bloggingeweb

[andrea-lyn]

Facing down the press junket for his book, Daniel Molloy is prepared to hype up his hit novel. He's less prepared to have Armand crash the tour to play bodyguard and doting assistant and he's definitely not ready to have his secrets spilled on a world stage because Armand wants to play games. The longer he sticks around to torment Daniel as he chases him across the country, the longer he stays. So, who's really winning this game?

Be warned this is post-s2 finale, with big 2x08 spoilers!

Big props to my betas @faerywhimsy and @keepoffthetardis for the beta reads once the finale blew this story up and I went into heavy rewrite mode.

[your3fundamentaltruths]

all my scars are golden — 2. you’re on your own, kid

Once she finally calms down and dries her eyes, Penelope forces herself to think.

[crowleys-hips]

i think it's really funny when people describe Crowley's hair as silky or soft or something along those lines in fics, because if you look at David Tennant closely, you can see they used like 50 hair products on his hair to sculpt that shit to perfection. it's probably hard as a rock or stickier than glue. i want a fic where it's like:

Crowley rests his head on Aziraphale's chest, snuggling close. The angel smiles and raises his hand to stroke his hair, but once his fingers are buried in those shiny red locks, they're trapped in a crunchy sea of slick goop. The slimy texture sticks to his fingers like superglue. He tries to pull his hand back, but it's completely stuck. Not even three consecutive miracles can do the trick. He prays for salvation.

[sideysvault]

‧˚ʚ Unwavering commitment ɞ˚‧

Pairing: Rhaenyra Targaryen x fem!reader

wc: 1847k

Warnings: [sfw] mature themes & slight canon divergence.

────────

Rhaenyra had always kept you by her side. From the suffocating walls of the Red Keep to the isolated Dragonstone, and to wherever the vying for the Iron Throne took her: You were right next to her. A fanciful promise made in childhood had turned into an everlasting oath the two of you kept close to your heart.

However, to the untrained eye the relationship between the pair would look like nothing more than a servile friend orbiting around the all encompassing presence of the Queen. But there had always been something unspoken lingering underneath the surface. And anyone with some tact and who paid attention enough could see it.

It had all started innocently enough. As a young girl, you naturally admired the Realm’s Delight. Everyone could see the strong values and sensibilities in her that are often found to be lacking in other members of the Royal Dynasty.

As a childish friendship between the two emerged, so did the excitement before any interaction, the sensation of flusteredness whenever the two of you would touch. Your heart saw no difference between a sweet, intimate embrace or the slightest brush of hands while walking down the garden. Anything was enough to ignite agitation, and the eagerness that you felt to serve and protect the Princess transformed into something more personal, more intimate. All these feelings were brushed off as merely inocuos admiration for a girl who was brave enough to live outside the bounds that were forced upon her, a girl charming (And powerful) enough to get away with it.

Everything culminated when you gifted her a pin with your family's badge, not only symbolizing the unwavering devotion you had in her as your queen and confidant, but as family as well. Even still, you tried to spare no thought about it. It really did not matter if you were in love with the Realm’s Delight or not. Either way, the result was the same: A tight bond that would keep the two of you together no matter how grim the circumstances. A kind friendship based on respect and honesty. That was all that really mattered.

⋆

Life in Dragonstone transcurred in a simple routine. The volcanic island had a certain air to it: It was filled with tradition and legacy, which would occasionally become a painful reminder of the impossible path that Rhaenyra was thrown into, dragging you in it as well.

Still, on certain lights, when the bay is calm and the wind blows strong, the intimidating presence of old Valyria can transform into a beautiful sense of hope and possibility. Maybe not everything was lost, and perhaps there could be a future for the family that you held so dearly to your heart.

While your blood was of noble descent, power and influence had never been curses inflicted by the Gods on your family. You had taken the pursuit of knowledge as your calling. Remaining determined on learning, your closeness with the Royal Family had allowed you to remain a maiden, occasionally acting as a personal advisor to the them, advocating for the righteous path when needed.

There had been transient moments where you would almost feel certain that Rhaenyra might feel the same way you did. Especially when the youth’s intrepidness still ran through your veins. Drunken admissions, reading together in the forest, the way her eyes would trail down on your body and how her smile always seemed softer when it was directed towards you. But as the years passed, the men did too. Even Alicent, to some extent. You’d finally accepted that the Gods would never gift you with even the smallest brush of lips, or any undeviating affection. And so, you stayed by the family's side, lovingly taking care of her sons, and balancing time between your studying and long conversations with your Princess.

When the devastating war for succession began, you never left Rhaenyra’s side. No matter how seemingly insignificant your loyalty was to her during these trying times. The strong feeling of devotion never left the two of you, but the Queen had less and less time to spend by your side, filled with sorrow and duty. Those years of unspoken thoughts and undefined roles began to weigh over the two of you.

But following Daemon’s silent departure, the routine in Dragonstone shifted.

The Queen would often find herself on the balcony of her private chamber, observing the landscape that the coastal body of Blackwater provided. She figured that the mild wet air and the periodic disturbance of the water was as good as any stimulant for thought and contemplation.

On the other hand, your favorite pastime was observing Rhaynera’s dragon-like features twitch and turn in synchronization with her thoughts. The Queen was a sight to behold. With the wind blowing tiny silver hairs that had managed to escape the tight grip of her braids, her light blue eyes, ever calculating. And her painfully firm side profile that left no room for speculation.

You were a central piece in the dance of the family again. Commonality now consisted of long conversations at night, mornings filled with you lovingly braiding her hair, afternoons occupied with advising Jacaerys in whatever new feat he felt like pursuing that day. You loved that boy as if he was your own. You had loved him as a vivacious happy child, as a defying teenager, and now, as an unhappy young adult.

For a little while, you tried to mediate between the boy and his mother, but he’d never listen.nHe was a youthful man eager to help and prove himself. A dangerous combination for mindfulness. He wasn’t receptive to what he considered cowardly advice from frightened officials. You had promised him he’d have his vengeance against the Targaryen demon. After what he did to Lucerys, you’d hang his dismembered head by its silver hair yourself. But nothing could make the boy understand that before that could happen, you all had to play the game first. So you would just accompany him, give him reassurance when needed and restraint when necessary. Just as you always did with his mother. In somber days, all they both needed was someone to be truthfully kind to them. To bring some sense of normalcy and wisdom to the situation.

But offering companionship and practical support was a full time role. Even if you held no formal position in the dynasty’s structure, Deamon had unknowingly left a vacancy open. The one of The Queen’s Consort. Providing wifely duties was too much to bear, no matter how much you loved it. You had never been this close to the thing you desired the most. Being on the sidelines was much less sickening than yearning and having a taste of a precious thing that would never become.

⋆

A strangely harmonious night, Rhaenyria had asked you to come to her private chambers. By her bed layed a beautifully crafted black gown. With all the old traditional Targaryen features except for one key detail: The embroidery that was reminiscent of dragon scales was made in your favorite color.

You softly caressed the embroidery, afraid that it would crumble under your touch. You furrowed your eyebrows as you softly asked “Nyra, what is this?” Your friend gave you an enthusiastic smile as she said “You must try it on”. Happiness was not a look you had the privilege to see on her face, so you obliged.

As you undressed, the cold wind made your skin burn with anticipation. Or perhaps it was the presence of your friend that even while facing the wall you could still catch her occasionally glancing at your body through the mirror. It felt dangerous, and you weren’t sure where this was going. But one thing was for certain: If every tissue on your skin came alive with a simple glance from her, it would be the end of you if she’d ever touch your unadorned flesh. Maybe the Gods were being merciful, after all.

You stand in front of the mirror next to her, as you turn to get help with tying up the back of the gown, With a deep look on her eyes as she helps you get it fully on. You were trying to concentrate in holding your breath in, in a futile effort to get a hold of your heartbeat. You weren’t born of ash and dragon blood. You weren’t cut for games like this.

The queen was standing behind you, observing you through the honest lense of the mirror. Feeling the warm breath on your neck felt like Paradise. Until you saw the image reflected in the mirror: A scene that could only be interpreted as a loving couple. Rhaenyra seemed to be in a sort of trance; with a proud smile on her face as she ran her hands through your body's silhouette. The fabric hugged your body perfectly. Just as you were starting to feel accustomed to her touch around your waist, she grabbed something in her left pocket, and a small worn out metal object appeared. It was the pin with your family’s badge. She’d kept it all this time. Even in war, even in famine. She lovingly pinned it on your new gown and grabbed your left hand to place a soft kiss on its palm. Wearing a customized Targaryen dress was one thing, but adding your house to the mix was making you feel overwhelmed with a mix of confusion and hope.

You were dangerously close. The mirror reflected a royal pairing, and in typical Targaryen extravagance, a royal pairing that could afford to be truly in love. The image reflected a softness only reserved for our dearest. You sighed and pulled away from her embrace. You couldn’t hold it in anymore, tears began to run through your face instinctively, embarrassed and angry, you pleaded “Don’t be cruel, I beg of you.” Nyra looked hurt, but she immediately took you in her arms, trying to apeace you, but you just covered your face with your hands. The Queen, however, quickly pried them off, she was looking at you in a way you couldn’t decipher. Concern was present, but there was something else. You suddenly feel the way her breathing changes as she leans down to your face. She pushed you against the wall as she kissed you. It was heated and frantic. Filled with the powerful relieve of years of buried desire. There was no return to the suppressed modesty anymore. Your breath became irregular and your stomach turned in excitement as you explored each other.

Whenyour palms reached to cup her face, your skin came in contact with the warm tears running through her face. It was real. You could feel the warmth in Rhaenyra’s body as she intertwined her fingers with yours.

It was in her private chambers on that cold night where she filled your body with tender chaste kisses as she whispered “Always” while humming your name again, and again against your buzzing skin.

“I love you”.

Nyra had said it like an oath.

────────

Notes: This is my first wlw writing, I’m so nervous and excited. This fic is very dear to my heart. I’ve been with girls before but I feel like I can finally be open about it! Please everyone take care of yourselves and take care of each other! Feedback is appreciated but queerphobia will get you blocked! This is a safe space -Sidey xxo

[popcornkwantum]

"Jerry is Lincoln's and Scary's biological son, which means teen pregnancy" or "Jerry is adopted"

NO.

It's Scam Likely again

What's the one good thing that Grant and Marco got out of Scams shitty wedding gift? Their son Lincoln. So Scam has learned that the best gift at a wedding is giving someone a child of course

[2018-01-20]

hiii i heard you wanted some requests 👀 and I'm super glad you're back !! I missed you a lot lot <3

My head has been so full of post-dinner date Gojo ideas. The domesticity of getting unready with him and cuddling in bed right afterward. It's just so simple but so cute. oh oh and doing nighttime skincare with him :( having him sit down and rubbing in the different creams into his skin and the way he would lead into your hands. ahhh he has me so weak (_ _)

Feel free to use any of these ideas to write or take inspo from if you want! Gojo is such a cutie :3

Anyways, have a lovely day, and remember to take care of yourself!!

pairing. gojo satoru × gn!reader

content. bunch of fluff + comfort, reader has smaller hands than gojo (in case that bothers anyone!!) & sits on his lap, sappy reader + gojo!! read slowly for maximum enjoyment <3

sticky-note. nonnie u are so goated for this idea, i think this might be my fav gojo fic so far 😭 I MISSED U MORE!! hope u have a wonderful day and thank u for sending this in 🫶

satoru thinks your hands are pretty.

they’re smaller than his—of course they are. he can’t think of a single person who has bigger hands than him. he enjoys it, though. your touch is stimulating in a way; fingertips completely gentle as you rub the latest lotion that you bought onto his face.

“can’t keep your hands off of me, huh?” he leans back and grins, but you can’t even be annoyed by his teasing. there's a shine in his eyes that you haven’t seen a very long time—and you are more than happy to see it now.

“mhm,” you hum, softly kneading his cheeks like you would with a baby. his blindfold is off and his demeanor seems so relaxed, his face basking into your soothing touch. it’s hard to hold back your own smile. “you just have that type of charming effect, y’know?”

“you’re being awfully nice today,” he remarks suspiciously, peeking an eye open to look closely at you. you pinch his cheek in return. “what’s the occasion baby?”

you roll your eyes, pulling back your hand for a moment to scoop up a bit more lotion. you swipe it lightly onto his forehead. “what? i can’t give you attention? can’t i spoil my boyfriend for once?”

the tips of his ears redden at your words, making you giggle at the rare but pleasant sight. “....i mean, you can, but—”

“shh,” you shush him. he closes his mouth instantly. “no more talking! this is the most important part because i have to smooth out all the wrinkles in your forehead.”

he lets out a big gasp, being playfully offended—narrowing his eyes with an indignant look. the smile you didn't even know you were sporting grows wider at how cute he is. you wouldn't say it that out loud though, of course.

it is so beautifully quiet and peaceful. you can’t think of the last time you spent time with satoru like this: seated on the living room floor of his apartment as you slap your whole skincare routine onto his face. his back is against the couch with his legs sprawled out, but not too sprawled out so you are more than comfortable on his lap. it’s nighttime so the curtains are draped over the window, but you love the warm, dim lighting of his living room. gojo satoru is gorgeous, but is especially pretty in this lighting; with his head comfortably tilted back and eyes closed, but not forcefully or harshly shut as if he’s in pain.

for the longest time, you've been used to seeing satoru in pain. not in a physical way—but in an emotional and mental way that tugs at your heart strings just seeing him in that state. you know the burden that comes with being the strongest: there will always be a significant power divide between you and the people you love, which will never not be difficult for the other party to ignore. it also doesn’t help that he is so happy-go-lucky all the time, despite the jujutsu sorcerer duties that keeps piling rocks onto his shoulders.

but now in this moment, he is all yours. he isn’t the strongest, nor is he Gojo Satoru. he is just yours—just the lover boy who melts into your open arms whenever given the chance. just a boy who had to give up being a boy so he could be a man for others to look up to him. just someone you would want to depend on you, the same way you lovingly depend on him.

“i love you,” you suddenly whisper, in the midst of just simply applying lotion onto his skin. your slow, comforting movements make him want to fall asleep, but your words make him wide awake.

“out of the blue?” his head shoots up, eyes wide and visible despite being behind his messy bangs. he sits up and stares at you, the same glimmer back in his eyes. “i mean, i’m not complaining—”

you interrupt with a huff, “i say it everyday, jerk.” you place your hands on his chest to wipe away any of the lotion moisture left on your palms. he doesn’t bat a single eye. “what do you mean ‘out of the blue’?”

“i know, but...”

your jaw drops a bit. you actually cannot believe your eyes as satoru tilts his head a bit to the side, shyly averting his eyes as you see a tint of scarlet on his cheeks. “it just feels so intimate right now, so...”

good lord. you want to baby him so bad. you want to shrink him and keep him in your pocket and always protect him wherever you go.

“you’re too cute for my well-being,” you breathe, going back on your earlier words. “you know i always mean it when i say i love you, ‘toru.”

“stop,” he whines. he raises an arm to cover his face, eyes still unable to look at yours. “don’t compliment me. i don’t think i’ll be able to handle it right now.”

you can’t help but laugh, squeaking in surprise when satoru pokes at your sides with a little pout. you want to tease him, you think. you might as well with a smile permanently on your face now.

these are the type of moments you crave: moments when satoru tears down his walls and lets himself act like he’s a little boy all over again in front of you. it’s not like he necessarily had walls up with you in the first place, but being a jujutsu sorcerer has always meant protecting and guarding yourself at all times no matter the cost.

but now, you have him. and he has you in his arms, the one that sneak around your waist and warmly wrap around you to keep you close to his chest. it's cuddly but protective, both of your laughs drowning out any other background sounds.

and you are more than willing to protect him yourself.

[p4nishers]

there's something i need to say and yall can boo me for it but deep in my heart i'll always know i'm correct: crowley already forgave aziraphale. like already would take him back at one flutter of his eyelashes. that's all.

[coalitiongirl]

Regina cuts her off, her stomach roiling. “You talk about me with Henry?” Emma shrugs. “You come up sometimes. He really does care about you. And I think you care about him.” “You think?” Regina demands, and her fists tighten. “You think?” Emma turns away from her, focuses on Henry on his swing. Regina follows suit, letting the sight of him calm her. He’s going higher and higher, and he kicks off his shoes when he’s at the top of the swing, sending them flying across the playground. It’s so normal, so much like a scene from a year ago, before everything had fallen apart. “I wasn’t sure,” she says. “I didn’t know if you…if you saw him as something to have. Or if you really loved him.” Regina seethes. Something in her chest withers and dies. She’s furious. She isn’t hurt, because she will never give Emma Swan the power to hurt her again. “This town still stands only because Henry is inside of it. And you think that I don’t love him?” Emma doesn’t respond to the threat, which had been stupid and will set Regina’s time with Henry back again, she’s sure. “You didn’t kiss him. When he was…after he ate that turnover. You didn’t even try to kiss him awake.” Regina had sat in the hospital room and wept, had felt the world falling apart around her, and no, she had not kissed Henry as Emma had. How arrogant it is, to believe that a kiss can work magic. How privileged it is for the laws of the world to break only for you. “I am no Charming,” she spits. “I don’t get beautiful fairytales, and I don’t expect them. Forgive me for being a realist.” Emma is silent. When Regina turns, Emma is watching her again, and there is a lingering something in her eyes. Not quite pity, not quite sorrow. But understanding, and Regina hates seeing it more than anything else. Hates the way that her heart leaps, and the next few breaths hitch and don’t emerge right.

[actual-changeling]

No, because has anyone ever thought about that last New Year's Eve they spent together??????

They were not-really-pretending anymore, probably at the bookshop getting drunk and talking about all the historical special events they had experienced during that time, the New Year's Eves they spent alone, and the few rare ones they celebrated together.

Do you think they were both sitting on the sofa, shoes toed off, Crowley sprawling like usual, while Aziraphale was propped up in a corner, one leg folded underneath him? The television was running on mute in the background so they wouldn't miss the ball drop, a particularly special bottle of champagne was waiting on the table, knowing better than to lose its chill.

Do you think Crowley was talking, his hands flying to accommodate his words, when he felt Aziraphale's stare on him? Do you think he stopped in the middle of his sentence, turning his head to fully look at him, meeting eyes with pupils so wide that the blue was drowning in a sea of black?

What? Crowley asked, the counter ticking in his periphery. Two minutes. For a reason he refused to acknowledge, anxiety began fluttering in his stomach—once upon a time, it had been excitement, but he had learned better than to hope, to expect.

Do you think Aziraphale shuffled closer, ignoring the champagne, ignoring the television, simply holding his gaze with a soft smile on his lips?

The sound returned as the final countdown began, but Crowley did not hear a single number, dizzy with a fondness so ancient no words would ever be able to do it justice.

Do you think as the cheering faded into a buzz, Aziraphale leaned in and pressed a kiss right to the corner of his mouth, close enough to count, too distant not to? Do you think Crowley froze in place, forgetting to breathe, blink, speak, exist, caught between the urge to chase after him and the fear of what would happen once the late-night giddiness wore off?

Happy New Year, Aziraphale whispered, reaching for the champagne and opening it with a pop that echoed like a gunshot.

(aimformymouth, aimformymouth, aimformymouth)

Do you think he wanted to say something, anything, and yet all he could do was accept the champagne flute being held out in front of him, a low, garbled noise escaping him? Do you think Aziraphale's smile grew as he made himself comfortable again, resting one hand on Crowley's ankle and saying, It'll be a good year?

To a good year, angel, Crowley forced out, the glass chiming softly as they clinked them together.

To a good year, my dear.

Do you think that night plays on repeat in his head months later?

It'll be a good year.

Aziraphale is gone now.

It'll be a good year.

His chest is tight with grief and memories, and the wine glass meets the wall before he can stop himself, listening to the glass break and crumble.

It'll be a good year.

It had been a good year—right up until it wasn't.

[ghooostbaby]

i think something about daniel with armand that makes it work is the way daniel is so combative... he pushes in, forces his way in where he's not wanted, can't help himself, grabs hold of what is thorny and difficult and has to figure it out, get to the bottom of it. that's interesting too in the way in some way he's performing the process he needed to do on his own life, his own memories. he had the impulse to dig aggressively for the truth somehow knowing he was needing that but not knowing to do it for himself. armand is damaged and needs some support and love, yes, but he's never going to let someone see his true wounds so openly and he needs someone who won't buy his bullshit and will push past his facade and interrogate what is really there, what he really wants. and for who it won't be a chore, and maybe even could be seductive...

armand is also the same with the way he pushes, he can't help himself, he forces his way in to something he wants and needs to grab hold of it. but he's going to do it underground, he's never going to reveal himself fully, he will conceal his real desires and work away at grabbing hold of what makes him feel wanted in secret. unlike when louis feels something intense he wants space from it and time and distance ... which is why they just don't work.

i think if armand and daniel decide that the other one is the thing they want to grab hold of and pry open (daniel) / cling onto and hoard (armand) they could have a way of dismantling each others maladaptive self protection strategies... but it will be pretty brutal at the same time. if armand feels unwanted and rejected, i don't think daniel would be particularly good at comforting him ... and actually i don't think armand would ever come out and say "i feel like you don't want me, i feel hurt" as cathartic as it is to write/draw that type of interaction. rather when armand felt like that he'd come up with a subtly manipulative way to force daniel to give him the affection he wants to feel validated by. which works for them just fine actually. bc what daniel IS really good at is unearthing the truth of bullshit masters. he wouldnt let armand build up some grandiose narrative to disguise his real hurt and vulnerability and flaws in (as louis does) and actually would have so much fun picking the lock that is armand and whatever the fuck emotional wormhole he's entered in himself this time, and when he figures it out he'd say something like "armand you were doing all THAT bc you thought i didnt sleep over that night meant i didnt want you, are you fucking stupid??" and actually in everything armand does he wants to be found out and seen and daniel being so fascinated by him with the morbid curiosity of someone investigating a weird bug would feel glorious to him. and they'd be so happy in their emotional hovel

[halfstayed]

And if Helen knows one thing, despite the mess they’ve become, it’s that they will always be that person for one another.

— SPLINTERED by @elialys

[crowleys-hips]

listen, whatever you do, do not imagine, after they have reunited, made up, and confessed feelings, do not imagine them teary eyed and crashing into a slow, passionate kiss as the music swells, Aziraphale wrapping his arms around Crowley's neck to pull him closer and Crowley squeezing his waist, and then the camera slowly pans down and all we see is a chainmail scarf being thrown on the floor followed by a tartan bowtie. i repeat, do not imagine it.

[an-abyss-of-stars]

𖤓 Don't You Dare Do This Without Me 𖤓

Pairing: Rhaena x Aemond

Warnings: Smutty hints...mainly consensual

Word Count: 4.6k

Summary: Rhaena THOUGHT she was merely dismissing her husband's call for affection after an argument. Little did she know, her rebuffing had instead sent her petulant husband off on a tirade to burn an enitre village to ash.

.

Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ao3

Note: (THIS fic is intended to be a little mini-series. It's a piece of a plot I've been toying around with for a month or two. A Dark King Aemond story with Queen Rhaena grappling with her horrid situation. I do have an entire long form story/idea for this premise, that would start immediately after the war and span over several years. It would be much darker than this smutty snippet, like practically 'dead dove' really! But this little fun fic here entered my brain and I just figured I'd throw it out here as a mini 5-6 part thingy.)

So hopefully it's an enjoyable little something something!!

——

"I can't believe him, I can't fuc-" Rhaena's anger induced muttering died upon her tongue as she stepped into her shared royal chambers, her feet halting almost immediately as her legs stiffly stood right in front her three-year-old son. Little Aemon had run up to her as soon as the doors flew open, rushing to hug her skirts as he stared up at her expectantly.

What was he doing here? 

It was early, still the middle of the afternoon, she was certain that by all accounts her toddler should only be nearing the end of lessons now. Not dawdling around in her chambers to play-

"Darling! Sweetling, you are early," Rhaena schooled her previously set scowl into a bright affectionate smile, lilting her voice as her eyes took in the visage of her charming little boy. It was beginning to feel like such an effort, schooling her emotions from her son these days, seeing as he seemed to be so perceptive already. Any slight twinge upon her face, and his sweet little face would scrunch into a look of instant concern for his mother's wellbeing. Followed by the little hand he'd place upon her leg before he asked 'are you well, mama?'. 

It was a wonder where he'd managed to inherit such sweetness, surely not from his father. 

With a gentle sigh, Rhaena began to crouch herself down to Aemon's level, careful to keep her balance as her swollen belly carried a true weight to it now. Her back felt it, her thighs and her knees worked to compensate for it. Offset the weight she'd put on for the health of this third babe. Though she was eight moons along, so she was nearly to term. It was a motion she navigated with skill now, for she knew her body well and so she knew her limits when it came to this stage of her pregnancies. Soon enough she'd seat herself down or lay abed for an hour or two before the ache creeping along her calves worked down to her swollen feet. 

In the meantime, however, she placed a soft hand upon her eldest son's check and smiled warmly at him. Eliciting an equally dazzling giggle from her little boy, the adorable sound almost immediately soothed her heart. Allowing her to push aside the stresses of the day, the endless aggravation only her husband could muster within her, just long enough to focus in on her child. Meeting his gaze, she sought to pry just a tad, "what of your lessons in the library, sweet one? Have they truly concluded or have you managed to escape from your maester yet again?" 

At that, Aemon teetered on his toes for a moment. His hand absentmindedly holding onto Rhaena's shoulder for balance as he happily gurgled at the playful accusation. Gently biting his thumb with his free hand, a near bashful blush spread upon the apples of his cheeks as his attention was just as quickly drawn away. Distracted already, the mop of curly platinum blonde hair that reached the nape of his neck swished with the motion he'd made. His pale cinnamon brown skin glowing in the rays of the afternoon sun. 

Ah, dear...she did love her son dearly, but his mind did tend to wander off all too easily at times. If he was not obsessively focused on something of his interest, his mind was liable to dawdle. It was Rhaena who had to work to lure his attention back to her, nudging his chubby cheek with the caress of her thumb. Adding an accompanying prodding hum for him to both listen and follow the sound. 

Thankfully it was enough, her toddler was quick to turn back to her. His distraction, the glittering rays of beaming sunlight, had poured in through the paneled windows of the room. Illuminating everything within sight of the spacious solar, the various deep crimson red furniture, the large round oak table that was just off center. It was still covered with stacked books and rolled scrolls that Aemond had left out to continue analyzing later in the day. Toys still remained scattered by the fire upon the maroon fur carpet, Rhaena supposed Aemon had been sat there waiting for her return. Most likely playing there with his young wet-nurse, Elaya. 

The nineteen-year old maid from the Riverlands was currently sat by the fire in one of the cozier armchairs, rocking Rhaena's second born son, Daemion, in her arms. Now, Daemion shared many features with his elder brother, the same almond eye-shape and rounded bow-shaped lips…both a blend of their parentage. They held the same curly hair texture, although, Daemion’s little tuft of curls shone more silver than Aemon’s blonde in the sunlight. And Aemon’s skin was slightly paler than Daemion’s. His eyes were a shade of bright lilac as opposed to Aemon’s pale indigo. Daemion’s little button nose reminded Rhaena more of her own than Aemond’s, although the point at the end of it still spoke of the boy’s inheritance from his father. 

In either case, little Daemion’s eyes were levelled low as he relaxed in the arms of his wet-nurse. It was to be expected, Rhaena had only nursed the babe but an hour ago, so it was more than likely that her one-year old was simply feeling the drowsy calls of his milk-filled stomach. She'd left her younger son in the safe arms of her trusted wet-nurse perhaps a half hour ago when she'd initially left her chambers to visit her twin sister, Baela. 

In the case of her eldest, however, Rhaena knew well that the bright afternoon sun was an enticing thing to a young Targaryen. It promised games in the garden, playful training in the training yard...but most of all, it promised the possibility for dragon riding. Aemon was newly minted in the activity, having gone for his first flight with his father just a few days ago. It was all he would talk of, on and on he happily talked the ears off of anyone who'd listen. From Maesters to maids, to his aunt, Baela, to his uncle Aegon, and especially to his equally young cousins Maegelle and Laena. The two daughters Baela had birthed for her husband under Aemond's reign as King. All of a part of rebuilding their family's line, restoring the Targaryen bloodline. 

A bloodline Aemond more than single handedly destroyed himself...but Rhaena had gone down that road before. It never led anywhere, it never returned what she'd lost. 

It was easier to focus on what she did have. The title of Queen may have been thrusted upon her, as well as her first born son...but she'd found her stride. Settled herself into motherhood, her new station, her new title, her seat next to the throne. She'd even willingly taken to her main duty as Queen, found her own pleasure in conceiving her second and soon to be third child. She'd found her way to loving and at times controlling the psychopathic irate dragon she'd been made to call 'husband'. 

Besides, he had his moments, she supposed, he was always good to their sons and their nieces. He quite frankly adored all of the young children they’d brought into the world for House Targaryen. He was prideful over their very existence, especially that of their own two sons. He spent every moment in their presence showing them love and acceptance. Their young princes were dotted on ever since their births, they wanted for nothing. They were always made to feel wanted. A sense of innate yet nurturing compensation on Aemond's part, Rhaena was sure. He went wordlessly about it, but she could surmise that he wished to give his sons everything he did not have in his youth. 

Everything his own father failed to deliver. 

As seen by the flight he'd taken Aemon on, their little boy had loved flying upon Vhagar so much. The experience improved greatly by the fact that Aemond had eagerly taken the time to indulge their son of his own accord. Vhagar was the most magnificent dragon to her young son, his favourite of all that he'd seen in his little life. 

And that was why he'd loved that day more than any other. 

Though it was unfortunate, Rhaena always thought. 

For while she agreed, Vhagar was a magnificent dragon, a relic of times long gone...a living piece of history. But she couldn't help but think that her young Aemon had missed a truly glorious age of dragons, he'd never be able to meet his true Targaryen grandparents or two of his other aunts…the rest of his uncles. He'd never be able to see any of their dragons...Caraxes, Syrax, Vermax, Arrax, Tyraxes, Meleys...so many lost. So many gone...and sometimes four years seemed just long enough to put the darkness behind her, to call it all history so that she might distance herself from the pain of it all.

But other times, it was just too blatant...just too obvious. 

So many members of her family were missing from this current family portrait. The chasms were there, Rhaena’s current life would always lack because of their absence. The vacant holes they'd made upon her person, upon her heart, forever cutting slivers away from her there. No amount of new Targaryen babes could replace them. 

They were all dead and gone...and she was made Queen of the rubble in the aftermath, wed to a kinslayer...the second usurper King. 

What a fate. 

And her little son knew none of it truly. 

"No, mama! I finished, my lessons are all done! Maestwer...um...maestwer Alfa...Alfadwer-" Aemon blurted out his little rambled response, finally recalling that he'd been asked a question nearly ten minutes prior. He'd taken so long, Rhaena's mind had drifted to far darker memories. Though as she'd learned through her experience with motherhood, it didn't do to dwell on such things with children around. They always noticed it...they weren't naive enough to miss it entirely.

"Maester Alfador, you mean," Rhaena gently corrected, smoothing a couple of his curls back behind his ear. 

Aemon was quick to nod eagerly, pointing towards Elaya to add, "yes and...and he told Elaya how papa went out!" 

'Out' was putting it mildly, for while Rhaena knew not the extent of Maester Alfador's knowledge on the matter at hand. She did however know exactly what sent Aemond 'out' of the castle just a few hours ago. As she recalled it, Rhaena had received the order from the Kingsguard guarding her door earlier this morn. 

See, earlier in the morning, before the sun had properly risen. Rhaena had awoken to a rather...regularly expected act, a warm delicious pleasure that crept up between her thighs in long wet languid swipes. The feeling seeped into her peaceful slumber until the aching arousal dragged her back into consciousness. Where she'd awoken to find her husband settled between her legs, his arms tangled around her thighs keeping them spread as he lapped at her quivering wanting cunt. 

Eventful as it was... she'd awoken to many mornings with such activities to pull her from her sleep. Aemond was always eager, he had been ever since he’d stolen her from the Vale and made her his wife. Only now the urges seemed heightened, especially since she began to reciprocate his wantings. The conception of little Daemion was the birth of these feelings...and now the conception of another babe barely a year later had shown the realm and their present court that their union was—mending.

Into what, exactly? 

Something feral and animalistic, surely. A complicated mess of attraction, love and loathing. 

In either case, once Aemond had brought her to the brink of ecstasy itself...he pressed a kiss upon her rounded belly and readied himself for the training yard. From there, she hadn't seen him. Assumably he'd returned to bathe and dress himself again for the early morning council meeting, but she'd fallen back to sleep in-between that time. Only normally, he would have woken her. Normally, they'd have readied for the meeting with his council together...she'd negotiated that right of hers from her husband after the birth of Daemion. As his Queen, she wanted a spot upon his council, to be an active participant in his rule. Time after time, whether it was another one of their vicious volatile arguments between them or an instance of a sweet and tender domesticity as they lazed naked within their bed. Aemond had spent the last two years echoing the sentiment to her, that she was more than just his broodmare. 

And then he did this. 

He removed her from the council this morning. Without even the gall to tell her himself, he left for the meeting without her and then left the information for their guard to relay to her. 

Of course, later upon his return, when Rhaena was properly woken. Bathed and dressed herself in a lovely velvety gown, a dark Targaryen red with intricate black lace linings. With added black lace and sewn jeweled dragons and floral embroidery woven along her bodice and the hem of her skirt. She'd been sat upon her favourite chaise, providing their second son with his early morning feeding.  

That was when Aemond burst through the doors with a look of exhaustion and a need for attention. 

A need she had no intention of abiding by as he sought to exclude her so soundly this morn with no warning once so ever. In all honesty it had tainted the way she'd sweetly awoken in bed with him, as clearly that was more than just his hungered need to taste her first thing in the morn. As it was just as equally his act of service to placate her for what he had planned on doing all along. 

As it happened, Rhaena had burped their babe upon her shoulder, before she swiftly handed him off to Elaya to take to the nursery. It was only once the young wet-nurse had left the room that Aemond moved for Rhaena. Taking long strides to meet her upon the chaise, she'd scoffed at him then, knowing exactly what he wanted. His heated gaze lingered on her still exposed bosom, lustful and wanting...though she was too annoyed with him to indulge him. 

Perky and engorged as they were, she knew he more than likely wished to lay with her. To rest his head upon her swollen breasts as she caressed his hair and allowed him to unwind from his otherwise stressful meeting. And perhaps, had she'd been present for said meeting...or at the very least privy to the information that had been shared or delved into there...she would have sympathized. She would have given him exactly what he wanted, she'd placate him, hold him as he sometimes wishes to be cuddled. 

But no, not then. 

Instead she pulled the buttons of her chemise closed, lifting herself up off of the chaise, she walked around him and made her way to the long ornamented wall-length mirror that stood on the northern side of their chambers. There she stared purposely at her reflection only, working to ignore the way his perplexed expression morphed into one of burning irritation. As Rhaena casually touched up the ends of a few of her long loosening twists, it would soon be time to undo them, free her curls and wash her hair. A task she'd take to later this evening before bed. 

In the moment, however, Rhaena focused on herself. The vast majority of her maternity gowns had elegant buttons upon the front of the gown, made for easier access to nurse her babe at any given time of the day. A stipulation that had always been a part of her marriage, Aemond would have no one but her to nurse their children. 

Though it was in that mirror's reflection that their argument had started. He'd made his way towards her, and she'd turned her dragon's fire directly upon him. Perhaps she'd been warranted in it, that inundated rage of feeling belittled and undermined felt all too consuming for her to ignore in the face of Aemond's condescending rebuttals. That she was apparently in no 'condition' to need to be present for council meetings, that she would be filled in on the most ‘pertinent information’ when needed. 

Perhaps it was her body now, so late in her pregnancy, hormones ran amok fluttering dangerous levels of heightened emotions throughout her. Though even still, she was certain of it. 

He was sidelining her...she could feel it. 

And she didn't know why. 

‘Confinement’ felt like such a half-assed answer. 

He was hiding things from her and yet he still sought rewards for such blatant behaviour. Was it any wonder she denied him those rewards, she was in no mood to lay tangled in bed with him. She was in no mood to allow him to nuzzle his cheek upon her ample chest while he caressed her belly and teased her core with soft presses of his slender fingers. She knew him far too well for that. The progression of him starting off by claiming that he just wished for her to 'set him at ease'. Only, within the hour he'd seduce her to the point of having her gown torn off with his cock working her with rough deep wanting strokes. 

It was something he could never resist, especially when she was this far along with one of her pregnancies. All he wanted was to be inside of her, to feel her heated walls clenched tightly around thick length. His ever constant need to sink into her warmth, soak himself in her wetness. All as he held her tightly against him, nestled between her thighs as he rocked into her with perfect rhythm. Set at a pace of his choosing, with his teeth grazing her neck marking her body. And that ironclad grip of his, enough to set bruises, enough to make her shudder with want…the sort of hold that prevented the mere idea of escape. 

Letting her go...it was never an option, it always seemed a foreign concept to him.  

This would have been no different and seeing as she was cross with him. She chose to stand her ground, to hold fast to her willpower against his handsome seductive charms. It was a hard thing sometimes these days, seeing as her body almost always wanted for him...a true traitor, really. Her body had always betrayed her when it came to him. Ever since her early days, even when she firmed her way through every bedding session. Even the nights she cried through the utter heartbreak of allowing the acts done upon her…in the name of her safety…in the name of her duty. 

It’d been disgusting then, to think that her body had still enjoyed it even when her mind screamed the opposite. The thought of taking in the cock of the man who’d killed her first love, her second love…her grandmother…and then her father. 

Perhaps some days still…she found herself disgusted with herself. Because she didn’t hate it as much as she should anymore…because she’d found her way to enjoying it all. 

Surely the Gods’ frowned upon her. 

Thankfully, though, in that moment, when she denied him she stood by it. And because she stood so harshly against his whims, he stormed out of their rooms. A dark thunderous slam of pent up aggression and building animosity, he needed a different outlet seeing as his preferred choice had repudiated him. And in that knowledge, Rhaena knew well that he'd only ever go to Vhagar next. 

In this world Aemond Targaryen had two sanctuaries. 

Vhagar…and Rhaena, herself. 

And if one would not have him…then he’d storm his way over to the one that would. 

That however, had been several hours ago now. Rhaena had spent the rest of her morning in peace, she'd bathed and dressed Aemon herself. It was a good distraction from her own frustrations. She broke her fast with her young son, watched on as he ate his oats and banana slices messily. Biting back small amused smiles as she corrected his loose hold of his spoon and dabbed a napkin to his grubby mouth. Nibbling on her own custard pastry, delicately sipping her spiced tea in between. Their meal had been nice, they'd spoken about the day's activities her son wished to partake in. The lessons he was most excited to learn about today, as well as his hope to go flying with his father again later in the afternoon. 

Seeing as Morning was still growing, now a much larger beast over the last four years...she was still too small for Rhaena to fly upon herself. Let alone for her to take her son up with her. No, the choices were limited. Aemon could either fly with his father upon Vhagar, with his aunt upon Moondancer, or his uncle upon Sunfyre. As his own little golden hatchling, Golding...was his current name for his bonded beast, the he-dragon was still far too small for him to mount. Though Golding was surely a temporary name as Aemond intended on convincing their son to choose a more suited name for the dragon. But that was a conversation they'd have to shelf for now. Aemon was still a toddler and so he quite enjoyed the name he'd chosen.

In either case, as Aemon's choice for dragons to fly upon was scarce...he would always choose Vhagar first, he was painfully enamoured with every facet of his father. Even the less than savoury parts of him. 

Once Maester Alfador came to fetch Aemon for his lessons to attend with his cousins, Rhaena turned her attention back to her younger son. Playing letter blocks with Daemion, reading to him and singing lullabies as he grew sleepy in her arms. She'd taken him and sat upon the balcony overlooking the courtyard so that her babe could take some sun and fresh air as he slept soundly, there she listened to sounds of the busy castle. The birds chirping in the wind and the distant roars of the dragons near the pits. 

And there she'd thought of Vhagar and her husband. There was so much she still wished to say, so much he'd simply chosen to walk out on just because he could. With the full freedom that came with the title of King...he expressed that power either as intelligently as he wished or as childishly as a man of four and twenty could.

But now with Aemon in her company once again, she'd have to deal with the boy’s father, Aemond later...once he returned from his petulant flight upon Vhagar... she'd deal with him then. 

Returning her focus to her son, she pressed a sweet kiss upon Aemon's forehead. Gazing down into his pale indigo eyes, a mirror of his father's own. In fact, in all honesty…Aemon's entire visage was simply a little mirror to Aemond's own. They shared the same face shape...or at least the pudgy round face Aemond once held in childhood. It was a good indicator for the features their son would one day mature into. The two of them also shared near identical noses and lip shapes. Although, Rhaena's own added genes had ensured that the tip of Aemon's nose was just a tad bit more rounded. His lips more rounded than Aemond's own plush sharp bow-shaped lips. 

It was in the little things, Rhaena supposed. How their son had inherited her curly hair, a pinch of her tawny complexion. Her soft curved eyebrows and her almond shaped eyes. 

Yet still, all in all, their son was the living embodiment of a namesake, one Aemond had purposely bestowed upon their first child. Either to flood his own ego or in a dubious if not blindingly obvious attempt to flaunt his supposed legitimate reign over the one he'd stolen. The one he’d slaughtered in order to usurp the throne.

Though surely the realm was privy to the fact that it was Rhaena's own blood that made their son and the rest of their children so pure, they'd made both a purebred Valyrian heir and a spare for the throne. A union that started with a form of forced coerced duty...now led by something far more complicated. 

Something that existed between the bounds of love and hatred. 

For the moment, Rhaena gave her son leave to return to his toys. He'd want to play with her, but she needed a moment to herself first. She'd only just returned from spending some time with her sister in the gardens, where she'd divulged a splintered version of the events of this morning. Not that it mattered really, Baela may have joined Rhaena in their unified ridiculing of their King. But at the end of the day Baela would remind Rhaena of the same fact she always had, that Aemond Targaryen was a fickle psychotic being…and that she should be careful to never push the bounds and risk her life in the process. 

Because she’d already done so years ago…she’d already made such attempts in the past. And while she still had her life granted to her, she did not walk away the victor in those situations. 

So in that way, her elder sister’s advice had always been sound…but it was hard to swallow at times. Seeing as Rhaena’s forced marriage barely compared to the near bliss Baela was lucky enough to experience with her own spouse. In their case, her union with Aegon was a long time coming, a match Baela had hoped for since she was six and ten. Though it was a shame that just as she'd gotten used to the idea of marrying their sweet and loyal Jace...he'd been plucked from their lives. 

Although Rhaena always supposed that as devastating as his loss was, he was spared in a way. For while he’d come to love his betrothed, his daring Baela…she…she still secretly harboured feelings for the enemy. The night before Viserys had died, Baela had spent one final night with Aegon before he was set to wed Helaena. She'd left that passionate encounter with the settling seed of a man she was most likely to never see again. The Gods, though, they could be funny in that way. Tearing the realm apart, bathing a family in blood and tragedy only for the fates to align yet again. For Baela to finally have Aegon as she once wished, just in time to make her not-so hidden pregnancy legitimate before it was too late. Only now both their hands were tainted. War had taken both Jace and Helaena. War had taken everyone away from the dragon twins except their lone grandsire, Corlys Velaryon and his now legitimized heir Alyn Velaryon. 

*KNOCK, KNOCK...KNOCK* 

The pounding knock at the door drew Rhaena back out of her thoughts once again, she was losing it slowly but surely. She really did need her husband to return, she needed to clear her own mind...she needed to focus on something, anything else. The knock was hard, blunt and formulaic, it could have only belonged to a member of the Kingsguard. So when Rhaena swung the door open to see Ser Willis Fell, she was not surprised to come face to face with his hardened visage. Expressionless as he was, the redheaded man simply stepped aside for a young squire to hold out a silver platter in front of their Queen. 

"For you, my Queen. A raven hath just arrived," the young lanky boy bowed his head, as a sign of sheepish reverence and respect. 

A small scroll. 

A missive.

How odd. 

Tumultuous as this reign had been over the years, at this point in time, nothing beyond yet another rebellion could warrant the urgency of a missive like this.

—

Part 2 coming soon...maybe Friday!

[ladyluscinia]

It will never stop amazing me (in a morbid fascination way) that every once in a while the shambling corpse of the ofmd fandom makes some noise and it's always - always - more warriors of the same faux-purity culture ship war that drove the whole fandom to eat itself alive and implode over the course of a single hiatus. How are they still doing this? They hate this character and any ship involving him so much they have made tags uninhabitable, harassed out every "problematic" fan they could and basically killed the fandom in the process, and now apparently a few of them are experimenting with active homophobia against his queer actor for being a "bad" queer (liking the character he played). They're running a toxic thoughtcrime surveillance state on an abandoned ghost town. And still innovating new ways to be more toxic about it!

It's absolutely bonkers 🙃

[moonyinpisces]

i want all meta writers and/or people with s3 predictions to please. pretty please. write the fic. otherwise SO MUCH is being lost in translation in your explanations and your 15k theories with screenshots and sources in a format that would rival my grad school essays. like have you heard “shakespeare must be performed not read”? that’s the exact same principle with s3 predictions. all the academic writing and web weaving posts in the world won’t accurately depict what you’re seeing in your head, it HAS to be experienced in practice both on the writing end and the reading end. JUST WRITE THE FIC!

[bambiraptorx]

I'm debating a chapter in Minor Interference of Draxum introducing Donnie to the wider yokai culture (like showing him a college or something) and. yeah