks in goodbye. “And now your granddaughters.” You add softly before making your way back to the car.

“What’d she say?” Melissa asks as soon as you slip into the driver’s seat. You gently set her bag in her lap.

“Nothin’.” You answer swiftly as you back the car down the driveway and out onto the street.

Melissa scoffs next to you. “Yea. she said somethin’, what was it?” Your wife presses as she reaches for your hand resting on the gear shift.

You tangle your fingers with hers, kissing her knuckles. “Only what she’s said to me since the first time she met me.” You assure softly.

“Take care of my daughter.” Melissa says in time with you repeating her mother’s words. You nod, pressing an extra kiss to her hand before you lower it slightly to simply hold it in your own.

“Y’know she loves you more than anythin’.” You murmur, squeezing her hand lightly.

“Hm.” Melissa hums, her eyes on the street lamps passing as you drive your little family home. “Maybe not more than Mickey. He is the baby of the family and all.”

“How much longer till he’s out? It’s gettin’ close ain’t it?”

“Early next year, I think. I’ll double check next time we go up for a visit. Those damn letters take too long.”

“You’ll make sure you tell him I said hi, huh?”

Melissa rolls her eyes at your request. They slide away from street lamps, to the ceiling of your car, to land on you. “Y’know, I always do. He loves you almost as much as I love you.”

“Uh huh, my backup Schemmenti.” You tease with a smile. Yours and Melissa’s brother’s inside joke. He always said if she was dumb enough to divorce you, he’d propose so you could keep the last name and still come to family dinners. 

“Yea, yea, backup Schemmenti that you ain’t ever gonna need.” Melissa mutters. A moment later her hand is pulling away from yours when you slow the car for the red light. Her fingers lightly gripping your jaw to get your head to turn to kiss you properly for a drawn out moment. She pulls away when the light turns green again. “Mickey ain’t ever gettin’ to do that. Not even over my dead body.” She huffs.

“You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

“Shut up and get me home. I’m tired.”

You do end up getting all four of you home in one piece, and for that, Melissa is grateful. She grabs her bag and slings it over her shoulder before carefully removing Rosie from her carseat. You do the same with Cat. If you can get the two of them into bed without them waking up, life will be so much easier. 

By some miracle, you do get them into the house and in their rooms without them waking up. You then take your wife’s hand and lead her into the bedroom, only to see that your room is still flipped upside down from when the police had raided.

You groan. You really don’t feel like lifting the heavy safe off your bed and attempting to get it back into the floorboard. You do so though, before crawling into bed yourself. Melissa slides in next to you, turning on her side so that she can get as close to you as possible, resting her head on your chest. 

“When do you think this is all going to be over?” she whispers to you.

You look down to see her face being lit by the moonlight and the one street light that flickers outside of the window overtop your bed. 

You shrug and kiss her temple. “Níl a fhios agam,” you sigh. “Níl a fhios agam.”

She hates that you don’t know. She hates that she doesn’t know either. 

Both of you are usually so in control of everything that happens around you. The last time that you weren’t in control and your worlds were turned upside down is the day that the doctor told you you were carrying twins- and even that level of uncontrollable circumstances stemmed from a choice you had deliberately made.

 Melissa remembers the day that she had broken down in tears, consumed by her worry for you. She was absolutely terrified that there would be complications in the pregnancy because carrying multiples was almost always more dangerous than just a single baby. She was absolutely paranoid that somebody from either family would get you caught up in their own business, and that something would happen to you and the two unborn babies inside of you. The next day, she went to Thursday morning mass and prayed with Barbara for your safety and well-being. The day that you had safely delivered those two beautiful girls of yours and all three of you were healthy was a relief to her. But even then, thoughts of fear lingered.

Melissa also remembers the day when your belly had popped, and it made you a hormonal mess to see that you were actually carrying now. You had cried to her your own fears and doubts of your safety, their safety, that you weren’t quite sure if you were ever meant to be a mother. She remembers the way that you had clung to her in a moment of weakness as you choked out that while having children and becoming a mother was all you had ever wanted since you were little, you couldn’t believe that you were bringing two little ones into this cruel world. She recalls holding you that whole day, assuring you that not a hair on your head would be touched, that your unborn children were going to be safe and more loved than any other children, and that you were absolutely going to be the best mam to your babies. Those thoughts never quite dissipated throughout the months of your pregnancy. But once you had laid your eyes on those little girls squirming and crying on your chest, you knew that she was right- that you were all safe, at least for the time being, and Caterina Ann and Rosalina Marie were going to grow up with more love than they knew what to do with.

But this? The feds were on you for something that you had no part in, and if they continue to dig it’s only a matter of time until you get caught as part of the mafia and the mob. There are too many moving pieces for either of you to say with certainty what’s to happen in the future. There is no safety net or light at the end of the tunnel that you can see. These circumstances were absolutely, one-hundred percent, out of your control. And that? That horrifies Melissa.

You hold your wife tightly to your chest, your hand tracing mindless patterns across her spine to provide what comfort you can. Eventually, you hear her breathing even out into deep and slow breaths as she slips off to sleep. 

Your own eyes trail over the ceiling of your bedroom. What can you do? You're turning the entirety of the situation over in your mind repeatedly, trying to find the answer. You search for even something little to grasp, to control- even if it's just enough to provide some sense of stability and comfort to your wife. You don't really care if you get any; you'll deal with the fears and worries if it means Melissa is content and happy. 

You don't know when you do finally fall asleep. It feels like five minutes is as long as you've slept when you're startling back awake.

“What the fuck?” Melissa is grumbling as she pulls away from your side.

It takes another moment of you blinking sleep from your eyes to process. There's another round of banging at your front door, which must have been what woke you. Your bedroom is still dark, the only light seeping through being the light that radiates off the moon. Miraculously, the banging on the door hasn't woken up the girls, and you thank God for that. If they wake, you truly don’t know what you’d tell them.

It takes a heap of effort but you pull yourself from your bed to trail after your wife. You're just making it to the end of the hall to the living room when she's yanking open the front door in the midst of more knocking.

“Che cazzo fai?” Melissa spits as soon as the door is open. “It's not even five in the fuckin’ mornin’ and I got two kids sleepin’, what's wrong with you? Vai ai cacare!”

“Mrs. Schemmenti.”

You want to groan and bang your head into the wall when you hear Agent Shaw's voice. You're so tired. Somehow Agent Shaw sounds like he's had a full night of perfect rest. You can feel both you and your wife wearing thin. You know it's exactly what they want- to push you to the limit, force a mistake.

You trudge across the floor to stand behind Melissa. By now, your wife has deteriorated to rapid-fire Italian that you know is definitely only anger and insults. Agent Shaw is holding a packet of papers out that she hasn't taken in order to also be speaking with her hands. Usually, you would find her bigger than life and fiery personality and gestures adorable, but now you wish she would just take the papers. You reach past Melissa to take the papers from the agent who has blessed you with a home visit at 4:45 in the morning.

You sigh as you skim read the papers. You want to put your forehead to Melissa's shoulder even if it would jostle you with her gestures. It's a search warrant for her restaurant. You want to but you don't. You don't want Agent Shaw to see you in any more of a weaker state than you’re already showing him, half awake and absolutely exhausted after taking care of your girls. It’s not only a search warrant for Melissa's restaurant, but they're executing on a Friday- one of the busiest days for the business.

You put a hand on Melissa's shoulder in hopes of calming her down, even just slightly. With the amount that she’s cursing and shouting at this man, you’re afraid she’ll either pass out or wake up your girls. Neither option seems like a great one. But she's run out of words to spit at the agent still on your doorstep. The redhead takes a deep breath at the feel of your hand.

“Go,” you say, gathering by now that they need her to let them into the restaurant. “I'll call Sammy and tell him to meet you there. I'll make sure the girls get to school, okay?” you say softly. 

Your hand squeezes her shoulder. You make sure you kiss each of her cheeks before you kiss her lips properly. You hope the affection takes her anger down a notch or two, mostly for Agent Shaw's sake, truly. 

Reluctantly, Melissa is shoving on shoes and pulling a coat over her outfit from yesterday. You'd both been so tired you hadn't even bothered changing before all but crawling into bed. She grumbles about the fashion faux pas as she stomps down your porch to follow Agent Shaw to the car. 

You shut the front door only once you see the black car pull out of your driveway and down the street. Your forehead presses to the wood. “Fuck,” you whisper to no one but yourself. You force yourself to pull away from the front door and lock it once more.

It takes you a minute to track down where you left your phone. You struggle to remember little things of the last couple days. You rub your forehead as you listen to the ringing. Just as it's about to go to voice-mail you hear Sammy's groggy voice answer.

“They're searching Mel’s restaurant,” You sigh in place of pleasantries. “She just left with one of the agents to let them in.”

You don't even get the chance to ask Sammy to meet them there. He's saying he will before he hangs up without saying goodbye. If you were awake you'd have rolled your eyes at him. Except right now, you just appreciate his swift action and hope he can manage your wife and protect her for a few hours until you can get there after you drop the girls off.

You move back down the hall, barely able to lift your feet up from the carpet. You slip into the girls’ room, gently lifting them both from their beds. They don't wake up but curl into each of your shoulders. You carry them back to yours and Melissa's bed, curling up with your little twins like Melissa had the first night you'd been stuck at the station. Except you at least have the blessing of knowledge of where she is and what is wrong. Your eyes are so heavy though, you can't fight sleep even with the worry still filling you. 

tags: @thesapphictimelady @marvel210 @itisdoctortoyousir @morgana-larkin @thesamesweetie @doesthatsuggestanythingtoyou @marvels--slut @gwennybriggs @megamultifandomtrashposts @lemz378 @http-sam @melissaschemmentisbranzino @imaginesmultifandoms @sexysapphicshopowner @lilfartbox1 @maybe-a-humanbean @imlike-so-gaydude @sapphicxrat @a-queen-and-her-throne @sunsol-22 @dvrkhcld

[r-f-m-writes]

A Lark In a Hollow Chapter One

Really, she doesn't have a choice.

Lark barely remembers the huge shadow of a man sitting beside her in the dead heat of Mrs. Poppy's office at the children's home. He is silent, stoic, and completely terrifying.

Christopher Hollow.

Muscled.

Six foot five.

Storm blue eyes.

Dog tags outlined under the straining stretch of his black tee-shirt.

"Lark," Mrs. Poppy says, gently, "you're happy with this arrangement? You want to go with your Godfather?"

There's no money left for her to live off until she finds a job - if she finds a job.

Her Dad is dead.

Lark doesn't have a choice.

Lark Douglas didn’t know who Christopher Hollow was when Mrs. Poppy brought his name up to her on a hot Saturday afternoon in her office. The additional details that he had served with her Dad in Afghanistan and was her appointed legal guardian and Godfather did nothing to help jog Lark’s memory.

      In fact, it was a full week after Mrs. Poppy informed Lark of Christopher Hollow’s existence that the girl finally managed to scrounge up a single, short, fuzzy memory of the man.

         She was home.

         The door to their flat was open, the old ceiling fan had been turning in slow circles over her head. It did nothing to fight against the mid July heat that was so stifling and muggy it made her skin stick to the linoleum floors. She had sat on the couch playing with Labrador, her stuffed toy dog, when Mom walked in with someone.

        Lark was five, she thinks, and she hadn’t paid attention to anything that was being said, or looked at who had stepped the room after her mother. She only glanced up from where she was making her stuffed dog do backflips off the worn-down couch cushions when big, black boots stepped into her vision off the edge of the sofa.

       The man who stood in front of her was tall, wearing camo pants and a fitted grey tee-shirt. His face was hard to remember, but Lark thought he had sandy brown hair and the start of a thick brown beard. He had crouched down, setting aside a battered black duffle bag, looking at her like he expected something.

     Lark had only stared at him.

      Mom’s voice had a strain in it when she spoke.

     “Say hi to Chris, baby. He’s come all the way from the airport just to see you.”

     The man spoke before Lark had the chance. He had a deep, rough rumbly voice.

     “Don’t worry her about it, Lori. Been two years. I’d be surprised if Pet remembered me at all.”

      Pet.

      That was the only memory Lark had of Christopher.

      She wasn’t even sure it was real and not just something she had made up in the recesses of her mind as an unconscious effort to help herself fill in the gaps and feel less uncertain.

     She had lots of memories like that.

      Memories no one else could verify. Memories she wasn’t sure happened, but couldn’t shake as being real.

      This was what led Lark to where she stood at the top of the worn flight of wooden stairs.  Seventeen years old, dressed in clothes that didn’t belong to her, feeling entirely unsure of what the future would hold.

      Seventeen, and only three weeks and four days shy of her eighteenth birthday.

     It was ridiculous.

     Stupid, even.

     Why couldn’t she just wait it out at the girl’s home?

     Why was Mrs. Poppy was obligated, by law, to reach out to relatives Lark had never even heard of and negotiate with them down the phone, asking and then, after the eighth rejection, pleading with each of them to come and pick her up?

      “Just a month - no, no, you wouldn’t have to commit to adoption, Mrs. Tanner - not at all. I am only reaching out because Lark is your niece, and I am sure you want the best for her -”

     The list thinned, name by name. Lark saw them each time Mrs. Poppy opened the manilla envelope with her initials on it, glancing over the struck off phone numbers and feeling nothing.

    The rejections didn’t surprise her.

    She knew from lived experience how reluctant people were to help a stranger.

     It took less than half a week for them to reach the last one.

     His name.

     Christopher Hollow.

     He was who Lark was waiting for as she hung onto the banister, her dark eyes fixed on the panes of frosted glass in the door, anticipating seeing a shadow blot across the panels when he stepped onto the porch and rang the buzzer.

     Floorboards creaked.

     Lark moved too late when Mrs. Poppy stepped out of her office that stood at the side of the stairs. The stacked blonde beehive of her hair bobbing into the girl’s view as Lark tried to scurry back out of her sight.

    Too little, too late.

    The kind wrinkles around Mrs. Poppy’s eyes doubled and deepened as the sound made her look upward and spot Lark.

     “Lark, there you are! I was just about to come and find you, dear. Nip down into my office for a moment, I’ve got some things I want to discuss with you before Mr. Hollow arrives.”

    The old stairs squeaked loudly as the girl walked sheepishly down the grossly worn-out blue carpet runner, rounding the curved banister at the bottom to follow Mrs. Poppy into her office.

    It was sun warm inside, light spilling over the faded hardwood floor and shiny varnish of the big, brown desk, highlighting the dozens of ring-marks stained into its top by mugs of coffee past. Mrs. Poppy rounded the desk, having to skirt sideways between the edge of it and the rows of heavy metal file drawers that flanked the room on all sides.

   Taking her perch in a black wheely chair, the woman gestured for Lark to sit in one of the two big, green, retro velvet sofas that faced her desk.

      Sinking down into her seat, Lark folded her hands in her lap and looked at the woman, waiting to be spoken to. She had been thoroughly taught from a young age that she was to be seen and not heard. There had also been plenty of occasions when Lark wasn’t to be seen or heard. Those were moments when her half empty pink, princess wardrobe came in handy.

        Mrs. Poppy placed a pair of up-swept cat eye spectacles on the tip of her tall, gently crooked nose, and took out a notepad. It was one of dozens she had, this particular piece of stationary sported Lark’s name on its front, written in black pen and then broadly underlined in purple marker.

       “Miss Douglas today is a big one for you. How are you feeling, hon? Excited? Nervous?”

        The soft slip of her southern accent calmed Lark some as she fought against the urge to fidget, keeping her fingers still in her lap.

        “Excited, Ma’am. Dad didn’t like to travel much, so seeing the Appalachians sounds like a real adventure.”

        Lark stuck a quick smile onto the end of her lie. She had rehearsed it in her head a hundred times since she was told the good news a week before.

        Christopher Hollow wanted her.

        He was driving the whole way down the coast from his home in the Appalachian Mountains to come and collect her. Lark couldn’t even comprehend where the Appalachian Mountains stood, just that they were stupendously far away.

        Mrs. Poppy grinned at Lark, genuine and radiant, as she wrote something in fast scratching cursive over and empty line of the notepad.

       “Always such an optimist, Lark. I’m sure Mr. Hollow will be delighted by you.”

        Lark’s left thumb twitched. When she smiled, it felt tight in the corners, “I certainly hope so, Ma’am.”

        And she truly did. Lark knew the way men behaved when they weren’t delighted by her.

~R.F.M~

         A fist gripped long, brown hair tightly enough to tear dozens of strands out of Lark’s scalp as she was dragged down the hallway by her head, the girl’s frame stooped almost to the floor as she clawed at the hands restraining her.

       “Fucking little bitch coming to steal from me? Think you’re slick, huh?”

         In honesty, Lark did.

        She had stolen from the man before on countless occasions, rummaging through the contents of his worn leather wallet, fishing out loose coins and dollar notes that wouldn’t be missed. Before, he was always too out of his mind to realize, so Lark had gotten greedy.

        Twenty dollars was a lot of money to people like them. She was foolish for thinking she could snatch it away without his notice.

       Lark didn’t know his name, or his age, or anything about him other than the fact he bought pot on Thursday afternoons and left the door to his apartment wide open with 90’s music playing full volume while he sat out on his balcony in a beat-up pink recliner, back to the living room, smoking.

         By all accounts, the man wasn’t very smart. But he was still a man, a man much stronger than Lark.

[girlkisser13]

persephone cabin headcanons

children of persephone

• they’re always conceived in the spring or summer.

• in times of conflict, their presence alone can bring hope and peace to others, and they are often called upon to soothe agitated campers.

• SOO many flowers crowns.

• their powers shift with the seasons. in spring and summer, they possess fertility abilities, excelling at gardening and nurturing plant life.

• they help the apollo and dionysus cabins put on hadestown.

• during autumn and winter, they tap into their underworld connection, enabling them to see ghosts, cause tremors in the earth, rip souls away, shadow travel short distances, and occasionally curse others.

• they can summon the opposite set of powers out of season, but doing so requires a significant amount of energy and effort.

• like their mother, they have a dual personality— kind and nurturing one moment, but stern and unyielding the next.

• they’re basically the mom friend.

• they have a deep empathy for both life and death, understanding the cycles of nature and the importance of both joy and sorrow.

• this makes them great counselors and therapists.

• they have a deep respect for animals, especially deer, as it is their mother’s sacred animal, and they may see hunting as unnecessary or cruel.

• this respect extends to all wildlife, making them strong advocates for animal rights and conservation.

• their connection to the natural world make them instinctively protective of animals, leading them to actively work against activities that harm wildlife.

• they become involved in efforts to protect endangered species or restore damaged ecosystems.

• many of them engage in activism to protect wildlife and prevent hunting, using their abilities to create safe havens for animals and advocate for laws that protect them.

cabin exterior

• the cabin is adorned with intricate floral patterns and vines that seem to bloom and twist around the structure, reflecting persephone’s domain over flowers and the seasons.

• the exterior changes with the seasons— lush and vibrant during spring and summer, with blooming flowers and greenery, and transitioning to more barren and earthy tones during fall and winter.

• the cabin is painted in shades of emerald green and gold, symbolizing persephone’s connection to nature and the wealth of the underworld.

• a winding garden path leading up to the cabin is lined with a variety of flowers and plants that bloom in different colors, guided by magical enchantments to always be in full bloom.

• the structure is made of ancient, weathered stone with carvings of persephone’s symbols— like pomegranates, flowers, and butterflies— etched into the walls.

cabin interior

• like the demeter cabin, this cabin RADIATES cottage core energy.

• the cabin’s color scheme incorporates soft, earthy tones such as shades of green, gold, and pale pink, with accents of deep black and purple representing persephone's connection to the underworld.

• the walls are covered in murals and living vines that bloom with seasonal flowers like daisies, roses, and poppies. a canopy of intertwining branches drape across the ceiling, with small blossoms that glow softly in the dark.

• large windows let in plenty of natural light during the day, giving the space a warm and inviting atmosphere. at night, lanterns made of celestial bronze are enchanted to mimic the flicker of fireflies, providing a soft, ethereal glow.

• the furniture is made from natural materials like wood and stone. chairs and beds are carved with intricate designs of flowers, vines, and pomegranates. the cushions and bedding are plush and adorned with floral patterns.

• each member has their own area adorned with their favorite flowers or plants. there is also a small altar with offerings of pomegranates, flowers, and seeds, honoring their mother.

cabin traditions

• at the beginning of each spring, they participate in a special ritual to welcome the return of spring. this involves planting new flowers and trees around the camp, blessing the fields with good growth, and crafting flower crowns to wear throughout the day. this ritual symbolizes renewal, growth, and the reawakening of nature.

• they have a sweet tradition could involve exchanging flowers among cabin members as a sign of friendship, support, or goodwill. each type of flower has its own meaning, allowing members to communicate their feelings through these natural tokens.

• they have a special garden that they tend to throughout the year. this garden is filled with flowers and plants sacred to persephone, such as poppies, lilies, and pomegranates. they spend time together planting, weeding, and caring for this garden as a way to connect with their mother and each other.

• at important camp events or ceremonies, they create and wear intricate flower crowns. these crowns are crafted for themselves or as gifts for others, symbolizing the beauty and strength of nature.

• they also have a tradition of making a special crown for any camper who has achieved something significant, honoring their accomplishment.

divider by @strangergraphics

[lesbehonestsstuff]

I apologize for what I’m about to do 😀 remember when I posted about Casey going to visit Alex’s mom after Alex died ? well I took it and ran with it and out came a heartbreaking fic so here you go

Word count: 3882

Also @wild-fleurs you put the idea in my head to write this so now we can both be sad

Casey was trying, she was trying her best to keep going, but most days she couldn't even find the strength to get out of bed. Today though she had managed, managed to pull herself from the nest of grief she had made of their room, and somehow stumbled uptown. She stood in front of the heavy oak door, the night chill creeping through her bones despite the wool coat she had hastily thrown on. She raised her hand to knock but hesitated. The last thing she wanted was to bother Caroline. She felt hollowed out, like there was nothing left of her but grief and guilt, and showing up at this hour—it felt selfish. But where else could she go?

She had no one else in the city. Her parents didn’t talk to her anymore, her siblings lived in other states, she was all alone. Except for Caroline. Caroline, who had been stoic the day of the funeral letting tear after tear fall when her daughter's casket was lowered to the ground. Casey had been beside her and she barely managed to keep it together before she excused herself, sobs clawing out of her throat as she fled needing to get as far from the cemetery as she could.

She felt bad about it later but she couldn’t handle it and couldn't be there on the receiving end of people’s sympathy. She hadn’t seen Caroline since and quite frankly she didn’t know why she was currently standing in front of the brownstone; she just knew she had to get out of their apartment. Away from the reminders of what her life used to look like, Alex marking every part of it

Her hand hovered a second longer before she tapped lightly. The sound was so soft she worried it hadn’t registered, but within moments, the door creaked open. Caroline Cabot stood in the soft lamplight, dressed in her silk robe, her face apparently calm, but there was an exhaustion born not from physical tiredness, but from the endless weight of grief that Casey could see in her features. Caroline so poised graceful could very well be the only person who might understand what Casey was feeling.

"Casey," Caroline’s voice was low, carrying with it a warmth that broke something inside of Casey. That made her ache because not even her wife dying had gotten her own mother to at least pick up the phone and check on her. "What are you doing here, darling? It's so late."

“I—I didn’t know where else to go,” Casey whispered, the words catching in her throat. Her eyes stayed fixed on the threshold, unable to meet Caroline’s gaze. She was begining to regret her decision to come intrude on Caroline’s night.

Caroline however stepped aside immediately, the silent invitation giving Casey the slightest of comfort. "Come inside, sweetheart."

Casey walked in, her body stiff and uncertain, the warm, familiar smell of the house wrapping around her, pulling her back to all the times she and Alex had spent here. For Casey it had been awkward at first. The lavish home occupied by people she could never begin to pretend she could be. It had made her feel inferior but slowly the more Alex invited her over to see her mother in law the more comfortable Casey got. She started loving the place, always warm, always lingering with the smell of tea. But tonight, the memories were sharp, jagged. They cut into her, not as much as in her apartment but still so incredibly painful.

As Caroline closed the door behind them, Casey found herself shaking from the cold. “I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“You could never bother me,” Caroline said, her tone as soft as the hands she placed gently on Casey’s arm. “Sit down, dear.”

Casey shuffled toward the couch, she sank into the plush cushions, feeling small in the vast, elegant living room. The space was perfect, just like Caroline. Every detail, from the well-curated art to the perfectly arranged flowers on the mantel, it all showed Caroline’s refined taste. But tonight, it all felt like a reminder of how she didn’t belong here anymore. Without Alex, this world of grace and perfection seemed alien to her once more.

"I couldn’t stay at the apartment," Casey mumbled, her voice barely audible. "Everything... everything there reminds me of her."

Caroline nodded, sitting next to Casey, her face showing nothing but understanding. She had learned, in her grief, how to master that particular expression—the one that said, ‘I feel it too, but we must go on.’ But now, watching Casey, something felt wrong. Casey wasn’t just grieving; she was unraveling, bit by bit, and Caroline could see it in every hollowed-out shadow on her face, in the way her clothes hung loosely on her frame.

“Have you eaten?” Caroline asked gently, though she already knew the answer.

Casey shook her head. "I’m not very hungry anymore."

Caroline's lips pressed into a thin line, not wanting to push her, but unwilling to let her slip further away. "You should eat something. Just a little."

Casey barely responded, her gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the room. The emptiness in her eyes made Caroline worry. She looked so much smaller than she remembered—Alex had always told her how strong Casey was, how she could take on the world if she wanted to. But now? Now, she looked fragile, as if a strong wind could blow her away.

“You look exhausted, my dear. Why don’t you close your eyes for a little while, while I make dinner?” Caroline’s voice was soft, her hand stroking Casey’s hair slowly.

“I... I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see her,”

“You need to try, your body needs it so just close your eyes and i'll stay here with you

Caroline watched as Casey’s eyes fluttered shut, her breathing evening out into soft, broken sighs. She looked so fragile, so heartbreakingly lost. Caroline’s own grief was constantly threatening to swallow her whole. But having Casey here, taking care of her,maybe it could give her something to hold on to, some piece of Alex still in her life.

Caroline reached for a nearby blanket and draped it gently over Casey’s thin form satisfyed when she saw her daughter in laws features relax. She could see how much weight Casey had lost, the dark circles under her eyes noticeable against her pale skin. Caroline felt her heart twist with worry. This girl, this beautiful, broken woman who had loved her daughter so fiercely, was fading before her eyes. And Caroline couldn’t let that happen. Not when Casey was a part of Alex.

She disappeared into the kitchen, her slippered feet barely making a sound. The act of preparing food, something warm, comforting was automatic. Tomato soup, the kind Alex had loved, the kind Caroline had made for years. As the broth simmered, the scent of garlic and thyme filled the house. It was strange, how the simple act of cooking could still feel grounding in the midst of everything, giving her back a sense of a routine she hadnt had since her daughter died.

Casey didn’t know how long she had been asleep, but when she woke, the room was dark and quiet. Caroline was seated nearby with a cup of tea in her hands reading a book with the soft glow of a lamp. The house smelled good and her stomach rumbled craving whatever Caroline had cooked.

Alex was still gone.

But Caroline… Caroline was still here.

“I’m sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep” Casey mumbled, attempting to sit up, but Caroline was next to her in a moment and stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Caroline said softly. “You needed the rest.”

She gave her a small smile and disappeared quickly into the kitchen bringing back a tray with soup and a grilled cheese. “You’ll have to forgive me dear, much like Alex. I'm not very good in the kitchen” Caroline said softly, setting the tray on the coffee table. "I know it feels like you can’t but you need to try. Just a few bites, sweetheart. Please.”

Casey’s eyes flicked to the bowl, the steam rising from the soup, but she didn’t move. “I can’t. It feels like I can’t swallow it down. She’s gone, and I...”

Caroline’s chest tightened. She sat down beside Casey, her voice steady but full of compassion. "She wouldn’t want you to starve yourself, to stop taking care of yourself. You know how stubborn Alex could be. She would hate to see you like this, Casey."

“I know.” Casey’s voice cracked, her body curling in on itself as though the weight of her sorrow was too much to bear. "I know she would, but I don’t know how to be without her. I don’t know how to keep going.”

Caroline reached out, gently brushing a tear from Casey’s cheek. “You don’t have to know how. You just have to take it one moment at a time.”

“Sometimes I feel like I’m going crazy,” Casey admitted after a long pause. “Like I’ll never feel anything but this… numbness. Like I’m forgetting her already. Isn’t that horrible?”

Caroline looked at her with soft eyes, her own grief rippling through the room. “No, it’s not horrible. It’s part of the pain, darling. But you’re not forgetting her. She’s with you in everything you do. Grief… it doesn’t mean forgetting. It means learning to live with the love you still carry.”

Casey closed her eyes, tears spilling over her lashes as she leaned into Caroline’s shoulder, her body shaking with the sobs she had tried so hard to hold back. "I don’t know if I can do this."

“You can,” Caroline whispered, her hand cradling the back of Casey’s head. “I promise you, you can. And I’m here with you.”

"How... how do you keep it together so well?" Casey’s voice was barely more than a whisper, shaky and fragile. She didn't meet Caroline's gaze, instead staring into her bowl as though it held some hidden answer.

Caroline sighed softly, she took a deep breath, her hands resting in her lap, fingers trembling slightly. “I don't, dear.”

Casey looked up, her brow furrowing in confusion. She had always admired Caroline’s composure, the way she seemed to navigate grief with such grace, even when Casey herself was crumbling. “What do you mean? I came to check on you and you’re here comforting me.”

Caroline’s smile was faint, bittersweet, and her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “I lost my husband years ago. That taught me how to grieve, I know what it feels like and yet it doesn’t make it any easier. I never thought I’d lose my daughter too.” Her voice broke on the last word, and she closed her eyes, as if trying to hold herself together. “I’m not strong, Casey. I struggle every day. I’m in pain every day. It’s hard to keep going because it isn’t fair that she’s gone.”

Tears welled up in Casey’s eyes, her heart pounding painfully in her chest as she watched Caroline, someone who had always seemed so poised, now breaking in front of her. She saw the lines of grief etched deeper into Caroline’s face, the quiet way her shoulders shook as she tried to keep her tears at bay.

“I thought losing Alexander was the hardest thing I’d ever go through,” Caroline continued, her voice tight, “but losing Alex... there are days I don’t know how I’m still standing.”

Casey reached out hesitantly, placing her hand on top of Caroline’s. The older woman squeezed back, her grip surprisingly firm, holding tightly to Casey.

“I’m sorry,” Casey whispered, guilt weighing heavily on her chest. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t,” Caroline interrupted softly, shaking her head. “You’re allowed to ask. And you’re allowed to feel like this.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the soft ticking of a clock on the wall. Caroline wiped at her tears, sniffing softly before her lips curled into a small smile.

“You know,” she started, her voice lighter now, “Alex was always so serious as a child. Proper, even. She had her nose in a book more than anything else. While other children played outside, she was inside reading, arranging her dollhouse or playing chess with her father. She was always in her own little world, so smart and stubborn.” Caroline chuckled softly, her eyes distant, lost in memories of her daughter.

Casey managed a small smile, a flash of warmth blooming in her chest. “That sounds like her.”

Caroline nodded, her gaze softening as she continued. “I knew early on that she wouldn’t end up with a boy. One day, she came home from school when she was about six years old and declared with such authority, ‘Boys are useless, Mama. They’re horrible.’” Caroline laughed, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, so did Casey.

It was a broken, quiet laugh, but it was real. The sound filled the room, easing some of the tension in the air.

Caroline smiled warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “From that day, I had a feeling. I didn’t say anything, of course, but I always knew my daughter would end up with someone special. Someone who could match her, challenge her.” Her gaze softened as she looked at Casey. “And she found you.”

Caroline chuckled softly, her fingers brushing the stray hair from Casey’s face. “She always had such high expectations for herself. And when she met you, she told me she’d found the one”

Casey’s breath hitched in her throat, fresh tears burning her eyes. “She told you that?”

“She did,” Caroline whispered. “She loved you more than anything in this world, Casey.”

Caroline smiled faintly, wiping away a tear that had escaped down Casey’s cheek. “And you loved her more than anyone else ever could. And that makes you family.”

Casey swallowed hard, her throat tight with emotion.“Thank you,” she whispered, the words barely audible. She wiped at her face quickly, trying to regain control, but it was impossible. “I miss her so much, Caroline,” she said, her voice cracking.

Caroline pulled her into a tight embrace, holding her as she sobbed. “I know, dear. I know. But we have each other. We’ll get through this together.”

The weight of those words settled between them, giving Casey something solid to cling to in the storm that had become her life.

For the first time in months, in this house full of memories, Casey let herself rest.

---

In the weeks that followed, Casey’s visits became more frequent. At first, they were always at night, always after she had spent hours drowning in work or staring at the walls of her empty apartment. But soon, it became routine, Caroline would make tea, Casey would sit quietly at the table, and they would talk. Not always about Alex, but about the small things. The weather. Books. Anything to fill the space between them.

Caroline watched Casey closely during these visits, noting the slight improvements, a little more color in her cheeks, a little less tension in her shoulders, but also the lingering sadness in her eyes. Casey’s grief was still a raw wound, but at least here, in this house, she wasn’t alone.

And in taking care of Casey, Caroline found a sense of purpose again, something to ground her in the face of her own unbearable loss.

---

When Caroline began to get sick, Casey noticed before anyone else. It was in the way her steps slowed, how her voice seemed quieter, weaker. But it wasn’t until Caroline collapsed one evening that Casey’s world shattered again.

Caroline was gone by winter.

Casey stood at the grave, her eyes hollow as she stared at the fresh dirt that covered Caroline’s casket. The air was cold, biting at her cheeks, but she didn’t feel it. Not really. She felt numb again, any progress she had made crumbling beneath her feet now that the woman that had loved her like a mother was gone. As if each loss had taken a piece of her, until there was almost nothing left. First Alex, and now Caroline—the one person who had understood, who had kept her grounded when everything else had fallen apart.

The flowers in her hand trembled as she knelt down, placing them gently on the grave, and then placing the others in front of Alex’s. She wanted to say something, anything, but no words came. How do you thank someone for giving you the only semblance of a family you had left, for helping you grieve their daughter when you couldn’t even grieve for yourself?

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the wind. “I should have done more. I should have—”

Her breath hitched, and she stood up quickly, wiping the tears from her eyes. She couldn’t stay any longer.

She got a small comfort in knowing that at least Caroline would be with Alex now. But of course that wasn’t true

The day Alex came back was the best and worst day of Casey’s life.

She had grieved, convinced Alex was gone forever. Months of sleepless nights, empty days, and trying to piece together a life shattered by loss with the help of Caroline. And then suddenly Alex was back, standing in the doorway, alive but looking so broken, like she had been just as lost as Casey. All the anger, confusion, and hurt hit at once. Casey didn't know if she wanted to hold her or scream at her. But the devastation in Alex's eyes, the weight she carried—it made the anger fade, at least for the moment. So she clung to her, almost tackling her in a hug that was interrupted by sobs and tears and kisses that brought back a piece of Casey that she was sure was gone forever.

Days later, they stood together at Caroline’s grave. As much as Alex wanted to go visit her mother she couldn’t bring herself to do it at first, couldn’t face the reality that her mom was gone for good and Casey understood, so she gave her time as they figured out where they stood.

The wind blew through the cemetery, cold and sharp, stinging their skin. Spring was a few weeks away so the cold air was just another reminder of how cruel time had been for both of them. How much time they had lost. Alex stood still, staring at the grave, her face tight, like she was holding herself together by a thread. Casey watched her, unsure if she should reach out or let Alex face this moment alone.

“When they told me she was gone,” Alex finally said, her voice low and rough, “I… I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I kept thinking they had to be wrong, that somehow… it wasn’t real.” She clenched the flowers so tightly, petals broke off, floating down to the dirt.

Casey didn’t say anything, watching the tension build in Alex’s face.

“I was out there in the middle of nowhere, stuck, and all I could think was… she’s gone. My mom is dead, and I wasn’t there. I couldn’t even bury her. What kind of daughter does that?” Alex’s voice broke, and she turned her head, eyes filling with tears she fought to keep in.

“You didn’t have a choice,” Casey said softly. “They didn’t give you a choice, Alex.”

“But I should’ve listened to you!” Alex’s voice cracked, finally letting out what she’d been holding in for so long. “I should’ve listened. You told me not to push it, not to—” She shook her head, words tripping over each other. “And now I’m here, and she’s not. And you—you had to deal with all of this alone because I was too fucking stubborn.”

Casey’s chest tightened, seeing Alex unravel like this. She tried to step closer, but Alex pulled away, pacing in front of the grave like she couldn’t bear to stand still.

“I left you alone. I left her alone.” Alex wiped her face roughly with the back of her hand, her breath coming quicker. “And now… she’s dead. My mom is dead.”

Casey felt her heart shatter again, hearing the raw pain in Alex’s voice, and she reached for her. “Alex—”

“She’s gone. She’s gone, and I—” Alex’s knees gave out, and she crumbled before the grave, clutching the flowers she still held, her shoulders shaking with each sob. “I wasn’t here. I couldn’t even say goodbye.”

Tears streamed down Alex’s face as sob after sob tore through her, shaking her whole body. Casey dropped beside her, pulling her into her arms as Alex’s grief poured out, a flood of months of guilt, pain, and loss.

“She’s gone,” Alex gasped between sobs. “She’s gone, Casey. I’ll never get to see her again. I’ll never hear her voice, never—” She couldn’t finish. The words turned into another flood of choked sobs, her body trembling in Casey’s arms. “I want my mom” she sobbed out letting her head fall against Casey's chest.

Casey pressed her lips to the top of Alex’s head, rocking her gently. “I know. I know, baby. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

For what felt like hours, Alex cried until her voice was hoarse, her tears soaking Casey’s coat. When the sobs finally slowed, Alex leaned back against Casey, utterly drained, her eyes red and swollen. She looked lost, like a little girl who had just lost her entire world.

Casey stroked her hair, whispering softly. “She wasn’t alone. She helped me, and I helped her. We got through it together.”

Alex closed her eyes, her breath still shaky. “I should’ve been the one here with her.”

Casey didn’t know what to say, because she knew no words could make Alex’s guilt go away.

Alex sniffled, wiping her face with the back of her sleeve. “I don’t know how to forgive myself for not being there.”

Casey shifted so she could look into Alex’s eyes, her thumb brushing away the tears still clinging to her cheeks. “ You survived. That’s what matters. That’s what she would’ve wanted and she wouldn’t have wanted to see you drowning in guilt”

“But she’s not here,” Alex whispered, her voice so small it almost broke Casey’s heart all over again.

Casey stared into those beautiful blue eyes and brought Alex in closer as they both knelt by the grave in silence, holding each other in the quiet hurt of their grief. The flowers they’d brought lay in front of the headstone, peonies and daisies.

Alex laid her head on Casey’s shoulder. She just sat there, staring at the grave as the last of her tears dried on her cheeks. Finally, with a heavy sigh, she whispered, “Thank you. For being here. For… everything.”

Casey pressed her forehead to Alex’s. “You don’t have to thank me, Alex. I’m with you, always.”

They got up, hand in hand, there was nothing left to say, but they stood there for a moment longer, letting the quiet surround them. Trying to wake up from the nightmare that had tainted their lives.

[purelyfiction]

A Shot In the Darkest Dark

Benedict Bridgerton x (F) Reader

Summary: An agreement of terms that are not favorable for your future leads to conversations, moments of stiff air and inconsistency, walls and held hope.

Word Count: 2,393 Words

Author’s Note: welp I bet none of y’all saw this coming now did you, i guess you could call this a prologue to irreperable? thanks to the little bird in my inbox for this!! - arranged marriage, tension and fluff, all the fun things

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You’d just wish they’d cease the deliberations already. The walls of your family home seem to rattle and shake as the booming voice of your father comes from down the hall. Not even an hour prior a letterman had come to the door with a very detailed and lengthy compromise scrawled into the ink. 

It wasn’t unknown to your mother or yourself that your father had been making questionable investments as of late. So much so that he’d begun to fault on payments he’d owed. The moment that he’d understood what the letter was detailing, he ushered you from the room, needing to discuss with your mother what he’d read. 

However, you were not one to be left out of major implications, especially one where you’re not to be in the presence of the employed deliberators. That usually never bode well for you. An ear pressed to the rather light doors allowed you to catch the quick whispers of your name, a debt and a wedding. 

Then your mother had launched onto a defense for your position, which was incredibly brave of her. They were still locked into their counter points to one another when dinner was called. Your mother, flush in the face, can barely look your father in the eye. Meanwhile, he is too busy shoveling the meal on his plate into his mouth to invite a conversation between the three of you. That doesn’t stop you from inciting one. 

“Am I to just be left out of the running? Is there secrecy amongst us?” You knew the response already, it was your attempt at jolting your father into confession.

“Your father is shipping you off to London.” Your mama, always the curt one. Silverware clatters to the table and you meet the eyes of the only man in your life in hopes for an explanation. He fumbles on his words for a few moments before he can finally manage to get out the events that were unfolding. 

“Your mother- I- we have been discussing the manner of our finances. As you know, we are facing a testing set of circumstances and… my partner was kind enough to offer a solution that does not involve a trade of currency.” This partner, however, was the son of his former partner. Your father had been evading this debt for years before the son had come across the missing funds. A conversation last week had revealed the hand that the Amberley house had been facing. The solution? A union of the second eldest son and Lord Amberley’s only child, his daughter - you.

Before you knew it, you were being shipped off to a home in London in order to prepare for a wedding that you had mere days to come to terms with. Stood in a shop with a French woman who wouldn’t dare say more than four words to you with your mother and soon-to-be mother in law in the room, you’re questioning exactly what you’re being greeted with. 

At the very least, your new husband’s mother was a rare gemstone to be found. The woman had greeted you at the shop, by name, with a host of gifts for you and your mother (which was less than anticipated, considering you were approaching with very little to offer on your end) and then began to launch into tales of her family. A very large family, in fact, with children she was immensely proud of, fiercely dedicated to and overly enamored with. It did not come to be ungenuine though, not in the manner of people attempting to piece together some falsity in hopes to cushion their luck. No, no, Violet beamed as she spoke of her eldest daughter, now a duchess, her first grandchild - how she would be certain that her next one would have a great father on their side. Seeing that their father would be your husband. 

Kind, charming, educated and brilliant, she said. Devoted to studying his passion for artistry and poetry, well versed in the society standards while also being an entertaining chap. There wasn’t a poor thing mentioned in terms of this gentleman. Even when the older women had slid out for a breath of air, the modiste mentioned how incredibly stunning the family was, including your groom. 

Over dinner that night, you’d meet your fiance. Not a soul that had spoken of him had been exaggerating. Benedict Bridgerton was exactly as he’d been acclaimed to be. He graciously made his introductions to you and soon after made you chuckle with the comment he’d made under his breath. As you waited for the dinner hour to approach, he guided you around his family’s home. 

“This home is so very far removed from what it once was. See, Daphne, Francesca and Elosie all used to share their quarters with one another when they were younger, as there were only three designated spaces in the home and well, my parents were rather the love birds, it would seem.” You could not fault yourself for the way you grinned at his stories. They continued as you approached his own quarters, littered with canvas and paint jars, the smell of turpentine overwhelmingly hitting your nostrils. 

“I’d assume that you’d like children of your own? Your mother spoke very highly of your characteristics that would aide you in fatherhood.” His chin tucks over his shoulder in your direction, facing out the three panels of glass in the middle of his room. 

“I do not believe that is… solely my decision to make, Ms. Amberley.” Feet stay planted despite their wish to step back in sheer surprise. 

“Implying that you might forgo raising your own children? You speak so highly of your nephew, not to mention your siblings-” 

“That is the furthest thing from what I am implying.” He cuts you off a moment, a swift apology leaving him for doing so. “What I am implying is such that- it is a discussion I wish to involve my wife in.” The manner in which he speaks it is solemn. Benedict’s feet come to a chair, where he settles for a moment, looking anywhere but the direction in which you stand. 

“You wished to marry for love, did you not?” Your question catches him by surprise, leaving his eyes training forward to engage with yours. 

“Well, I certainly did not anticipate my marriage to be a settlement for my father’s books. Not ever did I prepare for such a thing.” Slowly, you draw near, resting a hand on his shoulder. 

“Nor did I.” The pale color of his irises come up in your direction, moving in time with his hand which takes yours. 

“I am sorry that I have stripped you of the opportunity, Ms.” Your brows furrow as you shake your head. 

“No, do not fret with such things Mr. Bridgerton. The choices have been made, there is no value in dwelling on matters we cannot manage by our own volitions.” The way his facial expression softened at your reassurance let you know that Benedict would always be compassionate toward you. If not as your husband, as your friend. 

In three days time, the fanfare of the ceremony and following celebrations arrived just as you had in the glimmering showcase that was the carriage that the Bridgertons owned. The chapel was adorned in the most wonderful arrangements of flowers and foliage you’d ever seen. Coming from a countryside village there were countless items you’d never seen prior to today. The vivid colored flowers in your field of view being one of them, the intricate weaving pattern of your gown another, the ornate and sizeable stones on your neck being the final thing. 

Benedict had insisted that you borrow the jewels from his mother’s collection. If you were not to have the spouse you desired, he was determined to make the rest of the day match the expectations you had conjured in your mind. He had been sincere in the conversations regarding your nuptials, even more so on making you as comfortable as possible. 

The ceremony was rather quaint. It consisted of both your families, the extended and the near, a few family friends on your groom’s side. Your father did not work efficiently enough to keep very many friends. It would seem your luck would change as your last name did. 

Benedict had taken it upon himself to write his own vows, something he mentioned he had hoped to do one day in brief conversations leading up to the event. 

“My darling. I fear as though we embark on one of the most uncertain paths that the Lord provides for us in this life. For that is what He does, after all. He surrounds us with the light of the sun, the life of the botanicals that grow below us, the coursing of the rivers at our side, the family that resides behind us. He provides us with the fruits of His plans he intends for us. He provided me with the gracious woman that is you. As rushed and incredibly daunting as this may be for the two of us,” Benedict’s hand slid into yours, beginning to play with the gemstone soldered to the metal looping around your ring finger, “I pray that it is enduring. That it is kind. That it is joyous, prosperous and pleasant. That the days that result from our union be filled with contentment and merriment, from now and until our souls come to join Him.” 

They were beautiful. So meticulously crafted, and well intended as the two of you began the vow of spending the remainder of your lives with one another. 

Frequently they chase through your mind these days, walking around the home that Violet had insisted you take upon yourselves. The walls of books, the windows of light that brought you breathtaking familiarity of the countryside you’d grown to love - the dedicated quarters that Benedict had aided you in decorating to your every whim. 

The brunette had done every service to aid in your comfort with the marriage enacted. Beautiful gowns from the latest fashions, halls and gardens to lose your time into, countless hobby pools to pick from in waning afternoons, there was no shortage of effort from your husband. 

Your conversations were always well mannered, filled with little details of your past lives, stories of friends and siblings, rumors and fairytales from youth. Routines were built between the two of you, including that every three nights, Benedict would sit with you and read the words of the material you’d chosen to you. 

Tonight was one of those nights. Benedict lounges out on the chaise, jacket long gone, supple adorned vest and matching kerchief around his neck loosened from the days works. His words are joined with the chirp of evening sounds from a cracked window to aid in the circulation of the house. Your hands stay busy with a needlepoint project. The characters he speaks of are discussing the name of the child that’s been born. You implore your thoughts forward. 

“Ben?” His head shifts to look from the parchment and toward you at the use of his name. It was a name that his mother never used, nor his siblings rarely. Perhaps it was just you that had coined this shortened version of the Christian name he’d been given. “Do you suppose we should discuss children?” Blue eyes return to the page in front of him. Given the timeline since your wedding, it was not an unjustified question. You were aware that should the next time you return to London, his mother would be rushing up to you like a hunting dog, ready to drag the kill in from the woods to show off to the ton. 

“Do you wish to discuss it?” His eyes barely glaze over you before he slides a ribbon into the split of the book, covers coming together, the book leaving a hefty sigh on the table next to him upon contact. 

“I worry that it will be questioned the next time we are seen. We have not entirely been honest with one another over the subject.” There were plenty of things that hadn’t been honest in terms of your marriage the last few months. How Benedict and yourself had their own sleeping arrangements. That you saw each other maybe once or twice a day at mealtimes, save for the nights where it was explicitly discussed you’d be joining the other in leisure times. 

Benedict has grown quiet, which is a very odd state for the husband you have come to know the last weeks. This time, you set your own busywork aside, keeping your eyes toward him as he rests in contemplation. 

“I wish to have children of my own. Though, I know the process is… taxing on a woman,” the pillow under his head shifts to look your direction, eyes finally coming to meet with one another for a rare occurrence. They do not avert in quick fashion either. The admittance of a family was something you dwelled on with semi-frequent behaviors. After all, one can only do so much knitting of babe-wear before picturing the scene for themselves. You dwell in the wonder of it all as you keep each other held without touching either one of you. 

Would they look like their father? Behave like him? With the amused twinkle in their eye when a jest is made, a twist of words, stories with outlandish accents and impossible daydreams… would it be so horrible? To wake in the night with a small babe as they cry out for their mother, held in the warmth of her breast, comforted by her scent. You ached for such a life, one you were cheated of the moment the emerald slid to your hand. A very heavy hand that seems to burden you daily. 

“My wife.” Benedict’s voice comes to the room, echoing off of bound paper and golden embellishment on the walls. You tilt your head with a soft grin.

“I am sure we will come to an agreement some day, husband.” There is no need to linger on the unfortunate uncertainties between the two of you. The dark would linger where it rests, those that lived in its shadows subject to whatever hid among it. 

Even the ugliest and most ferocious truths.

[newtonsheffield]

Young Gregory Bridgerton showing up to Wimbledon to support his SIL Kate Sharma, but scoping out Miss Lucy through those shades! 😜

Oh poor Gregory. His not- Girlfriend is six months pregnant and he’s at Wimbledon to keep an eye on her but also… he knows her uncle (who hate him) will be there so he’s trying to look his best. He’s trying to look responsible and diligent, and yes, his sister in law is trying to win Three Championships in a row so that’s exciting. But mostly he’s there to hover over Lucy and provide emotional support. And also run to get drinks and snacks whenever she needs anything.

He specifically chose this jacket because it has a lot of pockets in there! And he brought a tennis duffel! It’s a Wilson Showman Leather duffel and it is chock full of supplies to help the mother of his child get through this day! There’s even a little seat cushion! Because he cares!

[controld3vil]

upset much?

PAIRING: AEMOND TARGARYEN X READER SYNOPSIS: you drive your husband mad when you want to go dragon riding. NOTES: - reader's house is not specified - this is all fluff lol! i just wanted a happy moment with the greens :) - btw tysm for the love from my last work! ik its been months since then but i really do appreciate the constant support!

WEARINESS adorned your delicate features upon the break of dawn. The faint beam that brimmed through your pearl curtains to the vivid gold chamber. A gust of wind blows across your bedroom, allowing the blinds to sway mindlessly. On the day of the sunrise, many of the royal family prepare for the following course. Members of Kingsguard stand and patrol the sacred grounds of the quarters you’ve become familiar with. King’s Landing, the palace is known not to stay awake at night despite no festivity. The morrow is lively and occupied by staff members and Council debating politics. 

However, unlike the latter, you have not aroused. Neither the morning dew nor the breeze stirs you awake. Instead, you leisurely heave and twist until you are snug amongst the veils and cushions. Though your drowsiness soon dwindles as the gates to your enclosure are unlatched. A small group of maidens trod inside and presently began to busy themselves. Some started to tend your wardrobe. A few others cleared your vanity and lounge of its cluster. A few paces behind them revealed Princess Helaena in her relaxed green gown. 

You wouldn't be able to see her expression. But you could assume by the pace of her efforts Helaena appeared distressed. Her rushed movements halted when you felt the cushions of your bed flatten a bit. A soft exhale came out of her throat in a moment of ease.

You couldn’t help but snicker under the blankets. Helaena’s kind heart was fickle, often leading to her becoming expressive at times of assertiveness. You emphasized with her. The painful hole in your chest when in the events of tragedy is a natural emotion. However, when you could not wake up from a prior’s day's work, a simple uncertainty provoked your dear sister-in-law to panic - a spiral of disaster on either part of the receiver or contributor.

In your serene eyes, Helaena was a deity not to be trifled with. Her tender heart and caring personality are too endearing to disregard. 

“Fret not sister, I’ve awoken,” you calmly voice to reassure her of your condition. Her pristine silver locks careen across her shoulders as she pivots to glance at you. Her amethyst orbs shimmered in the daylight that had earlier ascended. “I apologize for the delay to breakfast.” 

In response, she soughs childishly. “You startled me!” Another exhale as she mumbles your name. “Mother was worried if you were going to show up.” You could sense enjoyment in her tone as her lips gradually curled into a smile.

“It's too early for breakfast,” you grumble jokingly - turning to face the window. Again you can discern a giggle as Helaena quickly snatches the many layers that cover your figure. The two of you playfully fought back and forth between the sheets while the maids wandered about. Some periodically snickered - others held cheerful grins, marveling at your sweet banter with the Targaryen princess. 

Helaena was your first companion when you first arrived at King's Landing. Her miniature and doll-like features piqued your curiosity. It left you in awe. Moreover, her early infatuation with bugs and insects directed you to the pleasure of her presence. Many of your chats were regarding all types of matters. Her attentiveness aviated endlessly - you performed everything with her. Wherever you stood in the palace, Helaena was beside you. You were conceivably the first and only female friend she had in King’s Landing.

“It's past seven, silly!” she giggles affectionately. She hauls the last tug from your blankets. You eventually unleash your grasp and brace yourself on your elbows. Helaena likewise beams as she delineates your weary features with her fingers. “You must eat. Come, my mother is waiting for us!”

“I can't get up,” you pout, attending her laughter. She looked far too pleased upon your disheveled state. You know she means no harm and did not want to push you into any discomforting situation. Breakfast with the Queen Regent is of importance. She was to be your mother-in-law - in other ways, already a maternal figure in your life. You can hope she understands your delay and weary condition. 

Down the halls of the palace, vociferous footsteps echo across the hallways. The impulsive arrival of another family member of House Targaryen stunned a few of the maids as they hastened their work. You peek towards the unrestricted doors to find Helaena with her expression more optimistic. Possibly she was eager to see her brother in a state of recklessness.

“Aemond,” Helaena hums with a hint of giddiness. He reaches a stop a few feet from your bed railings. The maidens skim up anxiously at the eye-patched prince and then at his sister. Regardless, out of fear, they all scurry out of the room as quickly as possible. You wonder if his presence always alerts the working members of King’s Landing like mice. And as if Helaena had listened to your thoughts, she teasingly questions, “Must you always scare off the maids?”

“Are you hurt?” he asks with such confusion and determination. You could undoubtedly tell he was not in a jesting mood. Your sister-in-law notices and gives him a curt smile. She furthermore turns to you and reaches for your hand. You recuperate her action and clutch her hand softly and her cheeks glow pink. 

“I’ll be waiting in the dining room,” she asserts in a quiet whisper. You nod and clutch her hand one more time before releasing. Her eyes glow with tenderness as she glimpses back and forth between you and your fiancé. “I’ll be waiting!”

As she skipped out of the room, Aemond unwinds his shoulders. The silence was consistently a recurrence in your relationship with Aemond. You would still find comfort in his presence. Aemond is calm and precise with his tongue. His eloquent indication is a quality you often admire. Thus you do not mind the casual tranquility between the two of you. It gives you a moment to admire him in his formal attire of a leather suit, colored in all black. His eyepatch hangs securely on his left eye. 

Aemond acknowledges your stare and calmly strides to the curtained window. In moments of close intimacy, unknown to you, your fiancé feels awkward. He can't find the proper words to communicate to you. It nearly feels absurd of him to tell you his sentiments. An hour prior, his god-forsaken brother admittedly teases him of you having the flu. He implies that you seemed stressed from all the work you have been assisting the Queen. His mother had many duties daily. It was more than honorable of you to offer your service. Was it too much? Did you feel pressure from the Council and his grandsire? 

To his relief, you were not sick. You were healthy and alive. And as he tries to ignore your gaze, Aemond finds it difficult on what to say next. It is immature and ridiculous of him to fall for such a plan trick. 

But the matter was concerning you.

The young prince could never turn his back on you. He values your tolerance with his insufferable thoughts. As much as he wanted to ponder all the ways to get back at Aegon, you were still present, lounging.

“I am not hurt or ill,” you perk up, reminding him of the question he had asked. The silver-haired prince turns to see you stretch your arms. In a catlike way, you crane your neck upwards idly. With a groan, you add. “The maesters made sure of it.”

“Are you perhaps troubled?” The way he interrogates you is awkward and stiff. It must be difficult for him - you wager. It's easy to fake intimacy in front of guests and merchants. However, inside the establishment where only servants and guards are present, the importance of reputation is less stringent. Maintaining a sense of dignity is critical to avoid rumors and rejection.

“No, just restless,” You smile sleepily. You lay in the soft cushions of your bed. Your blanket is smooth and plush with cotton - excessively applied with your favorite fragrance. The oriental scent of amber fills your nose with ease. The perfume is faint yet potent. “Though I wished I had milk of the poppy.”

“The milk of the poppy will kill you, lady wife,” he responds in a composed and assertive manner. As you gaze, you notice his eyes locked onto yours. 

"Why are you so concerned that you rushed into my chambers?" You meet his gaze with a playful glint in your eyes. The bright summer rays of King's Landing reflect off his shining sapphire eye. Although he was concerned about your well-being, he hesitated to acknowledge it. It is up to him to decide whether to accept accountability or brush it off as mere jest. It's worth noting that he initiated the topic that ultimately led to your triumph.

You relish in your triumph when Aemond fails to respond. He turned and pushed back the curtains, allowing more light to enter the room. You were aware he couldn't bring himself to admit it due to his excessive pride. Despite your desire to tease and mock, you acknowledged the thoughtfulness in his actions. Aemond's reputation remains intact even without the presence of citizens and working staff to observe him. He possessed exceptional sword-fighting abilities and was known for his unforgiving precision. He exhibits unwavering commitment and dedication to carrying out his duties. Having trained with Criston Cole for years, he has learned the importance of strategy and strength. And his greatest attribute is his ability to remain silent.

After some contemplation, you decide to get out of bed. Your bare feet come into contact with the stone-cold floors as you pursue your fiancé. You proceed cautiously and approach him from behind, getting closer to him. Slowly raising your hands to trace the leather-laced armor of his, you can feel his shoulders lower in exhaustion. 

For six months, you two drastically bonded over many things. Aemond became accustomed to your presence and hobbies gradually. The closer you got to him, the more you sought him out. It would start as casual conversations of each other’s day to extensive discussions of politics. You did not mind his forlorn interest in philosophy or combat - his interests allowed him the most freedom to speak. Close intimacy slowly became gradual. You were grateful for the relationship the two of you have created. The trust you built between each other was serene and comforting. As you hug your lover from behind, you tilt your head behind his shoulder. In addition, Aemond hugs your forearms for support. 

“Would the Queen Mother be upset if we showed up late, dear husband?” you rubbed your eyes out of tiredness. Aemond narrows his eyes down at you meticulously. 

“She could never be upset with you, love,” he murmurs, clenching his jaw.

You lovingly smile, holding out your hand. “Help me get ready?” 

The way the sun beams beautifully down your figure makes his heart beat faster. He nods in agreement as you lead him hand in hand-to your wardrobe. The maidens that were present earlier had everything arranged according to your liking. You were lucky they came on such short notice. Your bedroom was abandoned - with the workload you helped with the Queen.

Something Aemond fails to acknowledge is his fondness for you. He finds it challenging to express his feelings to you. After all, you find it so naturally. But you are sly and discreetly tease him about it nonstop. Yet the short attempts of affection he tries are enough for you. Every action and phrase he speaks is enough for you. The way his heart yearns more for your attention and touch is overwhelming. It’s sickening. When he feels his emotion elevates, heat rises from his chest. To say you were a goddess. You look enchanting regardless of what you wear. His House colors of red and black only made your beauty more refined. The dark tones it alludes to make you look irresistible to the eye.

Aemond stares at your back, eyes softening. People often allude to his cold exterior and unwavering status. But what they can't deny is the way he looks at you. It's a redundant routine people gossip about. They detest - how can an elegant lady seduce a man like himself? Second sons are rumored to be mischievous - with a lack of devotion. Therefore it brings the entire realm stunned when Aemond shows up with you. His delicate gestures towards you surprise many of your close relatives. Even his family finds his devotion strange. However, the silver-haired prince doesn't care. 

You're his ire, his muse. The way you sway back and forth in your nightgown - he feels lightheaded. Your hair is loose and messy, covering your shoulders. It's beautiful without the ribbons and braids. He knows you desperately wish to let your hair down more often. However, it is prohibited and considered to be unladylike. However, your face was glowing. Your rosy cheeks faintly remind him of peaches as well. And the flutter of your eyelashes makes your pouty expression more captivating. 

He blames the sun for its ability to elevate your features. You were delicate like this. With no stress, you were much happier and content. The Councilmen and Queen should not have to pressure you. It was their position and status to oversee all functions of King's Landing. You mustn't bother yourself with extensive work and paperwork. 

His thoughts were interrupted by you humming. You can sense his attentiveness was directed at you now. You present two dresses in front of him. One dress of his House colors while the other of yours. His choice was almost immediate by how his keen eye gazed longingly at it.

“Of course, you chose this,” you fling the disregarded dress back into the closest. “These are your favorite colors.” Your prince almost gives you a look, furrowing his eyebrows.

Instead, he says, “It suits you,” walking behind you to undo your nightgown laces. “You're a part of the family now.” 

Aemond helps you, one leg at a time, and into the black dress. He adjusts the straps around your shoulders. The eventual silence that follows feels natural as the two of you maneuver over fixing any mishaps the dress needs. You annoyingly pull at the tight sleeves near your biceps - in return, your fiancé expands the straps to allow more comfort. 

You’ve never realized how gentle he was with you. His presence itself gives you solace. There is no distress or discomfort. It’s the mutual understanding between you and him that solidifies your marriage. Alicent was lucky enough to have caught your affections on the day you visited King’s Landing. You were fortunate to meet Helaena. Without her help, you would not have been able to explore the castle halls. Without Helaena, you would not have met Aemond. For a mundane trip, it turned out to be exciting the next. After years of yearning and fear, Queen Alicent accepted your betrothal.

The dining table was beautifully vibrant in its many colors of fruits and savory dishes. While - the room carried dark tones of cold brick walls. The laggard cracks complement the heavily decorated windows. It brings out the illuminated light reaching from the dining table. It's rustic but comforting. In every corner, candles and the smell of the burning fireplaces dance back and forth. Baked goods and wine lay settled in the middle of the plateau. In truth, morning breakfast looked more like a party appetizer. With its many aromas, sweet and savory mix richly alongside the heavy wooden burned flames.

The window nearest to the doors lay bare, allowing fresh air to cleanse over the overwhelming flavorful goods. It was a meal fit for kings and queens. And truth, you were grateful to be living in King’s Landing with the Targaryens. Even though they hold the most power in the Seven Kingdoms, they welcomed you with open arms as the newest addition to their family. You’ve always feared that the Targaryens were greedy and ambitious rulers. Many kings passed through generations in time were either cruel or kind. But for most of your life, King Viserys was the latter, the most considerate and compassionate ruler of all of Westeros. 

Because of his absence, you felt disheartened. On the few occasions you met, King Viserys was welcoming. He was enthusiastic about the marriage. His greetings were always with proud smiles. However, they never last when his eyes droop slightly. As if you could sense his conflicted thoughts, Viserys returns with a nervous nod. You can perceive a sense of hesitance and sadness that washes over the king. Those small interactions have made you grow to care for him more. There was an urge to seek him out - to always ask about his well-being. 

 Queen Alicent is polite and considerate. Since your stay at King's Landing, Alicent has been your mentor and friend. She helps you adjust to your new home. She allows you to listen to the gossip her maids speak of. You follow her on every trip she takes. You might have mistaken it to be her lady-in-waiting. In truth, she values your placement in Aemond's life and enjoys your conversations over tea and dessert. 

“Good morning,” The queen gently smiles, clutching your hand. You squeeze her hand and return her smile. 

“Good morning, my Queen.”

“Come, have a seat. There is plenty of food to go around,” Alicent gestures towards the remaining chairs across from Helaena and Aegon. Their twins, Jaehaera and Jaehaerys , sat at the ends of the table with two maids. You swiftly sit across from your sister-in-law. Your fiancé takes out his chair and sits quietly. “How are you feeling, dear?”

You almost forgot. Last night you went to bed early because of how exhausted you were. Alicent has insisted you retire early and take milk of the poppy if necessary. The maids around you wordlessly escorted you out. Your mind was hazy - you assumed you passed out. And when you woke to see the sunrise, you knew a day had passed. You weren’t sure if the poetry reading or running through the Red Keeps with the twins were the reason for your dilemma. But whatever was plaguing your mind was long forgotten. Though since you had woken up, your body felt sore and sluggish.

“I feel better, thank you.” In time, you were thankful for Alicent’s motherly qualities. Though you desperately miss your mother, she was never as kind-hearted and benevolent as the Queen. “I have thought about taking milk of the poppy-”

“You won’t be taking the milk of the poppy, my love,” Aemond voices, grasping your hand on the table. This action does not go unnoticed by his older brother - who quirks his eyebrow. “She is in better condition than she was before. There is no need for that.” 

“Well, that is good to hear…” the Queen mother cheekily beams, crossing her hands together. “Shall we say our prayers?” Everyone nods in silence, listening to Alicent’s chanting words. Targaryens do not accept the Seven as their gods. They are closer to the gods than men. In respect of House Hightower, some rituals have stayed in the presence of the Queen. She is keen on keeping some of her customs alive with her children. 

Straight after prayers, Aegon calls out your name. “Would you like to go dragon riding?” You look up at your brother-in-law in excitement. But before answering, he also adds. “The weather today is beautiful. We should ride out by Blackwater Bay.”

“I think that would be a lovely idea.” his wife, Helaena adds, patting her child. Her son, Jaehaerys babbles nonsense while his sister claps her hands eagerly.

“It sounds delightful,” you bashfully gleam, straightening your back from your chair. “Since the storm, I do believe the weather has dramatically improved.” You can feel his hand stiffen on top of yours. There was a valid reason for the prolonged discussion. Aemond tries to shrug it off, demeaning as if you are unfit to ride yet. He worries for your safety and avoids the conversation whenever you bring it up.

“It has,” Alicent softly mumbles before placing a piece of fruit into her mouth. After chewing, she then adds. “I think it would be good for the four of you to spend time together.”

“No.” Your husband upsettingly says upon placing his fork back. Your fiancé had a rough relationship with his brother. Aemond would rather spend time with you alone than have Aegon intrude. Aegon was bothersome and a nuisance in his eyes. It did not help that Helaena was by his side. He could never deny ignoring his older sister - he would have to endure it.  

Aegon looks at his younger brother mockingly. “Why so, brother? It would be fun to spend time with your siblings and future lady wife.” You can sense his anger is ticking higher and higher with Aegon’s pestering. The room suddenly felt tense - even the children quieted down. Helaena sat beside her husband, twiddled her fingers, and said nothing. Not once did she intervene between the two princes. It was something not even the Queen could detest. Targaryens were known for their hard-boiled temper. Violence was within their domain. It was something you were aware of - that did not stop you from intervening.

“That is exactly why I would not want to,” Aemond says with irritation. Alicent was quick to pierce her lips in weariness, afraid of what events might transpire next. “I will not have you alongside my lady wife go dragon riding. She is not fit to ride.”

"Funny since, as I recall, she has lived here for six months. She can handle being around dragons!” His older brother laughs, eyeing you to back his claims. Despite your anger, you agreed with Aegon. Your lack of intimacy with the dragons in the Dragonpit was natural. For six months, you have grown closer to Aemond and Vhagar. Occasionally you would meet him and his dragon outside the kingdom. Meeting her for the first time terrified you. 

Dragons were a majestic delicacy even for your House. They were rare legendary beasts from the time of old Valyria. Every time you meet her, she gradually becomes comfortable around you. You can tell whenever she takes in your scent occasionally that she knows you would be a frequent visitor. Progress with Vhagar was slow and favorable. Aemond has encouraged you to move closer to her prominent form. Once you were in close vicinity, it felt exhilarating. Her large snout and rough scales were captivating. Her size intimated you first - eventually, you grew to appreciate her stature. She held such power that not even Sunfrye or Dreamfrye could compare. 

Tightening your grip, you turn to your fiancé. "Fret not husband," You say in a soothing tone. Aemond's eyes soften, and the crease on his eye flattens. "I think it would be fun to fly alongside Aegon and Helaena. And I promise to be careful." His stare is unwavering, looking into the souls of your eyes with confidence. You can tell he is thinking of all the possible ways to deny your promise. Many casualties could happen out of his control when riding a dragon. It is risky - he was born to ride one. You were not. 

“You will not be riding on either Sunfrye or Dreamfrye.” he slowly sneers and looks back at his brother. Jokingly again, Aegon wickedly grins and raises his glass to sip. Helaena, unbeknownst to everyone, released a breath she had been holding for the entirety of their conversation. Alicent also sighs in relief, eternally grateful to have your caring nature. 

“You all best eat and dress appropriately for the summer winds.” Alicent again states, taking a slip of her fresh drink. You can help but gleam happily beside your fiancé. 

In honesty, the summer wind was as hectic as last night. The storm previously struck many waves, and disaster in the forest was no different. However, the sun shines brightly without thundering clouds. As the day spring glows down on your attire, you suddenly feel nausea. It possibly was from the intense smell of euthymic or the lingering scent of dragons. You wore a tight tunic with black gloves. You were also grateful for Helaena’s assistance as you’ve never worn dragon riding gear before. 

It would be your first time riding a dragon. Something you desperately looked forward to from the first moment you officially met Vhagar. She was massive and intimating. Much like your so-called future husband, she was brooding and quiet. She should know many values of how she groaned and blinked curiously at you for the first time. Aemond was reluctant to allow ease between the two of you beforehand. He believed it was best if you were to live in King’s Landing with him, you had to become accustomed to Vhagar. Through many meetings and encouragement, you’ve become rather fond of the oldest dragon in the world. She was gray and incredibly violent but also peculiar and playful. 

Therefore whenever you jumped at the opportunity to pet her, she lightheartedly nudged you. And on a day when you would be traveling with two more dragons, you were more than happy to ride alongside her. When you stepped onto the field where she lay, Vhagar abruptly rose to look down at you. 

Aemond takes notice in her quick position and stops the two of you. Your eyes twinkle in glee, shouting in Valyrian, “Hello, Vhagar!”

In return, she howls in the loud grumble that shakes the ground beneath her. The grasses wither in terror, similar to the dragon tamers who watch from afar. Knowingly no one could tame Vhagar at her size, Aemond is the only one allowed to survey her. Even when she barely fits in the Dragonspit, he’s reluctant for her to stay outdoors on the open valleys and terrains as she pleases.

A few feet behind you, Aegon shouts back at you. “You know the Valyrian tongue?” in such surprise that you laugh at his bewildered expression. Helaena, following her husband, claps in enjoyment, proud of your fluency. Your soon-to-be husband grins at you in satisfaction though none of the other dragon tamers nor Helaena see. You giddily chuckle before dragging him towards the beast. Only you and Vhagar were able to witness him in this state.

“How else would I be able to communicate with Vhagar?!” Teasingly back, you turn to Vhagar almost mutually she nods. Admittedly, you and Aemond stroll toward her towering form in adoration. Even to this day, you were impressively intimidated by her size. Yet only a mere interaction, your heart shortly slows down and makes you realize you cherish her in every circumstance.

You make your way up the saddle that holds onto Vhagar's back. Ropes that hang alongside her back require endurance and strength. The ropes interlocked like nets used for fishing. For a few grueling minutes, you were disdainful of how far you managed to climb on Vhagar’s back. A few feet below, you can see Aemond slowly ascending closer to your feet. Traveling up the creature's back was tedious - you wonder how he accomplished this daily to ride her. 

The silver-haired prince moves to the front of the steering position. He readjusts the ropes and restraints before looking behind at your sitting stance. You uncomfortably adjust your seating position, gripping the saddle. He gestures to you to move closer as you grasp his waists tightly. He anticipates waiting for you to say anything - you don't. Comfortably, you rest your chin on his shoulder, and your faces become centimeters closer. 

The look on Aemond's face is subtle yet gentle. He holds one of your hands and kisses your palm. Immediately you can feel the butterflies in your stomach flapping. You can see from afar that Aegon and Helaena had also climbed on their dragons and lifted off. Everything at one once feels out of perspective. The out-of-body experience you feel when Vhagar's wings start to flap. Thrilling and terrifying at the same time. The moment when the Vhagar leaves the ground, your heart beats so fast, you only focus on your heartbeat. 

Straight away, you were transported up into the skies. The harsh currents make you squint your eyes shut. It feels almost too intense. Even your ears feel suffocated, unable to hear anything else than the rushing breezes. You couldn't register where you were right away. Your vision slowly came back to you as you saw faint shapes of white. The clouds you often catch from below look majestic from where you flew. You were at a loss for words. The tales Aemond had described could never compare to the view you were seeing. The sun you could see thousands of miles away was more prominent and glowing.  

You can hear Aegon laugh nearby - you cannot look away from the view. In your far-right peripherals, you can see Helaena’s fleeting form. She is utterly ravishing. Not that you had ever seen her in any other way - her hair sways back and forth, making you short of breath. She can feel your stare and looks at you teasingly. It was as if she knew you were still adjusting to the high pressure of the sky and pushed Dreamfyre to dive below. 

The long-haired prince peers behind to quirk up an eyebrow. As if asking you, terrified yet? Of course, your blood was pumping the fastest it ever felt. Your neck was hot from the sweat and adrenaline you had. Everything happened so quickly. How could you not possibly be terrified? However, you know he was testing you. Aemond was used to the adrenaline. You were the one who had just gone through a fever dream. 

You were about to say something until Vhagar plunged at high speed. The immediate whiplash of water and wind makes you scream, tightening your grip on Aemond’s waist. You can feel your stomach drop. Your waist almost lifts itself from the saddle. You try to shriek for Aemond’s attention - it is no use. And almost immediately, everything comes to a stop. The clouds disappear from your peripherals while the green landscapes come into view. Without realizing Vhagar dips cooly down to the ocean, allowing one of her wings to skim through the waters. 

You were in awe and amazement. The entire ride up and out of the sky was worth the scare. Slowly your senses come back to you. The dizziness you felt was no longer there. And the unwanted tears from the high pressure were not dry. Not to mention, your hair was a mess. Your entire face was pale beside your rosy cheeks. And when the rest of the dragons come to view by a valley side of a beach, the two of you carefully descend from Vhagar's saddle.  

“That was amazing!” you gasp, realizing how out of breath you were. You shook Aemond's shoulders back and forth, still energetic after the after-flight. “The clouds were so beautiful, Aemond!”

“You looked so out of breath!” Your brother-in-law snickered out of breath, jumping off of Sunfrye with ease. Helaena does the same and dusts off the dirt from her pants. She looked short-winded but managed to keep her composure intact. However, out of everyone, Aemond was the most capable. He did not look tired - his clothes were windblown. 

“Do you understand why you are not fit to ride now?” You glance at the prince's slyness. You comprehend Aemond was being sarcastic, ridiculing you for your out-of-breath roller coaster ride of a lifetime. It proves that you were very much not accustomed to dragon riding and its strong currents of twists and turns. And though he is right, you were too prideful to submit. 

“Oh, of course, dear husband,” you mock back, slowly closing the gap between you two. A grin slowly creeps on Aemond's face. “But I would very much like to go again.”

[cambion-companion]

alicent gets SO much hate from the fandom even from aemond writers 😔 i trust you and your good taste that you don’t hate her and write something where aemond’s wife and alicent absolutely ADORE each other and aemond loves to see it and is so happy about his two favourite people in the world being so close

Yes, the more I watched the show the more I grew to like Alicent until her line "Hesitance to murder is not a weakness", then I was like "yep I love this woman."

The Driftmark scene is such a powerful one, I included some of the dialogue. Alicent's reaction was justified, no one was backing her up, or taking responsibility for MAIMING her son, so she felt the need to escalate the situation. And good for her.

Word count: 1366

Aemond x reader | fluff | Pro Alicent Hightower | Sweet drabble

The shouting is what had alerted you to something being amiss in the castle, raised voices echoing up the empty stone corridors as you poked a curious head out your bedroom door.

You had been sent to be princess Helaena's handmaiden at the age of thirteen, finding the Red Keep to be suffocating most of the time, thankful for this chance to travel elsewhere. Driftmark had proven to be lovely, even if the reason for your journey was not at all a happy one.

Pulling on your heavy nightrobe, you made your way hastily toward the sound of shouting coming from a firelit room at the end of the hallway. You peeked in, seeing that it was indeed very crowded, children clinging to their parents as Viserys and Alicent argued. You spotted Helaena over by the large fireplace standing beside her brother, Aegon. Next to them, sitting on the sofa, blood covering his swollen face...you gasped audibly, drawing the attention of those standing nearest to the entrance.

Aemond clearly very injured, the boy you'd become close friends with had stitches running down the left side of his face, his eye...you blinked back a sting of sudden tears, his eye had been slashed out. Not caring what gossip arose from your actions, you hastened to Aemond's side. He looked up at you in mild surprise at your sudden appearance, his expression turning stony as he tried to turn the injured side of his face away from your probing gaze.

You touched his hand that clutched at the cushions, opening your mouth to say something, but a scuffle of movement behind you caught your attention as Alicent went for Viserys' knife and turned toward Rhaenyra and her children.

Rhaenyra intercepted her, the two women locked in a standoff with the other, Alicent gripping the blade tightly in her shaking hand.

"You've gone too far." Rhaenyra said emphatically, still holding tight to her once-friend's arms.

"I?" Tears streaked down Alicent's face as she continued struggling. "What have I done, but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, the law while you flout it all to do as you please!"

"Alicent, let her go!" King Viserys, old as he was, looked livid as he yelled at his wife.

"Where is duty? Where is sacrifice?" She continued, taking no heed to the king. "It is trampled under your pretty foot again."

"Release the blade, Alicent." Otto's measured voice this time, trying to reason with his daughter.

She continued staring at Rhaenyra, refusing to drop the knife, her expression morphing from desperation to a look of betrayal. "And now you take my son's eye, and to even that you feel entitled."

"Exhausting, wasn't it?" Rhaenyra at last responded. "Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness. But now they see you as you are."

With a sharp cry, Alicent broke away from her grasp, bringing the dagger down, cutting deep into Rhaenyra's arm. The room fell deathly silent, each person present sensing the gravity of what had just occured. The dagger fell from Alicent's open palm, clattering on the stone floor.

The heavy air was broken as Aemond spoke, drawing your attention back to him as he approached Alicent. "Do not mourn me, mother." His voice was soft, tired. "It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon."

You knew his words were more to draw attention away from what had just occurred, his mother injuring the heir to the Iron Throne. Though young, Aemond was no fool, and neither were you. You were aware of his abiding love for his mother, watching as he took her hand in both of his, laying his injured head against her chest.

The scene cleared quickly after that, parents ushering their frightened children back to bed. You lingered in the hall, wanting to stay by your friend's side. Helaena touched your shoulder, smiling at you weakly before departing the room as well.

After several long moments, the room was empty save for you, Aemond and Alicent. It took minutes more for Alicent to come back to herself, taking a deep breath and looking down at her son. "Come, Aemond, you need to rest in order to heal."

Her gaze lifted to you, seeming surprised to see you standing still by the fire. "Y/N, the hour is late. You should also be in bed."

You noticed Aemond didn't look at you, standing motionless, gripping his mother's hand loosely.

"Can I be of any help at all, your grace?" You weren't sure why, but the question you posed, and the earnestness behind it, had an effect on the queen. Her expression softened, lip trembling slightly. "I will call on you in the morning, Y/N. For now, get some sleep."

Call on you she did, and for many weeks following it was Alicent and Aemond you spent the majority of your time with. Helaena didn't seem to mind, in fact she would accompany you often, helping where she could, fetching hot water and healing ointments for her younger brother.

Aemond's demeanor at your presence, at first tense and cold, eased as time passed. He looked at you more, allowing you to change his bandages and read to him at night.

Alicent was warm toward you, quickly becoming someone you looked to as a maternal figure, filling an ache in your heart you'd been unaware was there. Her gratitude for your help and care was obvious, it grew apparent not many others in the castle shared your sympathies for the prince. You heard many unkind whispers spreading throughout the Keep, doing your best to pay them no attention.

One day, Aemond almost fully healed, you were packing up the many salves and ointments the maesters had provided. Alicent approached you, touching a warm hand to your shoulder as she often did. "Y/N, you have gone above and beyond any expectations I had of you in helping my son. You are the handmaiden of my daughter, I know you are friends but why do you care so for Aemond's wellbeing?"

You looked up into her face, smiling slightly. "I heard what happened, I saw how alone you were that night. No one else helped, and I don't think that's fair."

"Oh child." Alicent's eyes grew bright with unshed tears as she pulled you against her in a tight hug. "You are a balm sent from the Mother Herself." She lowered herself to crouch at your level, cupping your chin with her hand. "If you ever find yourself in need of anything, you come to me."

She placed a brief kiss to your forehead before sending you out of the room, back to your normal duties.

From then on, the two of you became close as though she were your actual mother and you, her daughter. Many years passed; she was the one you went to when you had questions about growing into womanhood, about all troubles that weighed upon your mind. Your bond with Aemond only strengthened as well, he sought you out often in your reading nook of the library. You would stay up late nights with the prince discussing all interesting things from the history of dragon riding to the customs of Ancient Valyria.

When you were sixteen and he thirteen, Aemond began teaching you some Old Valyrian, at your request. He saw how much Alicent adored you, her face brightening into a fond smile whenever you walked into a room. He loved you for it. There was precious little that brought true happiness to Alicent, her affection for you soothed her troubled heart.

Aemond observed your interactions often with a soft smile upon his face, his feelings for you slowly growing from friendship to something more. He couldn't name what it was that had changed, there were precious few in his life whom he could say he genuinely loved. His mother was top of that short list, his one defender, the woman who had vouched for him when no one else did. Your evident devotion to her, the time you spent talking to her, leaning your head on her shoulder, had left a warm impression upon Aemond's heart. He wouldn't forget the peace you brought those he cared for most, and he intended to make sure you stayed in their lives.

[whencyclopedia]

Amphictyonic League

The Amphictyonic League was an early form of religious council in ancient Greece. It was typically composed of delegates from several tribes or ethnes living in the vicinity of a major, prosperous sanctuary, who then collaborated in supervising the temple's maintenance, managing its finances, organising the sacred rituals and games, and seeing to the protection of its temenos (sacred precinct).

The earliest evidence about the existence of such executive assemblies appears in the 7th century BCE, and the most significant and best-documented examples are the Amphictyonic Leagues of Delos and Delphi, both presiding the sanctuaries of Apollo, his Pythian Oracles, and the Pythian Games.

While the Amphictyonic League was primarily a religious organization, it sometimes played a significant role in the political and military affairs of ancient Greece. The League's most notable involvement in Greek warfare occurred during a series of conflicts known as the Sacred Wars over control of the Delphic sanctuary. These conflicts had a dramatic impact on the course of Greek history and the development of the poleis (city-states), fostering changes that eventually cushioned the ambitious plans of Philip II of Macedon (r. 359-336 BCE), and his son Alexander the Great (r. 336-323 BCE), for conquering the Hellenic world.

Origins & Structure

The exact origins of the Amphictyonic League are wrapped in myths and legends, but it is generally agreed that, by the 7th century BCE, the gathering of a council of tribal representatives to look after their local sanctuary was a practice already recognised in Archaic Greece (c. 800-480 BCE). According to Herodotus (8.104) and Pindar (Pythian Odes, 4.66, 10.8), the Greek word amphictiones (άμφικτίονες) means "those who dwell around," implying the solidarity among neighbouring tribes through their connection with and their care for a pivotal sacred place.

In Greek mythology, Amphictyon, the legendary founder of the league, was a son of Deucalion and Pyrrha, the surviving couple of the Great Flood in the Greek version of the story, and the younger brother of Hellen, whose name became the overall denomination of the Greek people as Hellenes (Graecus, the eponym of the Graecians as the Romans called the Greeks, was the son of Zeus and Pandora). Following the flood, Amphictyon with his family took refuge in Athens, where he became the son-in-law and later the successor of King Cranaus. Amphictyon then became king of Thermopylae near Phthiotis in Thessaly, where his brother Hellen was the ruler. Since Cranaus, Deucalion, and many other legendary Greek founder-rulers were believed to be chthonic, born of Mother Earth, the earliest Amphictyonic council was then formed to protect and provide for the sanctuary of Demeter Amphictyonis in Anthela, Thermopylae, since Demeter was the goddess of the underworld in her older cults.

Based on this inherent connection to the underworld, members of the Amphictyonic council (pylaia) were known as the pylagorai, guardians of the gate to the underworld. A second, and superior, group of the delegates were the hieromnemones, sacred recorders, who had the power to finalise the debated decisions by casting votes (Aristotle, Politics 8.6). The pylaia met twice a year, once in spring at Delphi and once in autumn at Anthela. Their agenda, essentially, covered the matters considering the maintenance and protection of the sanctuary, which typically consisted of a central temple (and often some related side temples, shrines, and altars), the temenos, and the treasury. Organising and supervising the sacred rituals held at the sanctuary, including public games and competitions, was another important task of the Amphictyonic Council.

Amphictionic Law of Delphi

Jastrow (CC BY-NC-SA)

Although presumed more or less ubiquitous, there are only a few Amphictyonies known to us apart from the ones at Delos and Delphi: the Amphictyony of Onchestos near Thebes in Boeotia dedicated to the temple of Poseidon, the Amphictyony of Amarynthos in Euboea tending the sanctuary of Artemis, and the Amphictyony of Kalauria, an island near the coast of Troezen. The latter, also related to the cult of Poseidon, was claimed by Strabo (8.6.14) to be one of the earliest in the Archaic times – functioning at least until the end of the 4th century BCE – and archaeological evidence accordingly places its foundation between c. 680 and 650 BCE. On the other hand, an alternative legend accounts for the unification of the guardian councils of the Demeter Amphictyonis and the Apollonion at Delphi as the Great Amphictyonic League in the aftermath of the Trojan War, c. 1200 BCE. Historically, however, the great Amphictyonic League at Delphi was founded no earlier than c. 590 BCE. It is the best-documented council of its kind and has the longest remaining history, not least because of its pivotal role in the Sacred Wars.

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